Strike

Salas Complex, Metropolis

8:47 p.m November 1

Damien Crest walked behind of the podium, cleared his throat, and shuffled through his notes.

"Good evening to you all," was how he started. The audience consisted of at least two hundred or so employees, observers and shareholders, men and women alike, all dressed in a formal manner. Every face in the room was pointed at Damien, beaming over him with smiles that displayed nothing but respect and loyalty. He had finally earned it.

He coughed on his fist to clear his throat again for the second time. "I am so thankful that you all could here with me to celebrate our success. Thank you all for being there, supporting us, and most of all, I want to thank you all for your achievements here at Salas," he said, then read his speech, raising his tone and importing a few jokes so as not to bore his audience. "We here at Salas are now thanks to you all, the largest pharmaceutical in the northern hemisphere." The room soared with applauses. "We have drugstores stationed at almost every critical part of this nation."Then", with bold pride, he added, "And after much more due success, we can and will go so much further. We are saving lives everyday. May we continue for generations to come."

Camera's flashed at the new CEO. A tone of happiness and pride covered the thick walls of the convention. This was a day to remember.

Damien couldn't help but smile over the crowd. 'Just as if they care,' he mused. The night was glorious. He shined bright like an eternal star. Support flew at him in the form of clapping hands, cheers and hollers. All those years of struggling and existing, this almost made it worth it. Damien Crest, elite chemist, newly apointed President of the Salas drug company. His family would have been proud. Their son finally made it in society, finding his place through research and production of countless miraculous drugs that have healed as many as a thousand lives for over five years and counting. Would his family have been proud? Unfortunately he would never see the answer to that question. And at that moment, the crystal glow on his face mutated into a dull frown.

He did his best, his family should have been here. He would have loved to see them smile for this special day, just like all the times he got A's on his report card. The family would have loved to see this; but unfortunately, they never will. They would never be there when their son reaches the peak of his life to congradulate him, smile at him, applause or even comfort him. His older sister Annie would never be there to pester him, he would never be able to see how she would have grown and what kind of person she would have become. Annie said one time that she might have wanted to be a writer, 'and one find writer she would have been.'

"I'll be taking questions now," said Damien bluntly.

One man from among the crowd had a pencil on one hand and a notepad on the other. "Alan West," was his name. "How do you proceed on these claims of monopoly and market domination faced at Salas?" was his question.

"Well Alan I have heard these claims and I must say that they are completely senseless." Damien Crest, the ever aggressive legionnaire. "First of all, let me remind you that this company has been bent on supporting and helping those in need. Our own products and stations have been made to purposely give proper care with lower cost than most our competitors. That is in fact why we've gone so far. Because thanks to all the great researchers we have, we can make our own drugs more effective than others and sell them for an efficient price. And for those who think that we're some "evil corporation looking to rule the world", we have made healthcare donations to several people with financial trouble and need of medical attention."

Then the next question came. "Clark Kent with the Daily Planet. What are your future plans?"

"Well Clark, I don't really think I have much comment on that. We'll just go where the wind takes us and if we don't like that, I'm sure we can just paddle a few steps away." Slight laughter erupted.

And finally the last question from another man much like the first with a piece of note paper and a wooden pencil. "Elbert Young, Headfront News. Have you any plans on putting organizations on Gotham City? There's not one contact to be found there and some are saying that it would really help things."

Gotham City. Its name began to haunt Damien the instant it was mentioned. Gotham City. "We'll see how things work out." The reporter along with crowds expected more from their CEO. That was all they got. At that moment he wrapped up his prescence by saying that he was "thankful once again for everyone being here," and he stormed away from the gleaming stage agitated.

