Chapter 8
Julian84
A fairly sadistic writer
Chapter 8
"Hh-"
"Khz-" The radio crackles, "-Ihgtha- ZZk-"
"Hh," One hand in front of the other, dragging Nighthawk across the pavement, through stagnant pools of rainwater, but towards nowhere in particular. His mind, fractured by pain and dawning panic, compels him forward. His head spins with every movement across the parking lot by the warehouse. He can only see out of one eye, the other sealed shut by dried blood. His radio was shot, one of his goggle lenses was busted, and the other one had lost most of its functionality.
"-Lmost the-"
He ignores the voice ringing in his ear, focused only on moving forward. Away. Towards something. Anything. His last thoughts before light and sound erupted his head are a blurry, fragmented mess. Part of him wants to simply give up and die, the pain was almost unbearable. But instinct had taken over, refusing to give in to death no matter how much it promises the pain will go away.
"Kyle," A gentle voice murmurs. He pauses in his crawl, looking up to see a blurry figure standing in the sunrise, reaching her hand out to him.
"M-Mom?" Kyle mutters, reaching out for her, but his hand falls through hers. He cries out in pain, head drooping towards the pavement, equilibrium spinning precipitously, "I can't- I can't-"
"Be strong Kyle," She murmurs, reaching down and gripping his shoulders, helping him stand, "The road is longer than you know," She promises, "And you've got long to go before you sleep."
***
Charles Greyburn drives one of Kyle's sports cars at a breakneck speed into the industrial park where Nighthawk had gone down, metaphorically suckerpunched by Norton's crazed alter-ego. The car's tires shriek loudly as he takes a sharp corner and races forward, slamming on the brakes as he comes parallel with Norton's abandoned truck. Nighthawk was miraculously standing, leaned against the building and clutching his head. Greyburn grabs his medical kit and jumps out of the car, racing over to Nighthawk's side.
"Kid!" He barks, skidding to a halt, "Kid, are you alright?!"
"N- s' loud…" Nighthawk holds up a hand, slurring badly. His helmet was cracked from the point blank gunshot, and while it had stopped the bullet, Charles could only imagine it felt like taking twelve rounds of left hooks simultaneously. Blood was seeping from the cracks in the polymer, already sticky and partially dried.
"Ah man, he really got you good, kid," He turns Nighthawk around slowly… The folded right wing had taken the second bullet, which caused no real harm to the vigilante… Though he might feel like someone hit him with a crowbar once or twice.
"Feel sick," Nighthawk mutters.
"You've only gotten your second major concussion in a week, no big deal," Charles mutters sarcastically, releasing the clasps on Nighthawk's helmet.
"W-wait," The younger man reaches up to stop him, but Greyburn bats his hands away.
"I've got to see the damage, and there's no one around, you're fine," He growls, slowly peeling the helmet off to reveal the wound on the side of Nighthawk's head. He undoubtedly had a cracked skull, likely some cerebral swelling, and the side of his head had a knot on it the size of a tangerine. The skin had split open, revealing thin muscle and white bone, which would require more significant repair.
"...Jesus Christ, kid," Charles covers his mouth for a moment. Kyle's face had a mat of dried blood across it, and he wouldn't be surprised if the kid could barely see. The inventor's heart drops as he sees Kyle wheezing for breath.
Monica would hate me for this, he thinks, I'm killing her boy.
With some effort, he helps Nighthawk stagger across the parking lot to the car, laying him down in the passenger seat and carefully buckling him in before tossing the helmet in at the vigilante's feet. Taking a moment to steel himself, Charles starts the ignition and peels out, heading back to the Hawk's Nest.
***
The manhunt for Oliver Norton is on. The Cosmopolis Police Force have yet to issue a formal statement identifying the Doll-Face Killer, but the scanner is abuzz with their activity as they canvas the city, coordinating with the FBI, DECK, and the police forces and sheriff departments of surrounding municipalities and counties to hunt him down. The tension is growing more palpable, as it is now June 18th, with only a week left to go until the twenty-fifth anniversary of the first Doll-Face killing. Nighthawk knows that he has already picked his target, somehow tracking her through her life and knowing where he will find her. The vigilante lies in his cot, convalescing from the gunshot to the head he took, still unable to see completely clearly out of his right eye. Charles told him he should continue to recover, but that corrective surgery might be required to gain some of his sight back, and even then it would require a strong eyeglass prescription to help him see. The cerebral swelling had gone down, and they had done some work to reduce the knot on the side of his head, but the cracked skull would take time to heal as well. If it weren't for the durability of the armor, though, he would be dead.
He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He was on a thick cocktail of anti-nausea medication, painkillers, immuno-boosters, and a half dozen other pills and injections that Charles had gotten too impatient to name. All of this could have been avoided if he had kept his cool, not allowed Mr. Charlie's strange game to get under his skin. His jaw sets as he thinks about it, remembering what he'd seen that night.
