DC One
Dark Knight
Arc 1 – Shade's Past (1)
Gotham; a city as brilliant in its design as it were destitute and corrupt. There weren't many who knew what gave the city its magnanimous presence though… it was unmistakable…
The streets were dimly lit, heavy with the weight of confusion and fear. A young woman hurried about through the thickened air intent on escaping her pursuers. The lady, 21, blonde, and strikingly beautiful, tightly bundled her purse inside her coat weary of the company she'd attracted. A momentary lapse in judgment forced by yet another argument with her boyfriend led to the rash choice. In hindsight, it was a mistake.
Initially only two men took interest in the young lady, following at an uncomfortably close distance. They'd alerted a third man to join them, gesturing towards the woman's exposed legs which neither her coat nor red skirt were long enough to hide. Just ahead two more thuggish brutes acknowledged the others and gleefully posted in the middle of the alley. She was cornered.
As thoughts raced through her mind in an attempt to keep up with her erratic heartbeat, the woman's movements slowed to a crawl. There wasn't a scenario that came to mind which brought her comfort, only fear. Suddenly…
A police car flashed within her view on the street just beyond the goons before her. With its brake lights illuminating the far wall of the alley she thought, "Maybe, it stopped." If so, she could run. "No, it had to have stopped," a second thought insured her.
Panic quickly consumed the woman while guiding her feet forward; faster and faster. A man behind her reached out and gripped her coat, slowing but not stopping her. She quickly surrendered the coat in favor of running, tossing her purse aside as well to gain momentum.
"Help! Help!" she screamed. Perhaps, her voice could reach where her body couldn't. There was no response.
"You shouldn't have done that," a thug claimed, jumping into her path and grabbing the woman. "Why you in such a hurry?"
"Get off me," she yelled, struggling to get away. "Someone! Please—
The man slammed her to the ground, ripping the skirt's strap from her shoulder.
"Didn't I warn you about that? You're going to make me angry if you keep it up," he warned, revealing a pocket knife.
"Not much money for someone in such an expensive dress," another taunted, kneeling over the woman while he rummaged through her purse.
"Give me that!" a third demanded. He grabbed the wallet from inside the purse and went straight to the frightened woman's driver's license. "Vicki Vale... what a beautiful name. Tell me Ms. Vale, do you want to make it home tonight?"
The mere suggestion of what that comment meant left Vale speechless.
"Don't be like that," he yanked her up to her feet, "You should help me help you."
Vale cringed as the men surrounded her. A quick glance towards the street revealed to her that no one was coming. No matter how difficult it was she forced her eyes closed accepting her fate like so many other victims.
"Let her go!" A strong, menacing voice called out, alarming the thugs.
"What the hell was that?"
Vale's assailants eagerly looked around at each other trying to determine the hidden voice's whereabouts. A stunned Vale twisted about in her captor's hands looking for her would-be savior as well.
"Help me! Please!" she shouted, angering the man who held her in his grasp.
"Shut up!" The man struck her across the face while maintaining his hold. "No one's coming to save you. It's just some scared punk trying to play hero-"
Without notice, a masked figure clad in black attire descended from the rooftop crashing down on top of the man holding Vale. The young lady scurried over to the wall as her savior moved forward to confront the knife wielding thug and his associates though they quickly fell to the wayside. One by one, the vigilante aggressively punished the rogue brutes as Vale looked on awestruck.
Once the fourth goon fell, Vicki caught a glimpse of the fallen pocket knife on the ground. Despite her new circumstance, fear still guided her actions and she pondered what she'd do if she could reach the blade. Then a voice snapped her into reality.
"Run!" The vigilante demanded, making Vale aware of the immediate danger before them.
"H-he has-s a g-gun," she stuttered, the last of her assailants idly standing before them confident the fight was over.
"I said run!" the masked man instructed again.
Vicki nodded her head then scrambled to her feet both grateful to and worried for her rescuer. The two men were poised with a dangerous intent that insured only one of them would walk away. Vicki could feel the same tension rising behind her as tears began to roll down her face; she was certain of the pending outcome for her hero.
*Bang*
Vicki fell to her knees at the sound of the gunshot drawing the attention of the near-desolate street denizens of Gotham. A man, eager to help, ran over to the teary eyed woman assisting her from the middle of the road.
"Ma'am, my name's James Gordon," he rushed, "I'm a detective with the Gotham City Police Department. I need you to stay calm. Are you injured?"
"No, it's not me," she returned frantically. "The men in the alley; he saved me; they're going to kill him. You have to—
"Don't worry, I'll go check on him," Gordon stated, drawing his weapon.
