*Re-uploaded in the "Justice League" section because I'm a whore that lives off reviews and favorites and the like, and there's just too many stories that drown out yours over in the other section*

Wooohhhh wee, another short story bastardizing a previously existing concept. Wooohhhhh wee.

Batman is owned by DC Comics, Stephen King owns Stephen King, and Jason Callahan...well we don't like to talk about that guy

The Dead Zone

Gotham City:

35 years ago

Jason Callahan was a normal, unassuming man who just so happened to be plagued with headaches that left him huddled in a pitch-black corner, cringing from a thumping and a ringing in his ears loud enough to drown out even his own thoughts. If he was lucky, he could shut himself away in the depths of his home and drug himself silly with pain killers and Advil and the like. But on most days, by virtue of being a public school teacher, he was forced out into the loud and bright world, his vision a swirl of pain and barely blinked away tears, his head a throbbing nightmare thick with fatigue, and had to confront the origin of his very severe, very frequent, migraines.

It had all started only two years ago, a fact that Jason had a hard time believing. In those two years he felt he had aged almost twenty, feeling the crushing weight of his curse bleed his body and his spirit, to the point where he was but a shuffling, murmuring shell.

For two years, he had to live with the fact that he was a clairvoyant.

A burly worker, two years ago, in the midst of another firestorm of a headache, had bumped into Jason, had thought he recognized him from school. He took Jason's hand in his, and the moment skin met rough skin, Jason was transported to the man's future, watching like a fly on the wall, helpless as a crane wire snapped and sliced the man's head clean off his neck.

Jason didn't know what to do. He had thrown up on the man, bolted two his home without so much as a word to anybody. The pain in his head had subsided, to be replaced by a sickly feeling in his gut. He thought he was hallucinating, that it was just further confirmation that he had a tumor in his head that the doctors couldn't find.

But then the news broke about an accident at a local construction site, about how a burly worker had his head taken off by the snapped wire of a crane. The nausea came back in full force.

It wasn't just a one-off affair either, otherwise he'd have simply dismissed it as coincidence, maybe killed the memory with pills if he really couldn't handle it. But he saw four more people's futures flash before his eyes the moment he touched them: a girl who turned up dead in some perverts basement, a businessman flattened by a rolling piece of piping, a cop who had thirty thousand volts course through his body during a traffic accident, his school's own goddamn principle dying of an aneurism…

There was another one two—a lanky chemical worker he met at a bar once. Christ, he didn't even want to think about what happened to that poor man. It made his stomach heave every time he heard laughter.

Jason couldn't take it anymore. All he had ever wanted to do was to save these people, to prove to himself that the world at large was fundamentally good and that the good in it made a difference. But his visions were never clear enough to let him give these people any warning, nor did he know these people well enough for it to even matter. They were freak accidents, things beyond his physical capabilities to prevent, and wracked with self-doubt bordering on self-loathing, he never found himself smart enough to come up with a plan. He was witnessing death almost weekly, seeing the black underside of the universe in an unending parade of heart break and horror, helplessly strapped to his seat as the blood and gore flew by.

Some days he almost walked in front of a bus. Other days he didn't know why he stopped himself before he stepped off the curb. That cycle of thinking went on for longer than he cared to remember…

So he started wearing gloves, starting pretending he had a crippling fear of germs, shrugged off handshakes in as polite a way as he could manage. Ignorance was bliss and bliss made life liveable. Even the headaches had become fewer and farther in between.

Except for today. Today a digging crew was splitting apart his frontal lobe, just in time for the latest round of report cards and phone calls from angry parents. He sighed, shuffled out of bed, dressed, and slipped his keys into his pocket. Two bitter pills hit the edge of his tongue, were drowned in a glass of water. The throbbing subsided only marginally. He was probably becoming immune to ibuprofen, considering the amount he was forced to take.

Two pairs of black gloves slipped over his hands, and he clenched his fists tightly, hearing the leather strain over his knuckles. Again he sighed, and cursed the world around him for granting an impotent bum with the power to save everyone.

He climbed into his car, and sped off towards the school.

…

…

…

The parking lot was nearly deserted as the sun filtered its orange rays through the spires of downtown. The forecast called for a wave of autumn cold, dropping the temperature for the week to just below comfortable. Jason could already start to see his breath.

The rays of light, while pretty, slapped at his brain, made his eyes feel like solid little marbles. He had to squint as though he was staring directly into a fluorescent bulb, felt the ringing start to rise in volume.

Fuck Mondays, he thought.