"When is a murder not a murder," He had asked Effie almost a week ago, trying to untangle the Doll-Face Killer's pathology. If the act wasn't an act, then Oliver Norton was being terrorized by some sort of dissociative identity manifesting through the dummy, one called Mr. Charlie, who regarded Norton with almost murderous contempt and disdain. Mr. Charlie seemed a back door into some frightening analytical capability of Norton's, able to investigate and compile information in ways he couldn't identify through more rational thought processes. How else could he be able to keep tabs on his targets, hunt them, and prepare for possible counterattacks simultaneously?
Oliver was a coward, that much was certain. He professed no enjoyment of the murders, but carried them out in terror of a figment of his own broken mind. The courts may eventually deem him unfit for trial by way of insanity, but he was still the responsible agent for his decades of terror. He had to be stopped, no matter what… But where to find him? He was in the wind, and the data call on his background was affording no other leads. One would think a tall, bald man carrying two dolls around would garner some attention but it was almost as if he'd vanished off the face of the earth…
Kyle frowns, refusing to descend into thinking like that. Norton was out there and he would be caught, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time. He turns his thoughts to St. Berchard and the Jenkins murders. There was clearly more going on at the monastery than was readily apparent. Charles had been dissecting the latin grimoire Nighthawk took from Father Leonard's office, scanning each page and sending them for translation by scholars at local universities benefitting from generous donations from the Richmond Foundation. He'd also logged a DNA scan from the dried blood on the spiked chain, and found clear liquid was a complex chemical compound he'd not encountered before and was still analyzing. Add that to Father Leonard's rather eerie nonchalance and the hidden steel door in the library, and it was clear something was going on there… But Kyle muses that they would likely be expecting him to make a return visit and be prepared.
The key to unlocking this puzzle lay with Ed Hope and Lonnie Cole, the remaining two members of the Jenkins crime ring who were still nowhere to be found. Looking at the clock, he watches the second hand wind around the circumference, counting down towards sunset, and resolutely pushes himself up and off the cot, heading into the main room of the lair. Charles busily types away at the computer before realizing Kyle is up and walking around the room, pulling out the Nighthawk suit.
"Wh-" The inventor swivels in his chair, "What the hell are you doing, kid? You need to get back in bed!"
"The police are busy looking for Norton and given up on Hope and Cole," Nighthawk replies tersely, "Someone needs to find them."
"Someone, but not you! You've taken two significant concussions, kid, you're lucky to be alive after that last hit! You need at least two weeks of bedrest before you're ready to go back out there!"
The vigilante gives him a cold stare, "In two weeks, both those men could be dead, and with them our last insight into what is really happening in this city." He lifts the torso piece and slams it down on the table, and then retrieves the helmet… He frowns, looking down to see the goggles are removed and the armor plating is stripped down.
"The right goggle got busted by that shot you took," Charles comes around the table, ready to pull it out of his hands, "And I haven't gotten around to adding new plating, so go back to bed and maybe I'll get it fixed." He reaches to take the helmet away, but Nighthawk pulls it back, putting it on the table and retrieving more pieces of the suit from its storage locker.
"Kyle, you need to-"
"What I need is for you to stop talking and to suit me up," He whips around, disoriented for a half-second by the movement. His equilibrium was still a bit off. He balances himself on the table.
"Without the HUD, you'll be flying blind, on instinct alone," Charles growls, "You're only going to be a liability. You're not thinking straight, you-"
"Suit me up," Nighthawk rasps, grabbing Charles by the shirt, "...And you can stop calling me kid."
"I didn't-"
"You did!" He growls, "Just a minute ago you did, and I'm sick of it. Now shut up and help me get the damn suit on."
The two men stare at each other for a moment before Greyburn nods hesitantly, grabbing the torso piece and carefully laying it over Kyle's shoulders, sealing it into place before picking up each individual piece and adding it onto the whole. When the process was finished, he took a step back, expecting that without the fiery orange glare of the goggles, the suit would be lessened… But Nighthawk's icy and ferocious stare, fully given over to his mission, makes Charles' heart drop in a way he hadn't expected. Nighthawk turns and heads to the launch pad, extending his wings and rocketing upwards into the night.
***
Darkness falls across Cosmopolis as the Nighthawk goes on the hunt. Before, he might have employed more subtle methods for discovering the location of his prey, but not tonight. Tonight, he will be a terror that stalks the city until he finds what he seeks. Adrenaline and a thudding, white-hot rage pump through him as he thinks about how close he has come to failure, to death, how little he has accomplished. Tonight will change all of that, turn the tables on his fortunes, and achieve some real results. He mentally tallies all the criminal groups he has tangled with or heard of in his work, dividing the city up in a plan to work through them until someone gives him the information he wants.
