NIGHTHAWK
Vengeance is Mine
Chapter 1
"I have seen this city in all of its hours and in all of its seasons, from the highest glittering tower to the lowest festering gutter; I have taken her as a lover, been spurned by her, too."
The voice echoes down the alley, chasing after Robert Bowe as he flees through the darkest recesses of Cosmopolis. His night has not been going as he planned, and it was not going to end in a way he would like, either. As he cuts through the narrow, meandering alleys between some of the city's oldest buildings, he curses his bad luck. He only considers it bad luck, because he knows he is a smart man, an intelligent man. Smart enough to know there is no karma or devil to punish him for his misdeeds, smart enough to realize that the world was set against him from the day he was born.
"I wanted to believe that everything I did was for a reason, for a purpose."
It's not that the universe is evil, he believes, it's the fact that what people call evil is simply the only way to find some semblance of comfort in a brutal, unhappy life. When he was in college, he was a Utilitarian for a while, before becoming disillusioned with the idea that life could really be made better for the whole. He saw a world where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, he saw a world where people die in the street for the most irrational of reasons, and he decided that would not be his fate.
"At some point along the way… I think I stopped believing."
Robert knew he wasn't going to be a great leader or inventor, no one would be paying him the wealth he wanted to live his comfortable life… So he joined with a choice handful of like-minded individuals in targeting the banks and making their money the old fashioned way - through the threat of brutal violence. The whole world had been built on the foundations of violence, after all, and laws were only there to protect those first violent thieves from being preyed upon themselves. And besides, they only rarely hurt people, and they have never killed anyone… At least, not on a job.
"I saw all you people for what you really were… How selfish, cowardly, and rotten you had been. You don't care about anyone else, like a starved animal you only fill your belly."
So the only way a clever, capable man such as himself can fall into this predicament is through sheer rotten luck. He doesn't know what time it is, or how long he has been running from the phantom that dogs his every step. He doesn't even know why this freak was following him! All the bullets in his cheap revolver were shot a while ago, totally useless in the long run.
"I confess, I think I started to hate you."
"Just shut up!" He screams in response to the phantom, his lungs burning and his legs wobbling like jelly. It's just another stroke of bad luck that his flight robs him of his sense to look where he is going, more bad luck that he slips on a grease slick spilled behind the old deli. Robert tumbles forward, landing in a puddle of rancid water and grease, the foul-smelling gunk seeping into his second-hand clothes and clinging to him almost as tightly as the phantom had followed his trail.
The cold splash of falling into the puddle locks him in a moment of fight or flight, frozen in place for a moment before he crawls forward out of the puddle, wet shoes fighting for purchase on the grimy concrete. Just when he believes he could get his second wind and run again, a blade slashes through the achilles tendon of his right leg, drawing blood and a scream from the man's lips.
"GAAAAH! GUUUH!" He shrieks, sprawling forward until the phantom kicks him in the ribs, cracking a rib, and then kicks him again to roll him over onto his back. Robert stares up at the phantom: Squat, smelling of feces and urine, clad in a black hoodie with an oversized green overcoat that hid most of his gaunt frame. He could have passed as another homeless vagrant in Cosmopolis if it wasn't for the polished steel sword he carried in one hand, its guard and pommel inlaid with beautiful rubies and delicately designed to appear as angels carrying those rubies like chalices of blood.
The phantom looks at the rivulets of blood traveling down the length of his blade, waiting to be collected by those angels he carries in his hand. "I was right to believe all that, because nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. It was never going to save you people. I was lost, but now I have been found…"
"What the hell do you want from me?!" Robert demands, tears and snot leaking from his face as he clutches his leg, trying to stanch the bleeding.
"I don't want a thing from you… But God does. He demands repayment." The phantom answers, "As he says, these things are his to avenge, one day the enemy will slip, their disaster will be near and doom will rush in on them… I am that doom. God sent me, Robert, to be your doom."
"I haven't even done anything to you!" Robert protests.
"Even if you did, it wouldn't matter. You hurt people, Robert. You need to pay that price… And as the right hand of God's wrath, as his angel, I have come to tell you…" The blade flashes in the moonlight, and Robert's head rolls from his shoulders to sink into the rancid puddle.
"Vengeance is mine."
