Darkeye #1

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Darkeye #1
My Name Is…

Written by Aaron Martel (Fan4)
Edited by Daniel Dyer (Spider-Man Beyond)

Braughton. My city.

Not the biggest place in the country, but big enough. About three quarters of a million live here. So it’s not New York, but yeah, we’ve got skyscrapers. And its own good sections and bad sections.

I don’t concern myself much with the good sections. I work in the bad parts of town. I call myself Darkeye. I guess you could call me an honest-to goodness superhero, like you see in the comic books. And yes, I have amazing superpowers. This black “costume” I wear is an actual energy force that comes from within my body. When I become Darkeye my physical strength and speed are considerably augmented, though I’ve never really measured how much. I can leap great heights and my stamina increases as well. I also have the ability to pass through solid objects, such as walls or doors, like a ghost. I just have to will it to happen and I can do it. I don’t know the limits of this power but I do know I can control what parts of my body are intangible and what aren’t. I can virtually “merge” with the shadows, making me a perfect hunter at night. And that’s when I prowl, because my great weakness (doesn’t every hero have to have one?) is direct light. Then my powers disappear, and I’m a normal human again. A normal human with a black leotard on.

***

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The young woman scurried down the street, eyes darting back and forth, hands gripping a paper grocery bag far too tightly. She hated this walk home. Why’d she have to work so late? She’d have to speak with the manager in the morning. It was far too dangerous for a lone woman to walk down Bronson Street this late at night. If she couldn’t get a day shift she’d just have to quit the E Z Mart, to hell with it. You heard stories about trouble going on down here and she wanted no part of--

She heard the voice before she saw him. “Hey, whatcha got there?”

A scruffy, spindly young man, tall and gangly with a black watch cap on his head appeared directly in front of the woman. She froze in her tracks. He reached over to take a peek into her bag.

“Ooh, eggs and milk. Looks like breakfast to me,” he sneered, visibly delighting in the woman’s trembling. “What’s it look like to you, Bob-O?”

A short, squat young punk sidled up to her. “Hmmm. I like omelets,” the pudgy mouth spat.

The taller one laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Omelet. Right. Know what else I like?” He whipped out a switchblade from his pocket and flashed the blade. “I like--”

And he sputtered as the entire contents of the bag were flung in his face. The young woman took the moment of distraction and ran as fast as she could down Bronson Street with the two punks in close pursuit, her heart hammering inside her chest. She quickly darted to the right, hoping to elude her attackers, but with a stifled squeal discovered she’d made a wrong turn down a blind alley. She braced herself before being roughly seized from behind and thrown to the pavement.

“You stupid bitch,” the fat one panted, out of breath.

The woman felt the tears sting behind her eyes as she stared into the faces of her assailants. Oh God, she thought. They’re going to rape me then they’ll kill me. She saw the skinny one reach down to her with his knife pointed at her throat.

“Now,” he hissed, “I’ll teach you sumthin’. Sumthin’ you’re never gonna forget-”

And abruptly he was gone.

She heard a hard WHACK! and saw a blur of black in front of her but she couldn’t tell what exactly was happening. She did hear the startled yelp of the fat one.

“What the FU--”

And then his cry was stifled by a solid THUD! as he collapsed to the ground. Shaking uncontrollably, the woman saw a humanoid figure clad entirely in black with the exception of two glowing white eyes turn in her direction, the two punks lying unconscious at his feet.

Now she didn’t know whether to feel relief or even more terror at the sight of this frightening being. His eyes seemed to burn right into her, and she felt the icy clawing of dread creep up her spine as the being took a step towards her.

“Are you all right?” it spoke in a deep, commanding voice.

She could only nod quickly, eyes widening in horror.

Then the violent tension of the being seemed to evaporate out of it. Its muscles relaxed, and there seemed to be a new, gentler aura to its presence. It spoke much more softly this time.

“Go home,” it said. “And don’t walk Bronson alone at night.”

There was a frozen moment where all she could do was stare in shock at the figure. Then she suddenly snapped out of her trance and quickly gathered herself up off the ground. She carefully slithered past the creature and bolted back to Bronson Street, making a beeline for her apartment a couple of blocks down.