He starts with the Morrisseys, an Irish mob operating in Arsenal Park. He plummets out of the sky and drops onto Colm Morrissey like a bolt of lightning, starting off their negotiation by shattering a dozen bones in his body. Their dialogue intensifies - Colm will have an extensive stay in a full-body cast for his trouble, and his men quickly realize they will be joining their boss in the hospital whether or not they comply with the rabid creature's demands. Confessions spill full-throated, but none know where to find Hope or Cole. The Nighthawk moves on.
Next is the Italian mafia, the Giacomos and Barones, in the Meat-Packing District. Their night of terror begins with finding a hired gun brutalized and hanging from the roof of one of their buildings. Steel flashes through the dark, night-a-rangs biting flesh and drinking blood like talons as the Nighthawk emerges from the shadows, methodically disassembling their henchmen before moving on to the bosses. Old men with fat bellies prove to be ill-fit to take on the Nighthawk and each falls like a sack of bricks before being dragged off, screaming, into night.
The search broadens and he goes uptown. Next is the 66 Ave Gang, who paint their warren red with blood as Nighthawk infiltrates the hideout and pummels them into submission. He then goes after the Albanians, followed by the Russians. To mix things up a little, he pays a visit to Elliot Sion, a corrupt businessman in league with the cartels - They'll find him the next morning, dangling above the sharks in his oversized fish tank. Then he goes after Robin Azul, the cartels' main liaison to the city. She starts talking after a few broken fingers, showing her mettle isn't worth much. He hits the streets again, cutting a path through every outfit, gang, and cell of organized crime he can find, until he arrives at the Neon, a nightclub that's also the base of operations for Dusk Panorama. He first finds the breaker box for the building, slicing off the lock and affixing a remote-activated explosive to the wiring before heading to the entrance, slamming his fist heavily on the metal door. A few members of the Panorama hanging out near the door keep an eye on him while smoking and chatting casually, and their eyes widen with alarm when they see the blood dripping off the vigilante's armored knuckles. When the shutter opens for the bouncer to look outside, Nighthawk pushes a taser into his face, eliciting a scream of agony as the man twitches and jerks before falling over. His allies on the outside drop their smokes and charge Nighthawk with a shout while more inside the building slam the door open, quickly surrounding the vigilante. Nighthawk shrugs, drops a handful of smoke pellets, and pounces on the nearest member of the Panorama as the thumping music spills out of the nightclub. He relentlessly brings his fist down on the poor thug's face until he stops moving and then extends his wing to clothesline a charging mook. He launches into the air, spiraling out of the smoke and adjusting course to rocket back down, delivering a heavy kick into the chest of another gang member, shattering his ribs and bruising his guts. As others wildly attack, their blows find their mark, but the vigilante grunts in frustration and fires his grappling hooks, impaling his victims and dragging them up and into the air to then allow them to fall back to earth with bone-crunching landings. Those couple who remain are quick to run when the smoke begins to clear and Nighthawk heads inside, passing under strobing lights and through hellish red glow and thick mist to find Franklin Edwards, the leader of Dusk Panorama.
Victoria Steele sits at a booth, enjoying the pounding beats and swirling atmosphere with a few pretty morsels she's picked up from the dance floor when her gaze locks on the dark and dreadful figure marching deliberately through the crowd of intoxicated partygoers. Most were too distracted to truly take notice of him or the thugs who were trying to prevent him from reaching his destination, only to be viciously beaten into submission and left bleeding on the floor. The Nighthawk pauses in his advance, rising over one of the brutalized gangsters, and stares across the space, locking eyes with her. The baleful, dead look quickly sobers her up as ice-cold certainty that he recognizes her fills her veins.
"...Fuck this," She decides quickly, clambering over the pawing hands and running across the table to hightail it out of the club. She crosses the threshold to see the half-dozen men and women groaning on the ground before hearing a distant pop and screams from inside the nightclub as lights and music cut out entirely. Victoria considers the circumstances and counts herself lucky that Nighthawk seems to be after the Panorama and not her. She turns and runs off into the night, heading back to her apartment.