The black wings of Nighthawk spread wide over the yawning breadth of Cosmopolis, the city unknowingly under the watchful eye of its predatory guardian. His patrols take him up and down the length and width of the island city and its surrounding boroughs, held aloft on wings of carbon fiber and the miraculous power of repulsor technology. Behind the piercing orange goggles and bullet-resistant mask is a man caught between two identities: Kyle Richmond the wealthy and loyal scion, and Nighthawk the dark and vengeful vigilante. With every night, every patrol, Kyle felt himself slipping more and more into the role of the bird of prey.
"Suspected drug activity on Convent and west 130th," Charles Greyburn spoke into his ear, "Want me to pin it for you?"
"No," The vigilante replies tiredly, "That area is Truman's territory, and he doesn't trade in Crozerin." Everest Truman was a small-time drug boss, anyhow, and though he sold poison, he knew that he would quickly run out of customers if they started dropping like flies.
"Still looking for the Tradimar connection, then?"
"Mm," Nighthawk responds quietly to his confidante. Crozerin was a highly addictive opioid drug that had taken the medical world by storm six years prior, resulting in a skyrocketing epidemic of addiction and deaths by overdose. He had begun his career in the city the previous year exposing the truth of the drug to the world at large, and made a lot of dangerous enemies in the process. Mobsters in the Slavic nation of Tradimar were allegedly still producing the drug and selling on the black market, but there was no proof yet that Nighthawk could find of that particular lead. At this point, though, his campaign was more focused on stamping out the burning embers of the trade left behind from an extinguished fire.
A piercing scream is picked up by the delicately tuned sensors in Nighthawk's helmet, advanced algorithms determining the point of origin faster than he can bank to try and pinpoint the source himself. They were necessary inventions created by Greyburn, making it easier for Nighthawk to respond to spontaneous criminal activity when he could barely hear the noise of the city over the blistering winds that whipped by him while he was in flight. A marker appears in his minute heads up display, and Nighthawk dives immediately, his dark wings hugging close to his armored body as he plummets head-first towards a dark alley.
A simple twitch of his fingers and his goggles go into night-vision, clearly displaying six men cornering a woman against a dead end. She is in hysterics, waving her bag back and forth as a weapon, and proving highly ineffective at warding off her attackers. Six men, likely armed with knives, maybe one or two with a handgun. Based on their attire, accessories, and hairstyles, he could only surmise they belonged to the technopunk gang Dusk Panorama. They were something different, motivated by an anti-establishment ideology that made them more dangerous than the simple gangsters who were simply interested in making a quick buck. Nighthawk mused on his tactics for a moment as he sizes up the situation before tucking forward to reorient himself, his wings shooting out and repulsors blasting to slow his fall. He drops into the middle of the pack with no fanfare, no dramatics, his armored boots colliding with the head and shoulder of one of the thugs. The long-haired man crumples like tin under his boot, his bones and ligaments snapping like wet sticks as his chin collides hard with the ground. The others don't even realize for a second what has happened, until the man immediately to Nighthawk's right gets a bladed gauntlet slammed into his chest, the six serrated tips locking tight in his flesh as the vigilante pivots himself and the thug. Now the man was being used as a shield against the other three on Nighthawk's left side while he threw three night-a-rangs into the final man on his right. The bladed projectiles lodge themselves into the man's face, shoulder, and chest, sending him staggering back with shrieks of pain. He could be partially incapacitated or slowed down, but he probably wasn't out of the fight yet. Still, a solid start, half of them down or debilitated-
Something hits Nighthawk across the head, setting the world spinning on its axis and making stars explode in his vision. Too slow, too slow by far! He wasn't fast enough yet to handle this many at once, even with the element of surprise - or perhaps his tactics were simply unrefined. Either way, he allows himself one little moment of pride in the face of this humbling blow, as he rolls backwards and releases flashbangs and smoke pellets behind him to disorient his enemies and buy him more time.
"What the hell was that?!" One of the thugs yells, swinging his blunt weapon wildly through the haze.
"Just some freak in a mask," Another grunts, "We'll take care of him, then the girl."
"Like hell," Nighthawk mutters back, springing forward to tackle that man to the ground. He tucks forward and jumps up with the help of his repulsor pack, letting it lift him into the air. He pivots in midair and extends a wing to batter another combatant in the face while his foot snaps out to shatter the jaw of the man who must have struck him in the head. Someone tries to grab him from behind, a stupid move. He activates his repulsors and angles himself backwards, slamming into his opponent from above and winding him. Nighthawk twists and grabs him by the shirt, delivering a flurry of vicious punches until the man stays down.