The valiant officer sprinted to the corner and carefully peaked down the alley as his partner tended to the still distraught woman. Gordon couldn't see much from his position, just two shadowed figures; one kneeling before the other pleading for mercy. As James moved closer, careful not to startle either man, he noticed the towering, masked man holding a gun towards Vale's aggressor; bodies scattered about his feet. The scene instinctively broke Gordon's cautious approach.
"Gotham Police! Drop down your weapon."
The vigilante didn't respond. His eyes were focused on the goon cowering and groveling at his feet. He imagined that it was something like this when his parents died, when they were murdered. A moment were the galley of people that surrounded them that night faded away and it was just them: his mother, his father and their killer. His father pleaded, begged for the life of his wife and himself but there was no recourse that night. They would die…
And the man that killed them would run.
"Son, I need you to put the gun down now!" Gordon demanded.
"I'm not your son."
Gordon calmed himself, entertaining the ideal of calming the vigilante as well. "You're right. You're not but I do have a son. A daughter too. And they both want me to come home tonight to tuck them in. It's something a lot of parents take for granted. But I'm sure, wherever they are your parents would rather you be home tonight. Not doing this."
"My parents, that woman, this city… has been held hostage by sniveling scum like this that hold a gun in their hand and claim power," the man stated, angrily kicking the goon down to hover above him. "If I end his life here it'll stop one more robbery, cause one less rape or kidnapping, prevent one more murder."
"You're wrong. Crime won't end by committing criminal acts," Gordon argued, slowly inching his way towards the misguided young man. "You'll just be building on the foundation of bodies that pile up underneath you. Eventually you'll become the very villain you sought to destroy and by your notion, someone else would then pull the trigger to escape hostage from you."
"And do you plan on… being the one who takes that shot?"
"I don't have to, son," James blurted unintentionally, "Not if you don't force me. Let the law handle this."
The atmosphere seemed to settle slightly as the young vigilante took in the detective's words. There was some truth to them that he'd never attempted to acknowledge. Yet, the officer's last words rang the loudest in his head.
"Who's law?"
The masked man slowly turned to look Gordon in the eyes, now only a few feet away. His hand remained firmly on the gun pointed down toward the absentminded thug while Gordon lowered his own. James was confident that the vigilante didn't want to kill anyone given the damage he'd done thus far without casualty. He simply wanted to instill the same confidence in the youth before him.
"The people. I struggle every day to earn the trust of the people by taking down the bad guys. I put my life on the line to insure the people that the law can and will be enforced to protect them from the dangers of this city. I don't know your reason but tonight you saved that young woman without crossing the line you're walking now."
"So, what?! He and his goons go to jail, serve six months to a year while some other lowlife takes his place in the meantime."
"The system's not perfect but it can work. Once upon a time he and his friends made a choice to rob people of their freedoms instead of building their own. If you pull that trigger, you follow the same path." Gordon withdrew his gun. "I refuse to have any innocent blood on my hands tonight."
The vigilante didn't argue though he couldn't completely grasp Gordon's idealism either. The idea of surrendering made him a bit nervous but the officer's honest intent left the youth entranced. The seconds followed with the vigilante loosening his hold on the gun and handing it to a relived Gordon.
"You made the right the choice, son-
*Bang*
"Aahhh!"
"No!" James yelled as he dived for cover. The vigilante dropped the gun and stumbled over the bodies he'd previous laid out, tightly griping the gun wound penetrating his shoulder.
*Bang*Bang*
Two more shots fired towards the man as he raced down through the alley.
"Bullock! Stop firing, the suspect is unarmed! He's no threat, stand down." James called out, trying to regain sight of the misguided youth but he'd already vanished.
"What am I doing? This isn't why I came back. I don't want to die. They deserve better than that. Better than this. I have to be stronger. For them…"
The man's thoughts began to slip away from him the more blood he'd lost. As the adrenaline faded, the pain seemed to rush in forcing him to stop running through the crisscrossing backstreets of Gotham's infamous Crime Alley. Panting for air, the man removed his mask using it to swaddle the wound.
Despite his condition the wounded man, 22; dark hair and eyes; and stoically handsome, remained very intact. After a brief reprieve, he unnervingly removed the bullet from his wound never giving in to the pain. Still, he needed medical attention and knew the hospital wasn't an option. The man grabbed the cellphone from his pocket hurrying to dial the numbers before his fingers loss their feelings.
"Hello."
"Alfred…"
"Yes, who is this?"
"It's me, I need your help…"
"Master Wayne… … … Bruce…... Where are you?"