Nighthawk watched her flee before cutting power to the building, deciding that if his hunt tonight went well, he would reward himself with a visit to her place later. Maybe things would start to change if she realized what exactly it was she had been messing with. Filing that thought away, he shoves through the panicking crowds to reach Edwards' private room overlooking the club, where his most elite guards were assembling to protect him. Kyle Richmond had scoped this place out on other occasions, killing two birds with one stone by playing into the fiction of his hedonistic high-roller lifestyle while also doing recon on Dusk Panorama. The group was originally from Europe, finding their start in the nightclub scene of Berlin selling designer drugs before taking on a more anarchistic, punk-rock meets arthouse flair in France. Their criminal profile became more anti-establishment in focus and political in theme: defying law and order was the point, not criminal enterprise. Eventually, they found their footing in Cosmopolis, bearing a style that was avant-garde, punk, and very magenta. As Nighthawk deconstructs Franklin's guards, he can see the Panorama leader hurriedly trying to load a weapon, but the vigilante smashes through the door with one of the guards as a battering ram, quickly following up with a night-a-rang to disarm Franklin.
"AAA!" He drops his weapon, hand slashed open by the projectile as he backs away from the vigilante, "Shit- What the hell do you want?!"
Nighthawk grabs Franklin by the shirt and pulls him back, body slamming him through a table and pausing to watch the anarchist gasp and wheeze for breath, crawling across the floor in a daze. Nighthawk's head tilts slightly as he watches Edwards reach the wall, sitting back against it to catch his breath. Edwards was a middle-aged hipster turned criminal leader, with a thick mustache and goatee and undercut that was all dyed a vivid shade of pink.
"Why are you doing this-" He glares at Nighthawk, "Do you want to die, is that it? After killing my men, you think you'll just take down our whole organization?"
"If that were true," Nighthawk takes a few steps forward and plants his boot on Edwards' chest, "You'd already be dead." He presses down for a moment, drawing a pained gasp, "I'm looking for two men who used to work with Zachary Jenkins - Edward Hope and Alonzo Cole."
Franklin takes several gasping breaths, looking around his office before staring at Nighthawk, "Seriously?!" He croaks, "This was all for those two schmucks?!"
"So you know where they are," Nighthawk leans in.
"Yeah, yeah-" He takes a shuddering breath, "Came to us saying someone was out to get them, figured it was you, freak that you are. Since we have beef, they figured we'd be open to giving them protection."
"Who is after them?"
"How the hell should I know?" Edwards growls, "We've got them holed up at a safehouse on Parker and Delicieux. You can find them th-" He doesn't finish the sentence as Nighthawk's foot whips across his jaw, knocking him unconscious. The vigilante turns and stalks out of the Neon, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake and extends his wings, launching upwards into the sky.
***
Eddie Hope and Lonnie Cole had been holed up in a Panorama safehouse for over a week, quietly watching the news as reports of their old colleagues getting picked off one by one trickled through. They were under guard at all times by some punk outfit toughs, never leaving the safehouse and getting their meals on delivery. The boredom was intense, but it was better than dying in the gutter to some crazed vigilante. They sat around a table drinking beer and playing five-card draw when the bars on one of the windows are abruptly ripped out of the brickwork and a shadowy figure rockets through, spraying shattered glass across the room. The two men reach for their weapons as concussive bombs explode around them, sending their guards flying backwards. Before they can draw their pistols, bolos come flying out of the chaos, wrapping around them and sending them crashing to the floor. Before they can get their bearings, the clawed hands of the Nighthawk lifts them bodily from the floor and throws them against one of the couches, beating them mercilessly until they stop trying to escape and then binding them further.
Lonnie sobs desperately, pissing himself in terror with the knowledge he was about to die. Ed, a bit more stoic, spits blood at his captor, defiant to the very end… But Nighthawk only stares at them, covered in splatters of dried blood, his dark eyes fixed on their faces.
"Well?! Come on! DO IT!" Ed screams, not wishing to drag this out.
"I'm not here to kill you, Hope," Nighthawk growls, walking away to beat one of the Panorama guards into bloody unconsciousness. "I want answers, and I want them now," He says as he returns.
"Answers to what?!" He demands as Lonnie stills, whimpering and staring at the vigilante.
The Nighthawk growls impatiently, "Who is it that's killed Jenkins, Trey, Bowe, and Hogan? What is your connection to the Order of St. Berchard? What did you do?!"
"The- The what?!" Ed stares at him incredulously, "What the hell are ya talking about?"
"The symbol left over their bodies, written in their blood, was the seal of St. Berchard," He explains, "What's the connection?!"
"I dunno!"
Nighthawk backhands him, "WHAT'S THE CONNECTION?!"
"How the hell should I know, I've never heard of them in my goddamn life!" Ed shouts, wincing at the gash across his cheek.
"Then what about Detective Isaac Moreau? He's been missing for over a year, has he been hunting you?!" This draws a reaction from both of them, who immediately grow somber and still. Nighthawk snarls, grabbing Ed by the ropes binding him, "Tell me what you know! Is Moreau hunting you?!"
"Moreau's dead!" Lonnie bleats, "We-"
"Shut up, Lonnie!" Ed kicks him, but Nighthawk grabs the man and throws him aside, grabbing Lonnie and pulling him close.