The vigilante rises slowly, assessing the situation. Three of the muggers were on the ground and out of the fight. The other three are in varying conditions: One man staggering to his face with three night-a-rangs embedded in him, one with six puncture wounds to the chest and more than a few blows from his allies, and the one that Nighthawk had clipped with his wing. All three had one thing in common, though… They were afraid.
"..." Nighthawk's orange eyes glow in the darkness, daring them to make a move.
The former human shield tries to run, another mistake. He deftly throws a pair of bolos to trip the man up while his other hand snatches a grappling hook from his belt. He fires it into the leg of the man who had the night-a-rangs embedded in him, the hooks make a wet, crushing noise as they sink into the man's thigh. He shrieks in pain as the high-powered micromotor tugs the cable line back, yanking his leg out from under him and sending him into an impromptu split position, descending far enough to snap a tendon.
The final mugger drops his small switchblade to the ground and holds his hands up. "Hey man, listen, I give up. You win." He stutters, hands shaking. Nighthawk nods and turns to the shaking woman backed into the corner… Before he launches himself into the air, spins, and delivers a savage kick to the final thug that drops him to the ground.
The fight is finished, though it isn't the cleanest win for Nighthawk, whose head still rings unpleasantly. He crosses the alley to drag the fallen combatants together so that he can tie them together with a coil of wire hidden in his belt. He would have Greyburn make a call to the police to have them picked up.
"..." He turns to the woman, a beautiful platinum blonde who slowly rises to her feet.
"Th-thank you," She stammers, placing a lock of hair behind her ear. She seems… Familiar to Nighthawk, though he can't immediately place where he has seen her before.
"...You should get home now," He responds quietly, extending his wings and flying off into the sky, leaving her behind.
The woman watches Nighthawk fly up into the cloudy night sky before her hunched posture relaxes and a small smile crosses her face, her gaze drifting to the six men who had attacked her. The smile grows into a smug grin as she approaches them, pulling on a pair of satin gloves from her purse. The fingertips are fitted with sharp steel claws, which she delicately drags across the face of one of the captured thugs.
"Not quite my style," She admits, pulling a night-a-rang from the face of one of her attackers, "But I don't look gift horses in the mouth." Without another word she slashes the throat of the man tied up before her, her smile widening as he gasps for air and struggles helplessly while blood seeps down his neck and stains his shirt. One by one, she executes the other five in cold blood with the night-a-rang before sticking it back in the face of the dead man she started with.
"Thanks, darling," She says after the fading silhouette of Nighthawk and struts off into the night.
"You were sloppy back there. If you ask me, you've got me to thank that you're not dead right now," Greyburn chides Nighthawk over the comms.
The vigilante grimaces and bites back a sharp retort, focusing instead on carefully removing the outer shell of his mask and setting it aside. Cool night air rushes in to soothe a pounding headache, not to mention heated skin that was sticky with sweat. The suit and armor were designed for protection, not long-term comfort, and growing accustomed to them was one of his first tasks at the beginning of things. He reaches up to gingerly probe the growing bump on the side of his head, wincing at the stinging response he receives… But he's thankful there's no blood.
"It's hardly the worst injury I've gotten," Nighthawk grunts while taking some painkillers from his belt. "The fight with Tyson Raine put me down for over two weeks."
"Tyson Raine was a professional killer, you almost got cold-cocked by a street bum with a piece of pipe," Greyburn mutters.
"Hnh," He responds, staring down at Times Square with dispassionate intensity.
Once upon a time, a young and more naive Kyle thought he understood the criminal mind: It was an understanding that fused the worldviews of his mother and father, a combination of noblesse oblige and classist condescension. Criminals were those who were too poor, weak, or lazy to survive on their own in this world. They either were forced into the life by circumstances beyond their control, or they simply preferred to prey on the weak and the innocent rather than get a real job and earn their keep. A culture that celebrated and glorified murder, drug abuse, and the objectification of women certainly didn't help matters, he reasoned, it certainly contributed to the feckless youth being drawn into gangs and crime. Crime was the domain of those below him, in that soiled world beneath the ivory tower he had grown up in.
That all changed when his mother, Monica, died of a drug overdose three years prior. The coroner had said that she was killed by a drug called Fentanyl, which Kyle had never even heard of before. Drug overdoses weren't very novel to him, his parents had spoken more than once of how the crack epidemic had devastated the African-American community and culture, but that was again a moral failing of the victims or the system in their eyes. The more he researched Fentanyl, the more he considered it poison rather than medicine. But what was most curious to him was how his mother had become hooked on drugs to the point that she would be at risk of overdosing on something so dangerous. Teaming up with that coroner, he began unraveling the web of his mother's drug abuse… And the strings he pulled led him back to his father, Arthur Richmond, and the international business empire he had built on the back of his wife's inherited wealth.