Memories flashed back, his entire body started to itch. Sweat and steam boiled from his head, heat was working its way up his body. He walked almost limping away from the building, slowly losing control of himself. He found a balcony in the back, and parked himself there in hopes of cooling down with the moderate breeze outside. The steam left, but the memories stayed. Tears poured, he couldn't stop himself, and at this point there was no point trying. His pupils blushed red along with his face, creases lined across his cheeks. There was nobody else outside but the wind and Damien Crest. What started out as a magnificent night turned into a moment of despair, all in the name of a simple memory.

"Get up!" the boy screamed at a much older man who was now too weak to pick himself from the cold gravel. The boy had been crying and still was, his father noticed the child's reddening face. There was blood on the boy's shirt, it belonged to the father. The old man struggled to turn his head, but succeeded after only a few seconds. Pain conquered the old man's body, he was losing consciousness. It would have been so easy to close his eyes and rest, but he forced himself awake, fighting the bullet lodged inside his chest.

But there wasn't much strength left inside for him to continue. The hole at his chest was pouring blood on the streets, blood that he needed to survive. There wasn't much he could do now. His mind was painted with drowsiness, the pain began to gain weight, he couldn't carry out much further, he had to let the pain go. The old man faced his son one last time. "Everything is going to be alright. You did good. I love you."

The boy shrieked. "No! No! Get up! Get up don't go!" He didn't stop yelling until he was certain his father was gone. His head swung away, lifeless. The boy was alone now. All that was left of his family was their blood spilled on the merciless streets. His family lied peacefully still on the streets as did their killers. The gift his father gave him, a seven inch toy soldier crumpled into pieces.

Gotham City has ever since been the tombstone of the family of Damien Crest.

Han Lest Harbor, Gotham City

11:33 p.m

The night was never the best timing for a drug deal. That's why Ricardo Alvaro grew suspicious of his client. And for that reason only he brought all the boys he could muster up in the dead of night. Six men from his side rode in all armed with submachine guns. However, his client James Marshall had brought at least a dozen armed at his side including rooftop snipers overlooking the harbor exterior. He spotted them along with his men on their way to the site, which was inside an old model cruiser bridge docked on the harbor. Ricardo could only hope that his client would not try to shoot him seconds after the deal.

There was enough light to see across the room, but not near enough for anyone to read in. The lightbulbs seemed like they were on the brink of extinction, blinking on and off at certain points. When they were on, anyone who cared to even look would notice winged insects aviating around the light's vicinity.

Acompanying his left hand was a gym bag filled to the rim with cash, and a silver Colt tucked in his pants in case anything was to go wrong.

This was Ricardo's first time visiting Gotham City. His first impression was less than warming. The city suffered from lack of sunlight, and tramps decorated in every slum block caused the walls they leaned on to deteriarate in shape, not to mention polluting the air with body odor. This was nothing like his home country. Upon consideration, Ricardo swore to himself never to set foot to another litter such as this again unless it was for business.

"You got my money friend?" a voice called Ricardo from behind. He turned and saw a relatively bulky man in a grey suit and a wooden brown cigar holstered on his left and middle finger.

"Yes. It is here. All of it," he replied to his client, then dropped the bag on the floor. An unfamiliar man, presumably his clients', moved towards the bag with an assault rifle strapped to his back. He lifted a block of cash towards his face and ran a thumb on the center corner, counting silently in his head.

"Looks good," the man concluded, turning his head to the flashy applicant.

"Excellent," said James. "And now for me to fulfill my end of the bargain." He waved a finger blindly at the air. In response another henchman who stood in the same room for the duration of the deal stepped forward with another gym bag of different color and brand. He unzipped it at the center and revealed a series of at least twelve ziploc bags containing white powderlike substances. "It's all there," James concluded.

Ricardo approached the bag for a closer look. Nobody stopped him, but the dark. Suddenly, everyone in the room heard the noise of shattered glass, and knew immediately what it was when the room went pitch black. "This is a setup!", Ricardo thought aloud. Immediately his men responded by aiming guns at James and his men as they did the same.

"Calm down!" odered James. "It isn't me. Put your guns down." Ricardo refused, so he made the first move. He comanded two of his men to go outside and investigate the matter. The gesture convinced Ricardo to put down his arms.