"W-we-we-" The criminal stutters, almost in tears again as he stares up at Nighthawk, "We g-got the drop on him last year, after Zach got out of prison. He was really bent out of shape about being sent to p-prison again, and he wanted back at Moreau for getting him sent up the river again…"
Nighthawk stares at Lonnie uncomprehendingly, frozen by this new knowledge. They had ambushed Moreau? He was missing because he was… "What did you do?" He asks coldly.
"B-beat him half to death, or maybe he was-" Lonnie shakes his head, "There's no way he survived it. Then we tied up the body in a tarp and d-dropped him off the East River Bridge. Let him get washed out to sea."
"You murdered him-" Nighthawk whispers, "That- That doesn't make sense. Then who is coming after you? Why? How could you not know?"
"We just don't, asshole!" Ed grunts from the floor, trying to wriggle free. Nighthawk ignores him, pacing the room and clutching his aching head as he tries to work through what they were telling him. If Moreau was dead, why would Father Leonard or one of his monks care to undertake this quest? Why was the Order of St. Berchard pursuing these men specifically? He clenches his teeth, deciding that once he's done terrorizing Steele into a confession, he would head back to the monastery and do something ten times worse to that arrogant priest.
"Nighthawk to the nest," He taps his comms, "Come in."
"...Reading you," Charles says reluctantly, "What's up?"
"Found Hope and Cole," Nighthawk explains, "Drop a pin on my location and send the police a tip-off that they can be found here." He starts to tie up the Panorama goons as well, just to ensure they're not getting away anytime soon, "Hurry, before Edwards sends more of his men to move them."
"...Nighthawk, you've been going for hours, and you've been in fifth gear the entire time, you need to come back and rest. I'll contact the police, but-"
"That's all," Nighthawk disconnects the call, stopping to look at the two captive men, "I want you two to know you deserve everything that's coming to you," He says hoarsely, marching back to the window and flying into the night. Cole and Hope stare at each other helplessly, waiting for either Dusk Panorama or the police to arrive. It's been almost thirty minutes of tedious waiting when a blade suddenly rams between the front door and its threshold, drawing a shout of alarm and profanity from both men. The blade wiggles in place slightly before slicing downwards, cutting through the deadbolt like butter.
"Oh no," Lonnie's eyes widen, the door swinging open freely as the fetid stench of shit and grime begins to fill the room. Heavy footfalls signal the arrival of the Angel of Vengeance, who looks around the room for a moment before smiling at the two bound men.
"Good things come to those who wait," The Angel informs them, stomping over to where Ed wriggles, his quarry screaming for mercy and help before his sword flashes, splattering their blood across the room.
***
Nighthawk races across the sky, arriving on the roof of Steele's building and smashing through the roof access door. He leaps over the railing of the stairs, dropping several floors in seconds before catching himself with his repulsors on the 22nd floor. He pushes into the main corridor and stalks down the hall towards where her condo is located. Upon arrival, he sticks explosive putty over the hinges and the lock, walks back a few yards, and then detonates it. The explosion rocks the area, setting off fire alarms and waking the neighbors. Dogs bark in their condos as he walks through the shroud and into the familiar interior of her place.
"Victoria Steele," He calls out, marching through her home, "Come out now, and we can do this quickly."
"If you insist," She says, and he whirls around to find her sitting on her couch in the living room, dressed in a silk nightgown and robe, "I thought we might enjoy ourselves."
"You expected me," He grunts.
She gives a coy shrug, "You weren't very subtle, tall, dark, and spooky. From what I've been hearing since I got home, you've been tearing half the city apart just like you did at the Neon."
"If you were expecting me, you know why I'm here," The vigilante takes a step closer, "You murdered those six men that night. The members of Dusk Panorama who were after you. What did they want? Why did you kill them?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Victoria puts a hand to her chest, "I could only watch in terror as you brutally killed them."
"Why not come forward as a witness?"
She scoffs, "A woman of my position being caught out hitting the clubs and getting wasted? Please, the media would eat me alive. A girl has to protect her image."
He grits his teeth, "Your lies have inconvenienced me, Victoria, and they've put the city in danger. You will confess to what you did, or I'll make you," He takes another step forward, "I know that was you at the department store too."
That makes her hesitate for a moment, her smug expression dropping as she studies him closely, "I'm afraid you've got the wrong girl," She says slowly.
"Your taste for mink gave you away, I'm afraid," He chuckles, approaching a little more steadily, "I honestly find you pretty disgusting - A servant of the people, an officer of the justice system, and at the same time a thief and a murderer who gets drunk and high at the clubs. You don't deserve the people's trust."
"If you're telling me that their trust should be placed in a masked vigilante who runs around the city murdering criminals, I'm going to laugh," She grins cruelly.