Darkeye stared down at the two unconscious punks and shook his head. Then he leaped up to the bottom level of a fire escape and swiftly clambered up to the top of the building, seemingly melting into the shadows of the alley itself.

***

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Have to admit, leaping on rooftops is quite a rush. Especially if you can leap distances of at least a hundred feet or so.

It took just a few moments to get to my apartment over on the East Side. Reaching the building’s roof, I scooted down the fire escape to my apartment window (which was pretty easy since thankfully I have the uppermost apartment in the building), passed straight through the closed window glass and stepped into my kitchen. Passing through things is a sensation I can’t really explain. The best I can come up with is a tingling feeling that actually kind of tickles.

I stood in the dim light emanating from above my oven for a moment. In low light my powers are still in full effect; it takes direct light shining on me to make me more or less powerless. Most lamps don’t affect me since the light beam is usually directed upwards by the lampshade. If said direct light is muted or at low intensity my powers can be weakened but they may still be in effect. It took months of trial and error to discover all this stuff, and due to the fact that I really haven’t been at this hero thing all that long I discover new facets of my abilities all the time.

Focusing my concentration, I returned the Darkeye force into my body. This is what happens. A bright white eye-shaped symbol appears in the middle of my chest as my “costume” seemingly melts into the eye at a rapid rate. As the costume “melts” away my actual human form appears. And yes, I am a man, as human as anyone else in this world. When the costume fully disappears the eye symbol on my chest loses its glow and becomes black, so that it looks like a black colored eye tattoo on my chest. Thing is, I’m the only person who can see the eye (the “darkeye”, as I call it). I can even see the darkeye in a mirror but apparently no one else can so no one knows it’s there. Also, whatever I happened to be wearing before I turn into Darkeye reappears when I turn back to normal. In this case I was standing in my boxers and nothing else, since I feel most comfortable with less clothes on prior to my transformations.

So I guess now my second introduction is in order. My name is Jack Randall and my normal profession is a private investigator. I live here alone on the East Side in my simple but nice two-bedroom apartment, the top apartment in a four-story, four-apartment building. My landlord is Mrs. Dusch, and though she can be pretty nosy and sometimes snoops around, in general she’s all right. I don’t work out of my apartment; I have a business office over on the West Side where my clients can find me. I’ve got all the basic comforts a young guy could want, and I use this place as a haven from my business (and super heroing) life. Regular swinging bachelor pad.

It occurred to me then just how hungry I was. Fighting crime makes you pretty famished. I rummaged through my fridge and found some Chinese take-out that still smelled okay enough to eat. I spooned some rice into a bowl and put it in the microwave. While the rice was heating I checked the messages on my answering machine. There was only one, from my girlfriend asking where I was and if I wanted to come over. I looked at the time. 11:30. I’d call her tomorrow with some excuse for where I was. Tell her I was on a case or something.

After I finished the rice I took a hot shower. Fighting crime makes you pretty stinky. I toweled off, quickly brushed my teeth, and flopped into bed. I was out within seconds.

***

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The tall skinny punk was slammed into the wall, breaking his nose and knocking out a tooth. He scrambled to his feet with his back against the wall, eyes wide in terror as the dark figure stood menacingly before him.

“I didn’t get it! I couldn’t! I was gonna have it for ya but sumthin’ happened!”

“I can see that,” came the stone cold voice. “Looks like you’ve been roughed up already.”

“It was this thing!” The punk was blubbering, openly weeping. “It took down me an’ Bob-O so I never got a chance to-”

“Where is Bob-O now?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” whining, like a three year old. “He split! Just gimme one more chance! Please!”

The figure reached behind his back and pulled out a katana samurai sword. At the sight of this the punk began moaning and violently shaking but stayed where he was. He knew there was nothing he could do and nowhere he could go. The figure brandished the sword deliberately in front of the terrified youth.

“Tell me about this thing,” the figure said.

“I don’t know! I barely saw it! It was all black, with bright white eyes! It didn’t look human! It hit me so fast I barely saw it move! Oh please don’t kill me…” A dark stain was forming on the front of his jeans.

