Good afternoon, Gents!
Blanketed with a rare sheet of snow, the previously delicately fallen flakes crushed into grey sludge and tainted by countless footprints; the streets of Kansas City are illuminated with only the soft yellow light from the streetlamps that are scattered across the pavements, shadows disfigured and warped from the shapes they are cast from. Snow falls in light clumps, tugged left slightly by an icy breeze, making the scene suitable for the front of a Christmas card, rooftop slates bulging from underneath their white carpet and the beginnings of icicles fastened to worn black drain pipes.
Had it been an hour earlier, when the sun was still sinking behind the thick grey clouds and casting its final rays onto the city, the streets would be bustling with people returning from work, shopping or merely enjoying the novelty of snowfall before darkness took its place. Perhaps a few children would have scurried along, wrapped up in coats and scarves by concerned parents, scooping up untouched snow from the tops of neglected vehicles before scrunching it into solid orbs and launching their newly-acquired ammo at unfortunate passers-by. Now, however, the streets are verging on desolate. Only a couple of pedestrians brave the unstable surface of the road, unworried by the blackness of the evening and silent in their travels. Steven Hutchison is one of these people, shuddering as a chilling gust of wind creeps inside the fabric of his jacket and brushes against his skin, sending a shiver trickling down his spine like ice-cold water. He throws his hands deep inside his pockets, flexing his numb fingers and wishing he'd remembered the gloves that lie on the desk back in his office at MAA.
Dark, wavy hair traces the young man's cheeks, now sprinkled with snowflakes that refuse to melt. His face is thin, but not bony, and etched with more lines than usual for a man of his twenty six years, time not being the only thing contributing to how much he has aged. A black jacket hangs off his slim frame, the sleeves a little too long and the lightweight fabric seemingly useless against the freezing weather.
Rubbing his palms together in a futile attempt to spread warmth into his frozen fingers, Steven blows into his hands, his breath curling up into the air like smoke where it lingers, doing lazy pirouettes as it rises before fading out of existence. The man smiles at fond childhood memories triggered by this most miniscule of things, happier times in his youth when he'd lean against the wall with his friends pretending their visible breath was flowing from imaginary cigarettes they'd take occasional puffs from.
A real cigarette lays beside his feet, crushed in all of its glory. How he wished he had smoked so that he could at least warm his lips, mouth, and lungs; lungs that hardly filled with oxygen due to the current adrenaline lining his heart. Finally, a burst of familiar blue light comes from his cellular device he has been waiting to take cues from. He waits a couple of minutes for the light to fade and then he starts the long evening jaunt to his directed destination.
The following ten minutes take the young man through alleyways and down native streets, his pace considerably slowed by the icy surface of the concrete beneath his polished black shoes that lack the grip needed for such terrain. Recognizable features of the city such as pubs and routinely-visited shops reassure him that he is on the correct route, though Steven usually views these points of Kansas City through the window of a car rather than on foot himself; details he'd always overlooked are suddenly apparent to him as he walks cautiously along the slippery path.
Well-practiced in the quick motion, he pulls down his left sleeve with the opposite hand and flashes the cheap watch hanging around his wrist at his face, taking in the time as he does so: twenty past seven. It seems early for night to be falling, for the streets to be so void of human activity, but winter is taking its place and the evenings are rapidly shortening, each day slightly more restricted than the last by premature sunfall.
Without warning, a banging sound tears through the unoccupied air. Steven wonders, for a split second, what it was, before staring down in shock at the answer.
Blood stains the white shirt beneath his jacket, left by the gunshot. Gasping with fear, Steven takes off at a dead run to the nearest alley; forgetting about the ice, his first step is an immediate slip and all goes black. Hardly conscious, Steven feels the warm liquid trickling between the gaps in his fingers, running down the backs of his hands in disjointed lines.
"This isn’t Gotham City," is whispered into Steven’s ear, followed by a familiar hispanic laugh. “The Bane should’ve stayed home tonight. There won’t be any poetry flowing from him this evening,” says another, darker figure. As the gun’s muzzle is slipped back into the dark figure’s trench coat, the all familiar blue light from Steven’s phone flashes on through his jeans pocket. A glove reaches down and pulls the device into the bare cold. “Now you have my permission to die,” states the figure in the trench coat. Another hispanic laugh rings through the barely conscious mind of Steven as footsteps crunch away from him. Time seems to slip by at a barely audible rate. The panic is rampant through Steven’s mind but slowly fades to black like the blue light had faded from his phone.
This blue light that had brought about so much panic to Steven in those last few seconds of consciousness was the same blue light that had read, “Call from Shadow Man”.
#JB’SPICK6
(JB’s Current Pick 6 Record: 25-17)
(Reece: 5-1)
(Steven: 5-1)
(Hery: 3-2)
#6). Dallas @ Philadelphia
JB’s PICK: EAGLES
#5). Buffalo @ Miami
JB’s PICK: BILLS
#4). St. Louis @ Carolina
JB’s PICK: RAMS
#3). Cincinatti @ Detroit
JB’s PICK: BENGALS
#2). Minnesota @ New York
JB’s PICK: GIANTS
#1). Denver @ Indianapolis
JB’s PICK: COLTS
#JB’SUPSETS
+1). Tampa Bay @ Atlanta
JB’s PICK: BUCCANEERS
+2). San Francisco @ Tennessee
JB’s PICK: TITANS
Will Steven continue to live up to his name of The Bane or will the mockery of his nemesis this week knock him back onto the ice of unconsciousness? There’s only one way to find out: Sunday. Here is where I pass the weekend torch to your comments...
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