"I didn't murder those people," He snarls.
"Yes you did… And in your crazed mind, to get the police off your back, you decided it was a good idea to threaten a member of the DA's office."
He pauses mid-step, "Wh-" He frowns, trying to concentrate through the fog, "What did you just say-"
"I don't know what's going on tonight, but you're slipping even more than usual," She grins, "Breaking into my home, threatening me… You've got a lot of nerve, Nighthawk."
"Shut up," He shakes his head and immediately regrets it, stepping closer, "Shut up. Time to confess."
She smoothly withdraws a pistol hidden from sight, aiming it at him, "I called the police the moment you broke down my door, asshole," She snarls, pulling the trigger as he lunges at her. He dives to the side, getting clipped in the shoulder, the force of the bullet spinning him around as he crashes through her coffee table. Quickly pulling a smoke pellet and a concussive pellet, he tosses them at her, blasting her back across the room as he takes a running dive and smashes through the window, plummeting over a hundred feet before he can extend his wings and activate his repulsors, rocketing around buildings and trying to avoid crashing. Victoria groans, rising to her feet and wandering over to the smashed window to watch her enemy fly off into the night.
"What's that smell?" She muses aloud, beginning to hatch an idea, "Smells like desperation." Her grin widens as she sees police lights coming down the street.
Nighthawk curses as his suit begins to malfunction, the wings suddenly going into an arresting angle to kill his momentum as his repulsors die down to a gentle hum, lowering him slowly into a public park.
"That's enough," Greyburn says icily, "What the hell were you thinking?"
"Nighthawk's reputation is on the line!" The vigilante roars, "I had to do something! And did you hack my suit?!"
"My suit, asshole, I've never had to hack what I always had access to," Charles responds, "I'm grounding you until you come to your goddamn senses, that was so unbelievably stupid, she was baiting you! She wants you to attack her because it makes you look worse!"
"I CAN'T DO NOTHING!"
"That's exactly what you should do! Nothing! You need to rest, you're not thinking straight, you've never been this badly hurt before and you're in no right mind to be running the suit!"
"Nighthawk means something, Nighthawk means justice, Nighthawk means safety! If there is no Nighthawk-"
"There'll be no Nighthawk if you keep going like this! You'll either end up dead in the gutter or taken down by the authorities! You're only a man, Kyle, you have to accept your limits!"
His head is pounding, his mouth dry. He knows he has gone further tonight than he ever has before. How much time had passed? Had it really been five hours since he started? Or had more gone by… He honestly couldn't tell anymore. The summer heat made his skin itch, sticky underneath the suit, even in the dead of night. The humidity clung to him like the pain in his head, always a footstep behind no matter how fast he runs. He had tried so hard for the last six months to make a difference, to deliver justice to the people who deserved it most… And he feels all he has received in return is pain and misery.
But so what? This is what he deserved. This is his justice - The atonement he had to pay for what he had done… What he didn't do. He clutches his chest, feeling the simmering self-hatred boiling up once more. His mother had deteriorated for years before his eyes, and he turned a blind eye to it again and again and again- Until she withered away to nothing, died of an overdose and was abandoned by the family she loved. It was uncomfortable, so he ignored it. The pain in his head feels like a white-hot nail being driven through his skull. The Nighthawk has gripped him, and will not let go.
Kyle Richmond doesn't deserve to exist anymore, and if he doesn't feel good about the mission, he shouldn't exist, the Nighthawk demands, It doesn't matter if they love us or not. It doesn't matter if we make a difference. What matters is that we don't stop until we've given everything, as much as she gave and more-
"Kyle," Charles says, "You have to stop."
The vigilante prepares to return fire, wheeling around in rage, only to stop short. A homeless man in a dirty green poncho was standing nearby, staring at him with calm resolve. He must be a local here, Nighthawk believes, who had been disrupted by the sudden landing. The two stare at each other for a few moments, not saying a word. Finally, Nighthawk clears his throat, trying to think of what to say through the haze of pain.
"H-hey," Nighthawk raises his hand, "Don't be frightened… I'm not going to hurt you. I'll be out of here in just a minute, so just hang on-"
"Hello, Nighthawk," The man replies, his voice polite and dignified, "I've been looking forward to this meeting for quite some time."
"What was that? Who's there?" Charles asks, unable to see.
Nighthawk lowers his hand carefully, assessing the stranger differently. His clothes were dirty, the poncho smeared with grime. He couldn't see the man's face under the hood, and without his goggles… "Are you a fan? Didn't know I had any."
"Actually, yes," The homeless man starts to walk around Nighthawk, keeping a few feet of distance between them, "I've been following your new career with great interest. Taking the battle to Arthur Richmond, taking on the gangs… You're doing God's work."
