The Way We Weren't- The Chronicles of Arkham

Voices echoed under the bridge. Dimly lit by the streetlights on the highway above, nonetheless shadows crowded the tall concrete pylons. The air thrums from the continuous rush of traffic above. The river, little more than an oily suggestion just past a narrow catwalk, murmurs to itself, reflecting snatches of moonlight and headlights above. Following this catwalk, we find a turn, and a secondary tunnel running into the bank, and underground. Water flows through a vaulted concrete corridor, dark with age and accumulated grime. After a distance, we find three small boats tied to a larger platform. All three look designed to move in and out of these narrow tunnels, with powerful engines weighing down the rears.

Through a darkened doorway, we see a room seemingly forgotten- pipes and valves line the walls, green and brown with rust and the accumulated dampness of years. A single bulb overhead illuminates four figures within the room, bent over a table. All wear strange outfits, and all of their faces are covered in some way. A tall man at the corner wears a black trenchcoat and fedora, a black scarf pulled up just under brown eyes that flash with intelligence. On his right stands a woman wearing black fatigues and a strange veil over her face, and next to her, a man with a purple-and black wrestling mask and similar black fatigues taps the table with seeming impatience. On the other side of the table stands the strangest figure of all- hunched over the table, he looks every bit of his 72 years. His lower face is covered with a mask painted to look like the lower half of a human skull, above which cold eyes look down at a map of the city spread on the table between his large, scarred hands. Though by far the oldest of the four, he projects an almost regal air, and one of unquestioned leadership. His hand does not quite obscure the words ARKHAM, MASS. written on a corner of the map. He points at a corner, and addresses the trenchcoated man-

"Shade- I want you on the northwest quarter of the city tonight. We don't have any indication that tonight will be anything other than a routine patrol, but keep your eyes open. You know what we're looking for, especially around the harbor."

"Got it," the man called Shade replies in a slightly gravelly voice, without taking his eyes off the map.

The man turns to the woman. "Nyx, I want you and the Mason on the south tonight- here," he points to a section of the map, "and here." I'm going to trust the police to actually do their job for the rest of the city. Keep your radios on and your ears open. Again, there's no reason to expect anything but the same petty shit you guys can handle on your own. Use the river, but keep as out of sight and far apart as you can."

The two figures nod, and turn from the table. "So, nothing new on the radar tonight?" says the man in the wrestling mask.

The old man sighs. "What do you want? Some great chance at glory? Or just to be a dead hero? We're vigilantes, Mason. I remember my own days, going back and forth, night after night, stopping poor people from killing other people, while the real problems in this city go unchecked. This isn't a movie- you die out there, you get hurt, you reveal this organization, we don't get a second chance. Out of all the people in this city, you three were chosen because you were the only people who cared enough to do something about the corruption here. You had done a great deal on your own- but our strength comes from unity. Until such time as this organization ceases to exist, either due to being revealed, or you dumb fucks getting yourselves killed out there, you will follow my orders."

"Gee, thanks for the pep talk, boss", murmurs the woman, glaring at the old man.

"We make a difference. Always remember that." answers the old man, looking up.
The man closest to the door, Mason, turns on his heel and walks out. "Let's get this party started, already!" he says, vanishing through the door.

It's going to be a long night, Nyx thinks but doesn't say aloud. There's enough dissension in the ranks already. Maybe it's the same old complaints that have plagued the city since time out of mind- corrupt officials, lack of public services, and the mysterious financial crisis the city always seemed to be in, despite the infusion of tax money and the usual federal support.

Moving out of the tunnel into the slightly brighter evening, we get our first glance of Arkham. A sprawling city breaks apart the cloudy skyline, buildings towering over neon- lit streets, storefronts promising liquor, food and entertainment, others boarded up and silent. People walk along the streets, some dressed for an evening out, others simply going home after spending a day trying to work out a living in the city, lacking the will or know-how to simply just up and leave. And here and there, in an alley, behind a boarded-up storefront, the real lifeblood of the city can be seen- drugs, weapons, explosives, prostitution- a very profitable and much-denied underground exists. One would wonder how things became this way, until we glance a uniformed beat cop receiving a bulky plastic-wrapped package, a wooden crate marked MACHINE PARTS at his feet and a small-framed man with a narrow mustache and a black suit standing in front of him. The two are meeting in an empty storefront, the wide glass front long since smashed and replaced with haphazardly nailed-up boards. This transaction has the feel of an old ritual, each party knowing exactly what was expected of them. Tonight, however, things were to be different. The wooden panels gazing blankly in at the illicit exchange suddenly splinter inwards, revealing a slender feminine figure in the newly made jagged opening. Both the officer and the man freeze, staring confused at the intruder for a moment- this was not supposed to happen, and their minds seemed unable to comprehend that someone was actually interfering. However, their stunned silence is short-lived. The officer grabs for a large pistol at his hip and aims it at the woman, preparing to fire. With a seemingly casual gesture, the woman extends a hand and a length of chain snaps the pistol to the floor, while the officer swears profusely and clutches a hand already beginning to drip a thin line of blood. The black-suited man charges forwards, thinking to get in past the reach of whatever his target is carrying, when the woman suddenly has something in her left hand- a slight hiss, and a line of whitish fluid strafes across the man's eyes and nose. The effect is immediate- the man skids to a halt, and grabs his face, offering colorful speculation as to his attacker's origins, and probable outcomes for the future.

Nyx glares at the two, then steps into the room, snapping her chain across the shins of the policeman when he takes a tentative step forwards. He falls to his knees, yelling incoherently. She walks over to him, stepping over his companion, who has stopped cursing, and is now attempting to clear his eyes.

"It's wasp spray. For pests like you," she mutters. "Get to the hospital." She stands over the police officer and pulls him to his feet. "You," she says, and we can almost see her lips curl under the veil still covering them, "get out of here. This is your warning. If I ever see you here, or anywhere else in my city, doing anything but writing goddamn parking tickets, you'll be begging me to use a chain on you by the time I'm done with you. Got me?"

The officer stares at her, dumbfounded. He scarcely notices his companion edging towards the opening, eyes red and face swollen. She shakes him, and he cringes. "I said, got it? A simple nod will suffice, given your apparently limited capacities. Why else would you try anything near as stupid as what you were doing?"
The officer finally nods.
"Now get your sorry ass out of here while I'm still in a forgiving mood," she says, kicking the pistol out of reach and into a corner of the room. "Don't do anything you might live to regret." she adds. The officer turns and runs out through the hole in the wood without a backwards glance.

Nyx sighs and looks around the room. Fuck, I hate this, she thinks. Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to be a superhero. Now look at me. Cleaning up the scum of humanity. Ought to just let them kill each other. She turns, winding the length of chain back around one wrist, and walks back into the street.

(Note of more-or-less explanation: There actually is a lady superhero called Nyx; the description provided here is more or less accurate, except for her weaponry. There was formerly a superhero known as the Stonemason- the man in question, now going by the name Anonyman, runs a civil relief organization in Canada called Saskatonian Relief. Pretty much everything else is made up, though the location is based in part on Lawton, Oklahoma and the Hartford-East Hartford town line in Connecticut, marked by a bridge spanning a section of the Connecticut river that flows past the city. And, of course, a healthy dose of comic-book gloom and doom. But there's a hero in each of us, I think. Besides which, the whole reason I wrote this was a dream I had last night of tunnels running below a huge city, where costumed would-be heroes gathered to go out and fight crime. Remember, heroes are everywhere- just look in the mirror.