"What is this?" asked Ricardo.

"It should be nothing. But nevertheless, I suggest you prepare yourselves."

"For what?" inquired Ricardo.

James Marshall let out a deep sigh. 'Obviously nobody has told him.' Nobody bothered to tell him about that mysterious freak hopping around rooftops beating the hell out of his people. Beating them to fulfill it's lust for violence. Beating their kind. Nobody ever told the foreigner what this thing can do to people. He almost felt sorry.

Right then, crackling noises came from outside. And if anybody paid close attention, they would hear one of their comrades screaming off the top of his lungs.

"What the hell is going on!" demanded the now startled Ricardo. "Torico, Jaymes, go check it out," he called to his soldiers.

"No that is not a good idea," interrupted James. "We stick close together until we hear from someone."

Ricardo didn't know what to say. 'It isn't the cops,' and for that he was sure. Cops were always loud in raids. And it would have been a task inacomplishable for cops to infiltrate past those men he saw on the roofs without making so much as a peep. "What is going on?" he peeped.

"Shut up and get quiet," ordered his client, then bent his knees down so his body was in a crouched position. He had a black Glock on hand, holding it close to his chest. His eyes were rolling in constant motion, patrolling for any outside noise. But there was nothing. Just silence and darkness.

Ricardo's heart raced, hyperventilation came as a side effect. It was so dark. There was absolutely nothing the eye could see.

Then without warning came something to see. Light fog emerging from outside, marching slowly into the interior of the ship, emitting a drowsy tone to those who inhaled. Coughing came as an aftermath. Nobody was quiet anymore. Everyone was making more than enough noise one would need to mark their exact position.

It was gas. Somebody threw gas in the room. This meant that somebody was close. Ricardo eyed the windows. Behind one of them was what seemed to be an apparition of some kind. But before he could make any proper sense of it, the image had reached past the glass barrier, causing shards to drop dead on the floor. On arm's length was one of his men reacting to nothing but the poisonous inhalants. It grabbed him by the shoulder and he was pulled out by force before anybody could even react to the broken window.

"Aaah!" he shouted, unable to keep himself stable for a second longer. "I'll kill you!" he declared, and let off a few rounds from his Colt into the ship.

"Don't waste your bullets you moron." The voice, he recognized was James'. However, neither could see each other. The natural dark and that vile gas were the cause to their blindness.

"James," Ricardo called out, but there was no reply. "James," and again no reply.

But then he heard something like a silent yet bold whisper. What haunted him was that he had never heard the voice from anywhere in his life. And above all, it dropped from just behind his left ear.

"Boo," it uttered.

Ricardo widened his eyes. "Aaahhh!" he fired randomly at the dark space, all the while running blindly around until he finally found the exit door and opened it. His legs were sprinting in the direction he had come from, leaving the ship and setting foot on the cold gravel. The men on rooftops he noticed were all incapacitated. Not so much as an open eye was left. There was nobody to help him. Nobody to save him. He was alone, running in the dark.

Abrubtly, his leg seemed to be caught in something. The man tried shaking it off, but instead it pulled his leg up with a force too strong to be overcome. Had he been looking where he stepped on, he would have survived the cat and mouse game just a bit longer. It was a thin wire wrapped tightly around his ankle, forcing it straight up into the dark sky. His body was dragged upside down, blood pressure blushed his face into a strawberry red. He yelled for it to stop in whatever voice he had left. It did, but only ten seconds later. And when the wire ceased, Ricardo caught a perfect look at his tormentor, staring straight back at him with a blank face.

"Hauh!" was all he could muster up in response to what he was seeing. It was a monster. A hideous monster. A half man with human eyes and mouth, and a half creature with a dusky black hull, two horns on the head and long wings on the side of its arm.

Then it whispered. The same voice as on the ship with that same unforgiving tone. "Welcome to my home."