Full Circle
It was happening all over again, and there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it.
Out in front of the Monarch Theater, which still showed "The Mark Of Zorro" every year as part of their classics marathon, a married couple and their young son had been walking down the street, looking for a cab. The man was slight, wiry, not like big, powerfully built Thomas Wayne, and his wife was plump, with bright red hair tightly braided. Their clothes were a little shabbier than the Wayne's, and yet...
Their son. Eight or nine at most, he could have been Bruce Wayne, lost ages past on a damp and misty night so much like this one. A night when someone stepped out of the fog, and fired the shots that tore a boy's life to shreds. Sometimes in his nightmares, there was only one man, who fled, sickened by his deed, and would not further damn himself with the blood of a child. Sometimes, he saw two men, and one had his gun leveled at Bruce's young face and was growling strange words as he prepared to fire, only to be pulled back into the darkness by his companions. Some nights, the killer was a faceless composite, borne of the thousand killers Batman had stopped. Some nights, he had the grinning clown's face of the vigilante's most brutal nemesis.
The young family weren't having any luck finding a cab, and weren't watching their path. When the mugger drew his gun and growled his demands, they were caught flat-footed, frozen for a crucial, magic second. Behind Batman's dark cowl, there was a memory of how that second felt. Time slowed to a crawl, events became images, flashes of light and pain that returned to you in waking dreams, to dog your days and nights with horror.
The mugger was not a patient man. As the magic second went by without any move to cooperate, he took action to expediate matters. Two hollow-point .45 slugs tore out of the muzzle of the cold, ugly weapon in his hand. The woman wore no pearls to be scattered upon the unhallowed pavement, bouncing like so many toy balls in the light of the dim street lamp for a thousand eternities. The sound of their bodies hitting the ground was like slabs of beef being thrown on the butcher's table, ready for carving.
The boy who was not Bruce, but could have been, sank to his knees, stunned by the almost physical shock of what he had just witnessed. His eyes welled with tears, but he felt no sorrow yet, only numbness. That was when the Batman came into view, and began to race towards the site.
Once, a robber and murderer let a child live after gunning down the boy's parents in cold blood.
The gun boomed a third time, and the boy's head burst apart from the back, a neat hole in his forehead marking the entrance point, a splattering of blood, brain, and bone on the pavement to mark where it exited. The mugger vanished into darkness, without any living witnesses.
A black shadow fell to earth in the cold yellow pool of light. A nightmare-monster of black wings and leathery flapping and wet fearful sounds at night stood, surrounded by the dead, those before him, and those who lay behind. His cowl hid his face, concealing the pain and the sorrow and the trembling rage. After a long, cold second, he turned away, and raced into the shadows and fog.
He could not restore the dead. He could avenge.
End
It was happening all over again, and there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it.
Out in front of the Monarch Theater, which still showed "The Mark Of Zorro" every year as part of their classics marathon, a married couple and their young son had been walking down the street, looking for a cab. The man was slight, wiry, not like big, powerfully built Thomas Wayne, and his wife was plump, with bright red hair tightly braided. Their clothes were a little shabbier than the Wayne's, and yet...
Their son. Eight or nine at most, he could have been Bruce Wayne, lost ages past on a damp and misty night so much like this one. A night when someone stepped out of the fog, and fired the shots that tore a boy's life to shreds. Sometimes in his nightmares, there was only one man, who fled, sickened by his deed, and would not further damn himself with the blood of a child. Sometimes, he saw two men, and one had his gun leveled at Bruce's young face and was growling strange words as he prepared to fire, only to be pulled back into the darkness by his companions. Some nights, the killer was a faceless composite, borne of the thousand killers Batman had stopped. Some nights, he had the grinning clown's face of the vigilante's most brutal nemesis.
The young family weren't having any luck finding a cab, and weren't watching their path. When the mugger drew his gun and growled his demands, they were caught flat-footed, frozen for a crucial, magic second. Behind Batman's dark cowl, there was a memory of how that second felt. Time slowed to a crawl, events became images, flashes of light and pain that returned to you in waking dreams, to dog your days and nights with horror.
The mugger was not a patient man. As the magic second went by without any move to cooperate, he took action to expediate matters. Two hollow-point .45 slugs tore out of the muzzle of the cold, ugly weapon in his hand. The woman wore no pearls to be scattered upon the unhallowed pavement, bouncing like so many toy balls in the light of the dim street lamp for a thousand eternities. The sound of their bodies hitting the ground was like slabs of beef being thrown on the butcher's table, ready for carving.
The boy who was not Bruce, but could have been, sank to his knees, stunned by the almost physical shock of what he had just witnessed. His eyes welled with tears, but he felt no sorrow yet, only numbness. That was when the Batman came into view, and began to race towards the site.
Once, a robber and murderer let a child live after gunning down the boy's parents in cold blood.
The gun boomed a third time, and the boy's head burst apart from the back, a neat hole in his forehead marking the entrance point, a splattering of blood, brain, and bone on the pavement to mark where it exited. The mugger vanished into darkness, without any living witnesses.
A black shadow fell to earth in the cold yellow pool of light. A nightmare-monster of black wings and leathery flapping and wet fearful sounds at night stood, surrounded by the dead, those before him, and those who lay behind. His cowl hid his face, concealing the pain and the sorrow and the trembling rage. After a long, cold second, he turned away, and raced into the shadows and fog.
He could not restore the dead. He could avenge.
End