"Looks like we're in the news," Greyburn murmurs, prompting Nighthawk to focus on one of the large screens below.
"Shocking news tonight as a panel of circuit judges makes a call supporting vigilante justice," A news anchor spoke, her voice amplified to project over the noise of the crowd and the traffic, even at this late hour. Though that was an oxymoron, he realizes… In the city that never slept, there were no late hours.
"Judges Mariana, Harper, and Thorne have ruled that evidence collected and submitted to the state's attorney general by the alleged 'Nighthawk' is admissible in trial, a devastating blow to the defense. But some are asking if this is a step too far in support of vigilantism, and if it could unleash more violence like the events seen at the headquarters of Richmond Enterprises last year - where a dark-clothed figure believed to be the Nighthawk killed US Marine veteran and Richmond employee Tyson Raine and kidnapped Arthur Richmond to be delivered to police headquarters."
Nighthawk smiles grimly, pleased that the circuit panel had just delivered him a major victory. The entire campaign would have been for nothing if he'd brought his father to the police only to have him be released because none of the evidence was admissible in court.
"Government officials say they expect a hearing to set the date of trial will be announced in the next 48 hours. With ZNK News, I'm Tiana Cartwright."
"Should I pop the champagne?" Greyburn asks sarcastically.
"Not until he's rotting in jail," Nighthawk responds while pulling on his mask.
Richmond Enterprises had invented, marketed, and sold a drug they claimed would change lives for the better, with almost no cases of addiction. 'Pain-free living' was the slogan of choice, and hundreds of thousands of people were duped into becoming addicts. His mother, suffering from chronic pain and believing Arthur's lies that the drug was non-addictive, was one of many who died for no reason other than the greed of men. Kyle's search for truth quickly became dangerous - the coroner who helped him was murdered by Tyson Raine on the orders of Arthur and Kyle's own power as a vice president in Richmond Enterprises quickly ran into brick walls of missing information, stone-walling bureaucrats, and his father's own lies. Kyle thought about going public with his meager findings when chance brought him and his father's old business partner together.
Charles Greyburn wasn't interested in a righteous crusade, but in vengeance. Arthur had long relied on Greyburn's brilliance and innovation to drive the company's success, but never felt like sharing the wealth. He forced Greyburn out of the company and blackballed him in the industry for good measure, just to make sure they would never be in competition. Together, Kyle and Charles established a new partnership: armed with Greyburn's technology, Kyle began to infiltrate his family's company to bring the truth into light by force. Outfitted with the repulsor wing-suit and high-tech stealth gear, Kyle became the Nighthawk to bring his father down.
Nighthawk takes to the skies once more, soaring past the tops of skyscrapers while monitoring the city below. The fight earlier troubles him, because Charles was right in the long run… He had been sloppy, and while his life might not be so important, other people could die if he failed to save them… And that wasn't an option. He had gotten by too many times on Charles' technology or pure blind luck. That wouldn't last forever.
"I need to find a teacher," Nighthawk comments to Greyburn. "A real teacher, someone who knows how to fight."
"Don't look at me, I've never submitted myself to the teaching of anyone, much less a martial arts master," Greyburn responds.
A small ping shows up in the corner of Nighthawk's HUD, directing him to head north. "Detective Solomon activated the night signal," He murmurs, "Let's go see what she wants."
Detective Effie Solomon stares down at the charred corpse a few feet from the tips of her shoes with tired disdain. It's too late in the night for her to be dealing with another murder, she knows this will keep her up with paperwork long past the dawn. This is her job, though, and she is committed to seeing it through. After sending out the ping to the Nighthawk, she had instructed the forensic analysts and beat cops to leave the scene to her.
The crime scene was becoming familiar in its repetition of a particular pattern: The victim was beheaded with potential other stab wounds, lit on fire post-mortem and cooked to a blackened crisp, and a bizarre symbol was painted on the wall in the victim's blood. This was the third incidence of a murder like this in the past two months, and even though they had no idea yet who this victim was, she had some educated guesses on their identity based on the prior two killings.
"How does the quote go?" A voice rasps above her. She spins and looks upwards to see Nighthawk perched atop the railing of a fire escape. "Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence… Three times is a conspiracy."