A stack of graded papers tucked under his arm, he made his way towards the school. He felt a piece of paper slide against his neck, looked down, gave a hushed curse as he saw the binding string start to unravel. He hiked up his knee and balanced the stack with his left arm, while his right hand fumbled with the loose knot that kept his papers from spilling over the pavement.

No use—the knot slipped in and out of his gloved fingers. It was like trying to tie together strips of molasses.

Cursing again—louder this time—he stuck the pointer finger of his glove into his mouth, bit down on its tip, yanked it off his hand. Free from the constraints of his glove, his fingers entwined themselves with the knot, which refused to cooperate. The stack of papers listed to his left.

"Dammit, I don't need this," he said, feeling the throbbing start to increase again behind his temples. His eyes still fought against the intensity of the sun, and his ears began to ring in a crescendo of shrill pain.

He didn't hear the footsteps behind him.

"Excuse me sir," said a voice, "do you need a hand?"

Unprepared, Jason backed up hard into the solid mass of whoever had spoken. His papers tumbled and his arm flung widely about, trying to find purchase on something. His bare right hand grasped onto the cold skin of an unprotected wrist, and immediately his eyes widened, the ringing became deafening, and the world around him bled away…

He was in an alley now—dark and cold, wisps of steam rising up from the sewers. The sounds of cars and people were muffled, hidden behind rows of apartments and a large, bulky building. The pavement reflected the moonlight in waves as the puddles that dotted the street shivered in the low, crisp wind.

The theatre—he knew what that building was. It was the theatre just off of Park Row, one of his favorite places to go before the headaches rendered watching movies utterly impossible. He could see the outline of the sign too: "Mask of Zorro", it said. "World Premier". Right—Monarch Theatre was the first stop for any B-Movie worth seeing. He remembered watching the first Grey Ghost movie there.

The sounds of clicking shoes filled the alley. A couple, dressed like the upper classes, were leading a small boy through the flickering lights and the dancing tendrils of steam. They looked beyond happy—flinging popcorn amongst themselves, laughing and smiling at one another. The father had his hand clamped firmly on his son's shoulder, his arm entangled with his wife's. The kid looked like he had just had the greatest day of his life.

They walked into a circle of swaying light from an overhead lamp, when another sound entered the alley. He saw a man lurch out, a cap covering his face, a thick jacket adding to his bulk. He couldn't see his eyes, but he saw a thick, stubbly chin, shaking beneath the shadows under his brim, like he was murmuring something to himself.

He approached the family, entered the illuminated circle with them, then stopped. His hand flew out from beneath his jacket.

He had a gun.

The father reacted first—recoiling and pulling his son behind him. The mother let out a startled gasp, clung tighter to her husband's arm.

The man with the gun spoke, in a voice that sounded like gravel being ground between two boulders.

"Money, wallets, jewelry, give 'em here and I'll let you walk out of this place just fine."

The family didn't react at first, just stared at the man. His gun seemed to be shaking slightly. He pressed on.

"Now!"

"We don't want any trouble," said the father.

"Then hurry it up."

The man pulled away from his wife, gave her as reassuring a look as he could manage. He reached into jacket and fumbled around.

Jason saw his legs coil into springs. He knew what he was going to do.

He tried to cry out, to tell him to just give the man his wallet, but he couldn't. Jason was nowhere and everywhere, a floating speck in the rushing waters of the ethereal.

Somewhere, somehow, Jason closed his eyes, closed them shut as tightly as he could. The world become utter blackness, the sounds of the alley became a hollow echo. He heard the scuffing of shoes that seemed to dance haphazardly through the puddles and across shards of broken glass, like two dancers were running in place. He knew the father had leapt at the gunman.

A gunshot rang out, followed by the sound of something wet hitting the pavement, splashing in the puddles. There was a second scream, and the sound of pearls hitting the ground like metallic rain. A third scream punctured the air, and forced Jason's eyes open. The kid was standing and weeping between the bodies of his parents, their blood running against his shoes. The gunman—no, the murderer, was gone.

The kid screamed again and dropped to his knees.

Jason was back, staring at the papers falling to the street, as though he had never left. He hunched over and vomited, letting out a croaking and pained noise as he did. The man behind him gasped and clamped his hands onto Jason's shoulders. He knelt beside him, asked him if he was alright, told him that he was a doctor, that he could help.

Jason didn't want to spin around, didn't want to see the face of the man destined to die. But he did anyways.

He saw the face of Thomas Wayne.

Again, he threw up onto the pavement.