Nighthawk twitches, "Trying to make Cosmopolis a better place, in my own way."
"Mm, and the city fights back every night against you," He nods, coming around to the opposite side of where he started, "And like Sisyphus, you continue to roll that boulder uphill, afraid to do what must be done, using only half-measures."
"...What half-measures are you talking about," Nighthawk's gaze narrows.
"I'm also trying to make the city a better place in my own way," The homeless man responds, "But you use fear to keep the element in line. You brutalize them, but they'll only get back up again, meaner and more cunning each time…" He chuckles, opening his poncho to reveal a gleaming sword inset with rubies, "I will put them down for good, Son of Darkness."
"Hh-" Nighthawk doesn't hesitate, immediately throwing his night-a-rangs at the creature before him, but the sword flashes and he easily parries them out of the air. The vigilante extends his wings and launches upwards, but the reduced output Charles imposed doesn't give him the lift he requires. The homeless man chuckles again and hefts the sword, throwing it with deadly accuracy and astonishing force. The blade punches through the wing, the wing that could deflect small-arms fire, and sends Nighthawk into a wild spin. His opponent charges in and leaps upwards to grab his ankle and bring him crashing down to earth, the flight pack whining loudly as it tries to lift their weight.
"Nighthawk, what the hell is going on?!" Greyburn asks.
He groans in response, trying to roll but getting caught up in his damaged wing, which won't retract, "He's stronger than he looks!"
"Who is he?!"
"The killer! Jenkins! I need the suit unlocked!"
The homeless man marches forward, delivering a sharp kick to Nighthawk's chin and slamming his foot down on his chest. The world spins as the kick robs Kyle of his sense of balance. His attacker grabs the hilt of the sword in both hands, dragging it length-ways out of the wing and then bringing it down with a powerful blow that chops the wing into pieces. The repulsors kick on, but without working wings Nighthawk is unable to stabilize himself, creating an opening that the enemy uses to roll around him and drive the tip of the sword into one of the repulsors, causing it to stutter and die.
Nighthawk dashes away, skidding to a halt and closing his damaged wing while folding the other one protectively over his left arm like a shield. This shouldn't be possible, none of this should be possible - He had hacked the right wing to pieces with brute strength, overpowered the repulsors, and then destroyed the flight pack with ease. Every instinct told Nighthawk to turn and run, but a deeper, growing skill at fighting told him that if he turns his back again, he'll die.
"H-how did you know I was here," He demands, tired of his enemies getting the drop on him, "Who in the hell are you?!"
"..." The vagrant stares at him for a moment before shaking his head, "I am this city's salvation… The Angel of Vengeance, a servant of God to purify its wickedness," He begins to circle around Nighthawk again, "I found you because God led me to you, because his justice is on my side. I see so many new paths opening up before me tonight, but I knew I had to meet you, to thank you, to pardon you… And to release you."
Nighthawk quietly checks his arsenal… Mostly depleted from a long night of battling against criminals. He had only a few night-a-rangs left and investigative supplies. He pulls one of the projectiles out and holds it like a knife, circling with the Angel of Vengeance, "So you're with St. Berchard then? Father Leonard I presume, or one of his cronies?"
"You still do not understand," The Angel replies with a sigh, "I must teach you."
"Teach me what-" Nighthawk begins to say, but his enemy crosses the gap in a split-second, the sword flashing as it skates off of the shielding wing.
"Your heroism is noteworthy," The Angel says, continuing a brutal attack that hammers at Nighthawk's defenses, "But my strength is from above. My power is my purpose. I am not with St. Berchard, because they are simply another tool in my mission to serve God and dispense his righteous fury on the wicked."
He ducks and puts all his strength into a sweeping blow that knocks the wing aside. Nighthawk retracts it suddenly, getting in close and hoping to land a few solid stabs with his blade. The Angel instead grabs his wrist and prepares to bisect his head, but Nighthawk reaches up at the last second, catching his enemy's arm before the blow falls. The two are locked in a seeming stalemate.
"I began with Zachary Jenkins and his associates, and tonight that mission has ended," The Angel says calmly, barely exerting himself, "Which is why I must thank you. You made it significantly easier for me to reach the last two."
Dawning horror breaks through Nighthawk's concentration, "Wait- You got to Cole and Hope?!"
"I was there before you even arrived, led by the golden path laid down by God," The Angel confirms, "But you made sure they wouldn't escape. Thank you." He grunts slightly, and then begins to push forward, slowly overpowering Nighthawk in their stalemate. "What is next is your pardon," He explains, lifting his boot and slamming it into Nighthawk's gut. The wind is driven out of the vigilante, his head feeling like it's going to explode as he staggers backwards, extending his wing and swiping at the Angel's head, who easily dodges.
