Shattering rain blew around the waterfront warehouse in powerful gusts as the waves of the Puget Sound crashed underneath the pier. The inhabitants of the warehouse were ignorant of these noisy occurrences, however; this battered, boring building was misleadingly sound proof. Thick walls and plenty of obstructing leftovers from the storage needs of yesteryear scattered inside were all that this overlooked landmark needed to supply the perfect meeting place for the illegally inclined.
The rain beat against unwavering windows high up towards the barely slanted roof of the building. Behind them dusty air hardly moved, falling the short distance to the gangway that wound through the rafters. The metal walkway stretched far into the darkness, and the silhouette eclipsing the window looked alone save for the muffled weather outside.
It was an easy gig. He’d been hired last minute via email; contract job, one night, time and a half, shoot to kill. Down below, the maze of shelved boxes spread out from the middle of the well lit warehouse where the meeting he’d been employed to guard was well under way. The creepy guy in the trenchcoat had met him at the door, his weird smile directing him to the rafters of the warehouse.
The armed henchman shifted the weight of his rifle to the other shoulder as he kept a sharp eye on the downpour outside. He had seen the other hired goons head upwards as he made his way to the assigned position, but they were invisible to him now. He thought he’d heard one coughing a few times off in the darkness and that was it.
There’d been some sort of a scuffle with the trench-coat guys men not long ago. They seemed to have it handled, and he could barely make out their faces from this vantage point anyway. Aside from the musty air and the occasional howl of wind it was a calm, violence free evening.
He was antsy. There’d been a depressing lack of beating people up in his line of work recently, and the few deaths he’d been a part of had been lackluster in their presentation. Business definitely wasn’t booming though, so he figured that he should be grateful for the work he could get. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and his muscles slowly tensed and untensed as he readied himself for anything the night might throw at him.
“I’m genuinely fairly sorry about this."
There was a nervous cough. The silhouette guard in the window crumpled to the floor unceremoniously, his head twisted farther to the right than biology normally allowed. A gray figure stood in his place. This neutral character blended into the backdrop of the warehouse attic without moving an inch, patiently waiting. A gray boot was placed on the side of the dead henchmans chest, and fter a moments pause in the silence of the thick air, a question floated up from the gathering below.
“... who keeps coughing?"
The grey boot pushed forcefully, and the horizontal thug slid off the metal gangway into the unseen depths of the warehouse floor. Before his body hit the bottom, the gray mirage leapt over the walkways hand rail towards the center of the giant room, aiming for the open space around the table covered in light. In mid flight and with an imperceptible flourish, the flying gray figure produced a small black grappling hook that found its way to a beam directly above the round table. The trajectory of the single colour costume brought it sliding vertically from the nylon rope that hung from the secured grappling hook, 50ft over the circular congregation. The colourless blur sped towards the assembled criminals feet first.
The sound of the heavy set watchman hitting the ground off in the recesses of the warehouse startled all in attendance. Not in the cheek slapping, high pitched screaming kind of way; these lords of the underworld were students of the draw-guns-and-fire-blind school of surprise. Seconds after they’d risen from their seats and shot wildly into the shadows of the stacked streets, the hurtling gray figure from the rafters came crashing down through the center of the round table.
With guns still aimed at the nothingness beyond, the crime lords could make out a man wearing an all gray outfit in the center of their splintered mess. As the shaded stranger stood up & brushed off the debris from his landing, they all turned to aim their bullets at this more tangible target. Time slowed for a moment as everyone thought about their next move.
Dick Tracy jumped backwards just in time to see the man in the gray uniform take something from his belt and throw it hard at his own feet. The khaki trench-coat was pulled up & over his head as he felt the air pressure change with the sound of escaping gas. Peeking through gaps in the folded material, he risked a glance at the cloud of smoke which had already engulfed the men at the broken table.
Muffled shouts. Loud thumps. Wet snaps. The smokey mass in front of the khaki man emitted a melody of painful music as he stood just a few feet away.
The thick cloud began to dissipate, and his fedora tilted down as the man in the trench-coat dragged the black blade from its hidden sheath. He calmly brought it level with the almost transparent smoke. The shark smile was nowhere to be seen, and his unamused lips were pressed white together.
The gray figure was still in the center of the destroyed table when the smoke disappeared. He held a frightened crime lords back close to his chest, obscuring almost all of his features with a human shield. Bodies littered the surrounding area. Some twitched. Some moaned. The sound of knocking wood came from the shaking legs of the criminal hostage. The smell of ammonia came from what was running down them.
The sword wielding Khaki wearer didn’t even flinch when the person that caused all this disruption reached up with surprising speed and snapped the neck of his short lived shield. The shaking ceased and the legs gave way beneath dead weight, leaving the remaining upright pair to stare at each other through the settling dust.
The gray man raised a gloved fist to his mouth with dramatic emphasis.
He gave a nervous cough, lowering his hand to reveal a wide smile.
"Should I assume that the other men are similarly... incapacitated?" The voice coming from the khaki hat was low and threatening, an inquiring growl. His dark steel was still aimed steadily at the gray intruder.
The costumed man in front of the motionless sword seemed to not notice the question. He proceeded instead to shake off the leftover table dust, looking around his immediate vicinity with passive interest.
He wore varying shades of gray body armour, similar to light-weight riot police garb. Shoulder, knee, and elbow pads protected all the usual knobbly extremities whilst a thin but sturdy looking chest guard took form around an athletic torso. A narrow column of moving plates shielding his spine could be seen as he turned his upper body 180 degrees in both directions with his arms folded in a classic stretch. A snug padded helmet partially obscured his features, a wide band across his forehead leading down his cheek bones and under his chin to frame his face. It resembled the leather protective caps used by Ye Olde Football players of the 1950's, a tuft of dusty brown hair poking defiantly out the top of the head band.
The grinning gray head stopped searching the room when it caught sight of the crumpled burlap sack at the edge of the circle of light. It looked like it had been thrown to the side as a result of his grand entrance and the excitement that followed. The scene in the warehouse momentarily became a screen capture; nothing moved save for the barely visible breathing from the unconscious and pretending-to-be-unconscious lumps near the table.
"Is he alive?" The gray man was still smiling. There was no hint of humour in his stoney voice as he stared at the inanimate sack.
The khaki man was smiling too, now.
"I... hadn't noticed." His sword was impossibly steady, arm still holding it perfectly level with his guests eyes.
The gray man slowly turned from the sack to match the shark smile with his own. Their eyes met, presumably; between the fedora and the forehead band it would have been impossible to determine exactly what the shrouded sockets were looking at. The tense moment playing out was a textbook standoff, neither party willing to give up the bravado.
A loud bang echoed through the warehouse. It was far enough away that its source was unknown and arrived at the standoffs' ears from all sides. Neither man showed any interest in its origin. They continued their staring contest.
A pounding of many feet came from the streets of shelves, the sound weaving from one side of the building to the other as they wound their way closer. Both stoic figures remained in place.
As various people came careening around the corner of a stack of boxes with a cardboard clamour, the standoff ended. The man in the khaki trench coat lunged forward in expert fencing form towards the man in the gray costume.
Five minutes later there was no one left standing in the well lit arena. Those rousing from unconsciousness on the ground looked around as sirens wailed outside. Those who were pretending continued as such. It was looking to be a long night, and they wanted as much rest as possible.
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