"CHAPTER 0: Prologue" (from the graphic novel 'Tantrum:Rising')
Fast forward. When the past becomes prologue, a hero is pursued for disobeying the laws of man. Despite his honest efforts, he is still outside the law. The only avenue for these ventures is to skulk the alleyways and rooftops of the United States' most downtrodden city. In doing so, he becomes an arm of Justice and a hammer for those pressed underfoot.
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Thunder cracked and lightning cut the sky, stunted slightly by the distance between it and the rooftop where he stood. The moonlight danced a lovely watz across the face of the troubled waters of the river. He watched quietly, occasionally closing his eyes, taking in the crispness of the cold night air. His fingers, slowly numbing, pulled the zipper of his vest to a full close, his hands clenching, trying to hold fast to the remaining warmth of his gloves.
He blew into his gloved hands and flexed them. The cold vinyl crinkled and echoed in the rooftop breeze. He folded his arms and surveyed the immediate area. It was a quiet night...for a change. Cars passed slowly on the icy streets. An ambulance wailed and sped into the distance down Woodward Avenue. Behind him a door opened slowly, the metal plate on its bottom dragging across the tarrd roof. A woman, her hair in a knit cap, stepped through.
He didn't move. His arms stayed folded as he kept a vigilant watch toward the streets below. The woman saw him and moved slowly toward the edge he stood at. Her sneakers crunched the gravel quietly with each step. Her hand slid slowly into her purse and stayed there as she approached him from behind.
"You can leave the recorder in your purse", he said. "This is a conversation, not an interview".
She stopped short of half way, removing her hand from her purse.
"You came. Quite honestly, I didn't expect you to."
"Folks don't much expect anything from me, Ms. Justain. I'm a villain."
"I don't think so. I've seen the outcome of what you do...of what you can do."
His arms fell to his sides and he turned to face her. The moonlight flickered off the lenses of his goggles. Neither moved, fearing the unknown consequences. The fog of her breath told the tale of her hightened breathing; her growing nervousness. He walked slowly toward her. She back-peddled a half step fearful he may hurt her.
"So what exactly can I do? Hmm? Is that what you want to know."
"No. I want to know why."
"...why", he sighed. "Why. There are many 'why's' and many answers to those. Boredom...vanity...stupidity."
"You don't seem the type."
He took his his goggles of. His masked covered his face, but the large scar across his right eye was still visible.The woman moved slowly toward him, almost as if she couldn't believe this dream she was having. He gripped his goggles tighter and folded his arms once again.
"I'm close enough", he said. "I'm a dangerous man. That is what you wrote about me isn't it?"
"I had to. You're a vigilante. If I'd said anything else, I'd be jobless. Detroit is no place to be without a job."
"Is your job more important than the truth?"
"In this day and age, truth is a bi-product of the election cycle."
"I'm confused Ms. Justain. What exactly did you call me here for?"
"To thank you...for saving my son."
He put his goggles on quickly and turned back toward the edge he had been standing at.
"Wait!", she called. "That's not all."
He stopped at the roof's edge , one step from leaping off of it. He kept his left foot upon the precipice, only turning his head to acknowledge her. She approached him slowly. The wind picked up, whipping her coat about her legs. He remained motionless. She moved in close and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"You don't have to do this", she said to him. "You aren't what everyone says you are."
"I know. But...I'm going to anyway."
"The city needs you alive."
"The citizens needs them dead. And I'll oblige them."
Her hand slipped from his shoulder gently.
"Do I get to know your name."
"If you write my obituary, you'll know it."
He leapt from the roof, arms and legs flared to either side. As she leaned to see him falling, he disappeared into a lighted, purple haze. She stood back upright, folding her arms. Her mind wandered. Obituary...she wondered if she may just have to write one for the man the save her son...that saved so many. She turned and headed back to the door that she entered the roof from. Stopping short, she noticed a piece of paper hanging on the door. She examined it closer to see it being held up with a slender metal spike.
"Quo Martin? The corporate lawyer? He's dead."
She pulled the paper from off the spike and folded it. Sticking it in her pocket, an array of police and ambulance sirens passed by below her and disappeared into the distant night.