"You use half-measures because you are afraid," The Angel explains, "Allowing this city to suffer because you are weak. Your faith is small, and your efforts are smaller. But God forgives you, Son of Darkness, because you still have tried. You have done more than any others, and that will earn your seat in paradise. You are pardoned for your sin, for your weakness."
"Kyle, you have to get out of there!" Charles barks.
"And now I release you, Son of Darkness," The Angel of Vengeance intones like a benediction, moving so quickly that Nighthawk struggles to keep up. The blade flashes and he screams in pain, the razor-sharp tip splitting his armor and cutting him from hip to shoulder. "Your mission is over, your time is done. I will be the hero this city deserves… Full of wrath, poured out on the wicked like boiling pitch. I will drown them as I burn them, and they will know God's justice as they fall screaming into hell."
Nighthawk staggers backwards, his blood spilling onto the grass at his feet as he tries to keep his balance. He couldn't fly, his wings were clipped and his repulsors unmade. He was out of weapons to use in this fight, and he didn't have the skill to overcome the Angel's sheer strength and power. He clenches his teeth, knowing there was only one way to end this fight. He ignores Charles screaming in his ear, closing his fists and charging back into the fight. Swerve, parry, duck- Jab once, bait an attack- His body shudders as the sword comes down like a hammer, shaking him to his bones. His takes another swipe with his wing, the blade comes up with glaring ferocity, slicing through the composite material, and Nighthawk closes the wing, catching the blade in a joint while using the motion to pull him in towards the Angel and plunging his night-a-rang into the Angel's shoulder. The vagrant screams in pain, ripping his sword out of the damaged wing and swinging it wildly, cutting through the armor on Nighthawk's left thigh, spraying blood across the ground.
Nighthawk pulls out his grappling hooks, firing both at once towards the roof of a nearby building. The Angel howls in rage, barely held back by the pain of his stab wound as Nighthawk lifts into the air, confident that the sword would come flying at him again - and surely it does, severing one of the cables, but the other one is intact, dragging him to safety.
The vigilante stumbles over the edge of the roof, hearing the Angel's howls of rage echo from the park below. He takes several heaving breaths, almost blinded by pain, before retracting the cable on his one working grappling hook and jogging to the opposite side of the roof. He shoots out the grappling hook, locking the mechanism into his armor because he lacks the strength to grip the device. He swings away, before he feels he's made it far enough away to limp back to the Hawk's Nest, using his damaged wing as a makeshift crutch.
Nighthawk wheezes as he descends into the hidden entrance to the Hawk's Nest, barely coherent and barely conscious from the pain of his old and new wounds and the blood loss taking its toll. He stumbles into the main room, collapsing against a table and gasping for air.
"Charles…" He mumbles, "Charles, help me…"
A hand grabs him roughly by the shoulder, turning him around and pushing him back against the table. The armor is unsealed and pulled away, cold fresh air kissing the slash that the Angel had scored across his chest and abdomen. Nighthawk realizes he can't see out of his right eye again, his vision too hazy from the head trauma, and with his consciousness rapidly dwindling, he can only slightly make out Charles' cold fury. He shakes a can of some chemical compound, spraying it on the wound to stop the bleeding. After a moment, Charles grabs Nighthawk's head, holding his gaze.
"I was wrong to help you," He says softly, "I see that now. I thought maybe the suit would allow you to overcome your… Flaws, but I was deluded. You're just some dumb, rich kid playing hero. Crying for your dead mommy and acting like this will make it all better. And I was stupid enough to help you. Stupid enough to enable you, too blinded by my hatred of your father to realize I was only going to get you killed."
"N-no," Nighthawk shakes his head slowly, but Charles only sighs.
"You're on your own from here on, Kyle, so don't come looking for me. I won't help you anymore. If you're going to get yourself killed… It won't be because of me. You're on your own…" He rises, pulling away from Nighthawk, before repeating, "You're on your own."
Greyburn turns away as Nighthawk's hand falls, the vigilante rapidly descending into unconsciousness as the inventor leaves. He had failed, a worthless wreck collapsed on the floor, broken by his own weakness. If he was like the Angel, he would have killed Oliver immediately, before the pistol could have been used to shoot him. If he was like the Angel, he would have had the weapons and tools to overpower Steele and force her to confess. Kyle was holding him back, keeping the Nighthawk from being the monster it needed to be. And if Kyle died here tonight, maybe that would be enough for the Nighthawk to emerge alive from the nocturnal crucible.
Someone watches him, a warmth descending on Nighthawk that he hopes isn't the last gentle feeling of life before his body finally gives up the ghost. He stops fighting and surrenders to unconsciousness, descending into fitful sleep.
A/N: If you liked this chapter, please drop a comment! We're in the home stretch now.
