Neverending Comic Book... - It was midnight in Dire City and yellowish cirrus clouds partially obscured the sickly waning moon. The soaring spires of the vintage art deco brick buildings, relics of the 1930's and 1940's, blended with tarnished modern steel towers, to create a dappled mix of light and shadow, a chiaroscuro blending of darkness and brightness, that gave all of the city the appearance of an old sepia photograph, cracking and fading. Far below, the seedy all-night diners, newsstands, and strip clubs were filled with furtive, shambling forms of humanity.
Now, from somewhere in the sad, desperate street rises a long, piercing shriek followed by cries of desperation. A small, mousy middle-aged man runs frantically out of a dim alleyway; his face is bathed in sweat, and his breath comes in frantic gasps. He falls hard onto the oily surface of the rutted street, landing on jagged broken asphalt. "No, no, no!" he cries.
From out of the alleyway, hot in pursuit, follows a mob of strange figures: they are dressed in black trenchcoats, despite the early summer heat of the city, and wear gray mufflers and black cyclist's goggles to obscure their faces. Several of them carry automatic weapons or motorcycle chains, that they spin about them, like medieval maces. Two of them run up quickly and pull at the triggers of their guns. The guns roar, and several bullets tear into the legs of the figure sprawled in front of them. He squeals in agonized pain and begins to beg incoherently for mercy as he writhes on the ground.
Suddenly, before more shots can be fired, a piercing light blinds all of the trenchcoated figures. It fades to reveal a dark figure, with long cloak flapping behind him in the light breeze, who wears a curious black suit of segmented armor plates. The eyes of the stranger are covered by large golden orbs of curved plexiglass that gleam in the darkness, and his mouth, set in a grimace, lies visible below the sharp nose of the costume.
A bystander calls out, "It's the Black Owl! What's he doing here?"
The trenchcoated figures don't wait for an explanation. They rush the Black Owl en masse with their weapons drawn or swinging.
Night and the City... - by Felix
It was midnight in Dire City and yellowish cirrus clouds partially obscured the sickly waning moon. The soaring spires of the vintage art deco brick buildings, relics of the 1930's and 1940's, blended with tarnished modern steel towers, to create a dappled mix of light and shadow, a chiaroscuro blending of darkness and brightness, that gave all of the city the appearance of an old sepia photograph, cracking and fading. Far below, the seedy all-night diners, newsstands, and strip clubs were filled with furtive, shambling forms of humanity.
Now, from somewhere in the sad, desperate street rises a long, piercing shriek followed by cries of desperation. A small, mousy middle-aged man runs frantically out of a dim alleyway; his face is bathed in sweat, and his breath comes in frantic gasps. He falls hard onto the oily surface of the rutted street, landing on jagged broken asphalt. "No, no, no!" he cries.
From out of the alleyway, hot in pursuit, follows a mob of strange figures: they are dressed in black trenchcoats, despite the early summer heat of the city, and wear gray mufflers and black cyclist's goggles to obscure their faces. Several of them carry automatic weapons or motorcycle chains, that they spin about them, like medieval maces. Two of them run up quickly and pull at the triggers of their guns. The guns roar, and several bullets tear into the legs of the figure sprawled in front of them. He squeals in agonized pain and begins to beg incoherently for mercy as he writhes on the ground.
Suddenly, before more shots can be fired, a piercing light blinds all of the trenchcoated figures. It fades to reveal a dark figure, with long cloak flapping behind him in the light breeze, who wears a curious black suit of segmented armor plates. The eyes of the stranger are covered by large golden orbs of curved plexiglass that gleam in the darkness, and his mouth, set in a grimace, lies visible below the sharp nose of the costume.
A bystander calls out, "It's the Black Owl! What's he doing here?"
The trenchcoated figures don't wait for an explanation. They rush the Black Owl en masse with their weapons drawn or swinging. |