…

…

…

Jason had fled from the parking lot as fast as he could, leaving behind the bewildered Thomas Wayne and the stacks of graded papers. The school called several times, so did the Wayne Foundation. Apparently Martha had gotten hold of the school after she heard the story from her husband, had insisted that they check up on the clearly distraught man he had seen.

He didn't know why Thomas was at the school parking lot. He didn't care. He had witnessed his death—saw the scars forming on their poor kid. He couldn't be more than 9 or 10, if even that—if something so traumatic had happened to him that young, hell event to him now…

As always, Jason felt an overwhelming wave of helplessness hold him down beneath the surf, force him to stare as another innocent soul was killed. He couldn't hold back the string of curses—to the man with the gun, to the world that made him, to the universe itself, that it would imbue such a great power on such a weak man. Other people's loves and lives were being ended right before his very eyes, and he was powerless to anything beyond carry the scars and the shame with him to his grave.

Blessed with a great gift and yet cursed with no way to use it. Jason didn't even know when this was going to happen…

What could he do? What could he do?

Jason halted his thoughts, slowly sat upright in his bed.

That last part was a lie. Jason did know when the Wayne's would be murdered, or at least he had a vague idea. He remembered the brightly lit billboard peeking out from behind the building—Mask of Zorro was premiering that very same night, Monarch Theatre, in the cold and the wet and the darkness of the evening.

He bolted from his bed, crossed the floor in a hurry. On his kitchen table, buried under his discarded jacket laid an issue of the Gotham Gazette, dated for the previous Friday. He flipped through the sports and the opinions to the back, just under the comics, where a listing of movie times and premiers sat in bold-faced typing.

Mask of Zorro: World Premier—Monday the 25th at 8:30 pm

Jesus, that was tonight! He didn't even have a goddamn day! He knew when and where, but he still had to figure out a plan, set up in the alley next to the theatre, and wait for fate's chess pieces to move into place, all in the span of less than an afternoon.

And that still didn't solve the problem of what Jason was going to do when he got there. Deflated, he sat back down in his chair, ran his fingers through his matte of hair, resisted the temptation to simply yank it out in clumps. Jason was no hero, he couldn't just jump from the darkness as the gun fired—the man he saw had at least 20 pounds on him and was armed, and Jason knew he'd be little more than the first casualty of the night, not a vigilant defender saving innocent lives. He couldn't try to convince the Wayne's to change their plans either—he'd wind up in a mental hospital for the rest of his days while the bullet would rip apart flesh and bone all the same.

There wasn't anything he could do…

No. That was a lie. There was something he could do.

Jason pushed back his chair and walked out of the kitchen, towards the door leading to his cellar. The smell of dust and shrink-wrapped books wafted into his nostrils as he opened the door, leaving the taste of nickel in the back of his throat. The stairs groaned under his weight as he descended, to be replaced by a low electric hum as a single bulb clicked on near the centre.

Nestled between two open cabinets sat a rifle—a .306 with its scope still attached, a gift from his cousin who lived out in Maine. A box of ten rounds sat on the middle self of one cabinet, the tape still fresh and the rounds still sealed inside.

It was the only way he could think of. The row of apartments behind the theatre were probably abandoned, and if worst came to worst he could simply climb up to the roof and set up there. It'd be dark in the alley—at least for most of it, but the moment the gunman stepped into the light of the lamp with the Wayne's, he'd have a clear shot.

He'd have a clear chance to kill another human being.

Maybe he could just shoot the gun out of the guy's hands? Give the family enough time to run away or pin him down? He shook his head—he wasn't nearly a good enough shot. He'd just miss, just make the gunman all the more agitated. He didn't look like the type to scare easily either, so a few rounds to the ground beneath his feet wouldn't work either. He could try and scare the Wayne's away, but he had no idea where the gunman was hiding in the alley. He might just shoot them while their backs were turned and take his chances with the purses and wallets.

No, if he was going to do anything, it meant that Jason was going to have to shoot to kill. Right through the chest, blood spurting everywhere. Blood now on his hands.

The thought almost made him collapse again.

Jason hadn't ever even killed an animal, let alone a human being. The gun was a joke—a gift to a squeamish pacifist to poke at a few of his buttons when Christmas time came around. He had never intended to use it, never intended to use a single round when he tapped up the box and shoved it roughly into the cabinet.

He stood and swayed—decided that staying downstairs would be a mistake. He lumbered up the steps, not even bothering to turn off the light, and collapsed back into his chair at the dinner table, no less stressed and with no less a guilty feeling.

