Batter

A Few Words for the Deceased

What does it take to crush a City. What amounts of devastation and destruction keeps the spirits of the people in the lowest of places. What crumbles them into oblivion, what takes their hope.

Even in a city like Gotham, you could take their homes, their freedom, their lives-break them, butcher them, spill gallons of their blood, but they would still stand up on their shattered bones, wipe the dirt from their hands and hold strong to their faith. Their hope.

How do you stop that?

By taking away the one thing that inspired that hope.

"At 11:57am this morning, our parties came across a black object floating in the bay."

No, not any other religious entity. Those are abstract-something you can't see, there's too much doubt tied in with them-and it is something you cannot remove. When they're given a tangible symbol, something they can see, touch-something that has physically saved them-it doesn't take -away- from the spiritual faith the populace might have, it grows a -NEW- kind of faith. One in the -human- aspect. That yes, there are mortals on this planet who give a damn about the lives of others.

"Judging by it's shape, and size, it is...indisputable that we had found a piece of the Batman's armor."

That there is goodness in the world.

When that is ripped out of them, when hope is scraped out of the heads of the people, leaving a great, bloody, gaping void.

Only then can a City truly be crushed. Into nothingness.

"Our forces are needed to go against the current threat against the City. Sudden break-outs of crime have doubled. We must withdraw all search parties, immediately. Citizens of Gotham, I share your pain a hundred fold. As does the entire police force. We may have shunned him, hurt him-and he never wavered in his hope to save us. He was our true hero, one of so few who had the courage to rise against the evil in this town.

The Mayor has agreed to a City-wide memorial service for our masked defender, tomorrow, 8am, in front of City Hall. Now is the time that we must pull together as a community, more than ever. We must learn to carry on. Thank you."

And so, Gotham fell further into despair, and all because of a black vinyl -thing- their trusted officials found in the harbor. And there it sat now, on the podium, with Commissioner Jim Gordon.

Empty. Dark. A mask of death.

Every television in Gotham burned into the day, playing back the worst tragedy of their time.

Somewhere, in a warehouse, secluded from the rest of weeping Gotham, one of those televisions was now reduced to a pile of broken glass, sparking wires and smoke. It's purple-clad owner still beating it with a chair leg. Screaming.

Ah. Gotham.

Who was to save them now. Who would come when called.

Lost. All lost.

Streetlight-streetlight, yellow-gold, blinding silver reflected electric lamp-post. Grayish blackish cement, so many shadows, so many faces-

At least he was remembering words now. What things were called.

And more importantly, the things that could potentially kill him. Walking straight into a on-coming motor vehicle wasn't his brightest idea so far.

Some how, he had recovered the reflexes to jump out of the way of the grill of a two-ton truck. How he managed such a feat...there was something there...just on the tip of his overly dry tongue.

The Man who wasn't a man ducked under an overpass. He hugged his arms-the thin material of whatever the black thing was he had on his body hardly bracing him against the wind or cold. Suddenly, he regretted throwing off the thick vinyl-like material he clawed from himself earlier. He was still wet. There was sand on him, in every crevice of his body. There was water running off the bridge from above. He raised his head and caught a few dribbles in his mouth.