“So this being has been spotted yet again,” the figure said, almost to himself. “It seems I may soon have to handle this little problem myself.” He turned around, as if to leave, and for one brief moment the punk thought he might be spared.

Then with inhuman speed the figure whipped around, swinging the blade and splashing bright red blood all over the wall. The scream never escaped the punk’s throat.

***

[Spider-Man Beyond]

My business office is just over the invisible line that separates the East Side from the West Side. I took this space because in my line of work you tend to get people from the seedier side of life, so the West Side is where you want to be for that kind of action. It’s an old-style one room flat with a large desk dominating the room and a few old wooden chairs for the clients to sit in. My chair is the cushy leather one but hey, it’s my office. There’s a counter where I keep the coffee maker, a fridge where I keep my food and beer (for after hours, of course), and a small bathroom with its one toilet and small sink. I also have a large row of file cabinets near the desk that are all mostly empty but like I said I haven’t been doing this too long yet so what the hell.

I checked the machine. Zero messages. Figures.

I made myself some coffee and started reading the paper I had brought in with me that morning. No mention of me or any of my activities last night. Good. There was word on the street about the “night guy”, but it was simply shrugged off as a budding urban legend. I wanted it to stay that way as long as it could. Keep the mystery and the fear in all the crooks. Beware the Night Guy! Night Guy. I’d have to change that dopey name on the street somehow.

I was finishing the paper and sipping coffee with my feet up on my desk when I heard the door creak open. When your business doesn’t get too many customers, you can hear the door open from a mile away. I looked up from the paper to see a small, mousy yet oddly pretty middle-aged woman slip into my office gingerly, like she was unsure if she’d found the right place. Good thing for her there’s a sign on my door that says “Jack Randall, Private Investigations”. She seemed nervous, so I waited for her to approach my desk. No sense scaring the poor thing on our first meeting. Besides, I needed her money.

“Mr. Randall?” she said meekly.

“That’s me,” I replied as I flashed the half-million dollar smile. Women have been known to go weak in the knees at the half-million.

She managed a small smile herself. “I’m Veronica Chaste.” She put out her hand. I stood up to shake it, and her eyes followed me up in a kind of wonder. “My, you’re a big one. How tall are you?”

“Six-four.” I sat back down, and Veronica took a seat in one of the wooden chairs in front of my desk. “What can I do for you, Ms. Chaste?”

“Um, Detective Johnson of the Braughton Police said I should see you,” she said.

“That’s very kind of him. Are you in some sort of trouble?” I asked.

“No, no, nothing like that. See, it’s about my husband,” she said. Aw nuts. I thought for sure I was looking at a cheating husband scenario. Boring. “His name is Dr. Maurice Chaste.”

“The eye surgeon?” Even I knew Maurice Chaste was one of the most successful laser eye surgeons on the west coast.

“Yes. He’s been acting strangely lately, and well… I just want to know if he’s been involved in something I don’t know about.”

“You mean like if he’s involved with someone else?” I put forth.

“Yes, or… whatever it is. He disappears at night without telling me where he’s going, and he comes back so late… I just want peace of mind, you know?”

I nodded. Cheating husband for sure. But, a client’s a client and money is money. “Can you tell me anything else about your husband’s behavior?”

“He takes meetings and phone calls with these strange men I’ve never seen before. They look like gangsters or something.”

“Gangsters?”

“Yes. They dress up in nice suits but their manners and the way they talk isn’t…” She was searching for the least offensive words. “What we’re used to. The kind of people we associate with, I mean.”

This was interesting. If Maurice Chaste was mixed up with the mob this could be more than just infidelity to his wife. I laid it on the line for her.

“Mrs. Chaste, I will look into this for you. I should tell you I charge a hundred-fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. I’ll start digging around and eventually I’ll find out what you want to know. But here’s the question. Do you want to know it?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean there is a possibility I’ll find out some things you’re not going to like. If that’s the case are you sure you’re going to want the information and more importantly, will you be able to handle the information?”

For the first time she looked directly into my eyes.

“I want to know, Mr. Randall. If you find something, please let me know.”