The guy was a criminal, he knew that much. But try as he might, Jason couldn't bring himself to think of the guy as scum that deserved to die. He saw—well he wasn't sure what he saw really, but he knew that part of this gunman's actions were in self-defence, that maybe he didn't intend for the gun to go off. He obviously hadn't recognized who he was robbing…or maybe he did, and that's why he picked them? Maybe he was so desperate for money, for his kid's treatment or to pay rent or…or maybe he was just out of his mind…

The headache started again in full, a deadly torrent at the base of his skull. Exasperated and exhausted, he pushed off his pile of newspapers, jackets and unwrapped meals unto his floor, cried out in anguish towards the ceiling.

The choice split him in two like he had been run through a bandsaw. Commit murder to save two, or do nothing and know that they would die and leave their child behind. He wasn't smart enough for this, wasn't cold-blooded enough. He needed to know that what he was doing was the right thing.

Unconsciously, he asked himself what a hero would do.

He'd protect the innocent, he answered. No matter the cost.

Jason stared at his hands, saw them shake and clench as his nerve bundles reacted to his dilemma. "No matter the cost," he repeated.

If his soul was to be dammed for taking a life, then so be it. He'd be dammed far worse if he stood by and let evil cast its shadow over others, let alone a little boy who he knew loved his parents dearly. There was a perfect solution lying somewhere, but Jason wasn't perfect. He was human. And as the imperfect human that he was always destined to be, in order to rise to the occasion, he'd have to cut part of himself off.

"So be it," he said.

He bounded down the stairs towards the gun.

…

…

…

Night fell on Gotham like a dropped blanket, smothering out the lights and turning the streets into darkened rivers of people and rot. The air was thin and cold—it stung Jason's skin like a harsh slap on dry knuckles. Steam was everywhere around his head.

He realized that he was nearly hyperventilating.

Standing on the roof of a long abandoned and boarded up apartment, Jason could see the East End of Gotham stretch towards the twinkling lights of the city centre. It looked like the ruins of a war-torn village to him. The gun-shots and sirens that echoed in the night certainly didn't help.

He checked his watch, saw the second hand slowly wind its way over the little roman numerals. He had no idea when exactly the movie was over, or when the Wayne's would step out into the alley, but it had to be soon. He hoped it would be soon—he doubted his nerves or hands could handle the cold and the stress much longer.

He tried kneeling, tried standing, even contemplated laying in the grit of the roof. He couldn't get comfortable. The moment he got even the slightest bit set up, a thumping in his chest would send quakes through his arms, would throw flashing dots in front of his face. The faintest hint of nausea would follow him whenever his finger started to coil around the trigger.

But then in the blackness, he'd see the horrified faces of the Wayne's as the fell into pools of their own blood. He'd hear the screams of Bruce as his life turned irrevocably bleak, his mind became irreversibly scarred.

Jason placed his rifle on the ledge of the building, and clenched his fists beneath his gloves until it felt as though the leather would rip. He felt like he was drowning, like the world had thrown him over a bridge and something heavy and malicious was tied to his legs. He slumped against the ledge, held his head in his hands, and struggled to supress tears of exhaustion and confusion as his nerves flayed themselves under the weight of Jason's decision.

He was trapped—he was on the roof, the gun was right next to him, and a family of three was just about to walk below him, unaware that they were depending on him for their existence.

Briefly, he thought about sticking the muzzle of the rifle in his own mouth.

His fists clenched again. He pounded the ground around him, let out a pained hiss through gritted teeth.

Not a hero, not a hero, the harsh melody of voices in his head cried out, mocking him, ripping out his cowardice and forcing him to stare at its bitter display. Not a hero, not a hero. The pale face of the gunman jumped in front of his vision—he saw himself cackling over the body, letting his blood run over him in a sickly crimson waterfall. Not a hero, not a hero.

He saw the face of the boy, just as pale and just as lifeless, prodding and begging at the remains of his parents, clinging with slipping fingers to the last remnants of his innocence. Not a hero, not a hero.

One click, one flash, one death. Two clicks, two flashes, two deaths. Blood strikes the pavement either way. Flames lick at his soul either way. Either way life gets ground under the boots of the universe, face-first into the suffocating muck.

NOT A HERO, NOT A HERO.

It'd be easier to just put the bullet in his own head…

A silver of light appeared in the alley, glittering off the puddles. Three pairs of shoes echoed against the wet concrete.

Not a hero…

He looked at the gun, he looked at the family, he looked at the dark where he knew a gunman was lying in wait.

The family drew closer to the light. He picked up the gun…

"Not a hero…" he whispered.

…

…

…

Gotham City:

Present Day

The bat signal danced over the rolling blanket of black clouds…

The End

I've had a lot of depressing endings lately...sorry.