"You showed up quick," Solomon replies anxiously, turning back to look at the beheaded corpse. "No ID on the victim yet, but-"
"The last two victims were Allen Trey and Zachary Jenkins, convicted on multiple counts of armed assault, grand larceny, and more," Nighthawk hops down from the railing, landing beside her. "And noted co-conspirators in a crime ring knocking over banks. No leads on where the other four may be?"
"Other three, now…" Solomon crosses her arms, "And no leads yet. They've found some very deep boltholes to hide in."
"Not deep enough, clearly," Nighthawk murmurs, tapping his goggles to snap a picture of the symbol. He then kneels down to collect tissue samples from the corpse. "I want to know how this killer is finding them before we are."
"Why do we care about someone offing some bank robbers?" Greyburn asks in Nighthawk's ear, unheard by the detective. "We have bigger fish to fry, y'know."
Nighthawk ignores him, looking around the crime scene. There was a pistol sitting on the damp ground, its six chambers holding empty shells. "Do we have any leads based on the gunshots?"
"Not yet, we're still establishing the perimeter," Solomon says, "Based on noise complaints and reports of gunshots, this guy was chased down over ten to fifteen blocks."
"Our killer is a persistence hunter," Nighthawk muses.
"Any luck on figuring out this symbol?" She asks, pointing at the macabre painting on the wall.
"None. It's either very obscure or the product of a sick mind," The vigilante murmurs. "Or someone who wants to appear sick. Someone who has endurance and has somehow avoided being witnessed in the act of their killings. Given the targets… I think we might find this is the work of a member of the crime ring. Perhaps to keep them silent, or collect a hidden score. Obfuscated with cult-like imagery."
"I'll let you know when we've collected up the evidence and IDed the victim," The detective sighs, peeling off her latex gloves. "At the very least, if you're right and the trend continues then we'll know who the killer is when he's the only left."
"Hrm. Can't let it be that easy for them," Nighthawk replies grimly. He turns away from the detective and strides towards one of the ends of the alleyway, extending his wings and warming up his repulsors.
"I hear congratulations are in order!" Solomon calls after him, "The Richmond case is going to trial with your evidence!"
"..." The vigilante pauses, glancing back at her, "We both know getting him to trial was only half the battle, detective. I don't do things by halves." He activates his repulsors, flying up into the night sky. He banks, angling himself to fly back towards the southern tip of the city.
After a few moments of silence, Greyburn speaks up again, "We're really not wasting time on a couple of murdered bank robbers, are we?"
"It bears scrutiny," Nighthawk answers gruffly.
"When this was about taking down your father, Kyle, I was on board - because I wanted to see the smug bastard eat it after years of watching him step on people. You want to see it done, I respect that. But this is just a distraction. Especially when you've got more important things to be focused on. It's two weeks out now, and we've got no leads."
"...I can handle these murders and the Dollface Killer," He replies.
"In two weeks, Kyle? The Dollface Killer has been active for 25 years with 24 victims and no leads on who the killer might be," Charles says skeptically. "At least you haven't been telling people that catching the city's most infamous serial killer is your ambition for showing that Nighthawk means something more than just a symbol of vengeance."
"The killer is methodical, more controlled than most serial killers operate," Nighthawk agrees, "But he's just a man, Charles, so he has made mistakes. It's our mission to find them."
"You won't find anything if you're biting off more than you can chew, kid," The inventor grumbles.
Nighthawk ascends to the sky, the repulsors roaring as they lift him higher and higher until he cuts them off and glides to land on the edge of one of the city's tallest buildings. His talons dig into the concrete as he perches over the city, watching the glittering lights with focused intensity.
"We're men of privilege, Charles," Nighthawk rasps, "On your worst day, did you ever really have anything to fear? This city lives in it, drowns in it. Every year a mutilated body appears on the street with a scarred doll, and it's… Normal. But for the victims, for the people they leave behind, it's horror. It's not right that they receive no justice when we have the power to topple a business empire."
"It was easier then because we understood our enemy," Charles replies tiredly. "We knew his weaknesses, and understood the company's vulnerabilities. We don't know anything about the Dollface Killer or this lunatic killing his fellow thieves."
"They're just men, Charles… Before my mother died, I thought I understood what drove these sorts of… Actions. I realized that I knew nothing, and that has allowed me to understand them better. Whatever their reasons, they are still cowards… Preying on the weak, destroying lives out of petty self-interest. They're just men… But I am the Nighthawk, and I will sink my talons into their fear."