I stood and we shook hands again. I led her to the door and watched her head down the stairs to the outside doors and then down the stairs to the street. A black limousine was waiting for her, and the driver opened the door to let Mrs. Veronica Chaste in and back to her normal life. I wondered if she’d ever been to the West Side before. Probably why she hired me. She couldn’t get an upscale East Side P.I., otherwise word would have probably gotten back to Dr. Chaste and she’d be found out. So she had to get a sleazy West Sider, and that would happen to be me. I didn’t care. I had a client. And a rich client to boot, so her money was probably good.

***

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Brenda Narrows thought she was on to something. At least that’s what her instincts were telling her. And her instincts were usually on the money.

She was a street-beat reporter for the Braughton Beacon, the city’s daily newspaper, and she was beginning to make a name for herself. Attractive and petite with a disarming smile and shoulder-length auburn hair, Brenda felt she had a finger on the pulse of Braughton daily life. She had already made plenty of strong contacts on the street, and her flirty-yet-fearless personality allowed her to charm most people (especially men) into giving her information. She also was much tougher than she looked, and when she felt she was on to a good story, she pursued it with dogged determination and unmatched tenacity.

And word on the street now was something so bizarre Brenda at first wanted to dismiss it outright as one of those boogeyman stories told to scare kids. It actually began as a whisper, but in the past few months the stories became more and more frequent. Apparently there was a shadowy figure, a “night guy”, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and taking down muggers and hoodlums in the acts of crime. No one would admit to actually having witnessed the night guy, but there was enough buzz about his alleged activities to pique Brenda’s interest and kick-start her investigative spark. The thought of a dark costumed vigilante running around Braughton was both amusing and exciting, though also somewhat creepy.

Brenda strode down Bronson Street ignoring the leering looks from the various bums standing around and made her way to one of the run down apartment buildings so common in this part of town. Brenda did not fear the West Side and not once had she run into any real trouble down here. It was as if she was respected for so brazenly coming to Bronson and mingling amongst her citizens. She rang the buzzer and was let into the building where she stopped in front of apartment 1. She knocked on the door. A homely but pleasant young woman answered the door. She was plain in every conceivable way, with friendly but wary brown eyes and thin medium-length brown hair. Though Brenda did notice she at least kept herself clean and presentable.

“Sally Bern?” Brenda asked. “I’m Brenda Narrows of the Beacon.”

“Yes, come in,” the woman said and let Brenda into the apartment. The place looked like most of the apartments on Bronson: Run down and fairly dilapidated. But like Sally herself, the place was kept clean and fresh-smelling and the simple furniture was well cared for. This woman had dignity. Sally offered some coffee, and Brenda accepted a cup as the two women sat at the small round wooden kitchen table.

Brenda wasted no time. “So I hear you had a run-in with the night guy.”

“Yes,” Sally wouldn’t look at Brenda, as if embarrassed. “It saved my life last night.”

It? As in not human. “Can you tell me about it?”

“I was coming home from work and these two kids attacked me. I was trapped in an alley and I thought I was dead,” Sally spoke with the resigned air of hopelessness born from a life of hardship and struggle. “Then it came out of nowhere and knocked ’em both out. Then it told me--”

“It spoke to you?”

Sally smiled sheepishly. “Yes. It told me to go home.”

“What did it sound like?”

“Deep and dark and scary. Like nothing I’ve heard before,” Sally said.

“And what did it look like?”

“Black. All in black. But its eyes were… glowing white. I was almost as scared of it as I was the kids. But I knew it was somehow… good. Like it’s a good guy.”

“So you just went home?”

“Oh yes, I wasn’t gonna mess with it,” Sally finished her coffee and took Brenda’s empty cup. “That’s all there is.”

Brenda stood. “Thank you, Ms. Bern. I appreciate your candor.” She was tingling with excitement as she had a feeling this was the start of something big.

“Miz Narrows?” Sally called from behind her. Brenda turned to look at the sad-eyed woman. “You don’t think I’m crazy or something, do you?”

“Oh no,” Brenda smiled, with a glint in her eye. “I think you’ll get the credit as the first one with the guts to tell the truth.”

To be continued...