Fawcett City
Boston Brand hovers close above Jim Gordon as the emaciated man in the chair -- once the Fawcett City sheriff -- begins to talk absently, as though to himself. He barely seems to notice Gordon's there now, although his eyes dart occasionally to the ghost, which chills Boston somewhat.
"He shouldn't know I'm here," he whispers, but it's obvious the man does, though he says nothing. When he speaks, it's of long ago, and his voice is a dying rattle.
"It was during the war," he says finally, now staring at the ghost. "And I was young, a priest to a long-lost god who would reshape the world, uniting all nations under his banner. It was a new world, and it would begin in murder. Ten heroes, a small sacrifice for the world he envisioned. But my master was betrayed, his servents turned on him, until he was seemingly destroyed. But we knew better."
A dry rasp crackles from the man's throat before he continues.
"Years passed, and we learned enough magic to restore him. Murder again, always blood, but they were unwanted children. The world barely noticed their passing. All save one. The boy magician. He came, and interrupted our rituals, and as our master emerged from the depths of his prison beyond this world, the young hero leapt at him, breaking the spell. The two grappled, until finally our master was beaten back, and the young hero lie dead on the ground."
The old man's eyes fix on Gordon.
"He is the one you've come for. You will find him buried below. In the meantime, his ghost killed for us, and with each kill our master grew stronger, eventually growing strong enough to free himself and walk the Earth. But he was reduced, so he bided his time, parried with the costumed heroes."
A wicked light shines in the old man's eyes, as he focuses now on Gordon with new awareness.
"It doesn't matter now. Descend into the labyrynth and free the boy magician's soul. He has served his purpose. My master is returning, and he will bring murder in his wake."
The old man's voice recedes again, growing fainter.
"Murder, yes. Always, always murder."
And then, in a heartbeat, he's gone.
Boston observes the soul of the killer now, standing between Gordon and his old body.
"So that's it? Is it Valhalla for me now? Or Hell?"
Boston's voice is a low growl.
"That's not for me to decide, bub. Let's go into the light and find out."
"He shouldn't know I'm here," he whispers, but it's obvious the man does, though he says nothing. When he speaks, it's of long ago, and his voice is a dying rattle.
"It was during the war," he says finally, now staring at the ghost. "And I was young, a priest to a long-lost god who would reshape the world, uniting all nations under his banner. It was a new world, and it would begin in murder. Ten heroes, a small sacrifice for the world he envisioned. But my master was betrayed, his servents turned on him, until he was seemingly destroyed. But we knew better."
A dry rasp crackles from the man's throat before he continues.
"Years passed, and we learned enough magic to restore him. Murder again, always blood, but they were unwanted children. The world barely noticed their passing. All save one. The boy magician. He came, and interrupted our rituals, and as our master emerged from the depths of his prison beyond this world, the young hero leapt at him, breaking the spell. The two grappled, until finally our master was beaten back, and the young hero lie dead on the ground."
The old man's eyes fix on Gordon.
"He is the one you've come for. You will find him buried below. In the meantime, his ghost killed for us, and with each kill our master grew stronger, eventually growing strong enough to free himself and walk the Earth. But he was reduced, so he bided his time, parried with the costumed heroes."
A wicked light shines in the old man's eyes, as he focuses now on Gordon with new awareness.
"It doesn't matter now. Descend into the labyrynth and free the boy magician's soul. He has served his purpose. My master is returning, and he will bring murder in his wake."
The old man's voice recedes again, growing fainter.
"Murder, yes. Always, always murder."
And then, in a heartbeat, he's gone.
Boston observes the soul of the killer now, standing between Gordon and his old body.
"So that's it? Is it Valhalla for me now? Or Hell?"
Boston's voice is a low growl.
"That's not for me to decide, bub. Let's go into the light and find out."