Into the Light of the Dark Black Night (1/6)
PART ONE
As chronicled in a number of history books, the world catapulted itself into a technological revolution from the nineteenth to the twentieth century. Where engines powered by shoveled coal once carried travelers up and down the East Coast, they could now swing from country to country on luxury jets and surf the web from any corner of the world. Life had changed for the better, and each decade proved progress in economic, social, and environmental possibilities. Once the calendar turned over to the 2000s, people thought their capabilities were limitless.
Until the second industrial revolution transformed how businesses created goods. In the mid-2000s, 3-D print shops sprung up in every nook and cranny with increased tax benefits thanks to pork-barrel-filled legislation passed through Washington on the heels of job creation initiatives. The upside was increased goods production and fewer instances of importing cheaply made DVD players or sedans, not to mention a plummeting unemployment rate. The ultimate downside, and the undoing of the last half of twenty-first century, was lax environmental regulations on these industries and the resulting pollution.
The air filled with sooty particulates and rivers stained with chemical discharges and sewage effluent. At the base, there were answers to these problems, but society could only move so fast to reconcile them all. And so the world slowly slid backwards into its early years, where people no longer saw the future a hundred years in the waiting, but simply dealt with the very hour in which they were living.
Mankind changed, for certain. Gone were the many pleasantries and social graces. Dwindled were the charitable functions of helping your neighbor or giving a dog a home. Every man for himself, and each woman, too. Many turned a blind eye to what the failure of industry had done to them all. It made them hopeless.
Weather worsened over time, as increased pollution and general malaise about protecting the environment grew. Industry took precedence over global climate change, and the public responded better to the increase in jobs and technology. But the rain fell harder and faster with the ground unable to absorb all that water, and the infrastructure crumbling under the weight of unforeseen floods. Snow packed up a foot at a time, alternating with negative temperatures that froze the earth and cracked roads and bridges. Summer heat attacked with a vengeance, an inverse to frozen winters, glaciers melted in the Artic, and grass refused grow in the dry air. Long gone were parks and greenways to dress up the neighborhoods, and weak streets and sidewalks made it difficult to travel.
Technology essentially stood still, and the industry that was running before the destructive legislation continued to churn out goods every day. Progress, however, was packed away in a back closet until the dark world could be scrubbed and polished anew.
It wasn’t the world we all once knew, but it was the only one Jared knew.
Jared runs his thumb along the edge of his pocket tablet, highlighting the border around the news story on the tiny screen. He ignores the noises of his friends in his living room just ten feet away, and sends the link’s thumbnail up onto the compu-screen that takes up half the wall. The screen flickers with the new addition, other thumbnails shuffling along the grid to make room and sorting themselves alphabetically. A few steps back, he admires the new story’s placement among a dozen others, all detailing the same subject, but this title stands out.
Black Falcon Terrorizes Mall, Evades Police
A small smile crosses Jared’s face, even while there’s a small bit of unrest in his chest. Nearly fifteen articles about the press-titled Black Falcon cover the wall just beyond his dining room table, and he imagines all of the stories that float in between every moment the Daily Chronicle has recorded.
He doesn’t believe in the terror element. He doesn’t believe that the Chronicle can manage a positive story about anything in this City. And so he believes the Black Falcon is a misunderstood creature with a dirty streak that the community latches onto.
Yes, there is something unsettling about the winged man who dares to appear and reappear at a moment’s notice, even when so many cry his name in fear. Yes, Jared has scrapbooked every printed story about the Black Falcon to his wall and knows all the good and the bad. No, Jared is not afraid.
Jared is fascinated with the man in black and how the very mention of his name strikes dread in everyone he knows. There’s a bit of delight in going against others’ anxieties.
He wonders where the Black Falcon lives, where he came from and who his family is, who he knows and loves, what he eats, his real name, how he sleeps with those wings molded to his back, and if he’s really as dangerous as all the printed words claim he is.
Jared still doesn’t think the last is true. He likes to imagine this heavenly creature floating through the night, keeping a look out for all those on the ground, and needing the city to live and breathe another day.
Just as his mind wanders down that path, the one that admires all of the Black Falcon’s grace and power, the sounds from the living room roar in his ears like a movie coming off pause with voices fighting to gain control of the plot.
“Jesus, Jay, how many of those things you gonna collect?”
“Leave him alone. It’s not that bad of a hobby.”
“It’s a pretty sad one. I mean, The Black Falcon? C’mon now. That guy’s just a troll trying to tear down our city.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have the best reputation, but a little hero worship never hurt anyone.”
“It’s hurting Jay’s social life.”
There’s a laugh and a sizeable drop in the defense, and the conversation continues on without Jared’s input. “I don’t think it’s this that’s hurting it. Maybe something else.”
“It’s weird, and freaky, to be this hooked to a bird.”
“It’s just a harmless crush.”
“How harmless with his track record of ruining this city?”
Chad and Sophia bicker back and forth like any other day and Jared frowns when he faces his friends. Genevieve and Aldis watch him like they’re behind Chad’s constant declarations that Jared needs to make a pit stop at the psychiatric ward to cure him of this obsession.
Jared doesn’t think it’s an obsession. It’s an interest, a hobby, a curious notion gathering in the back of his mind that the Black Falcon is more than just a man with wings, but a hero waiting to be revealed. Sure, the Black Falcon has some dim marks on his resume, a few too many run-ins with the cops trying to reel him in and stop the chaos that surrounds his every appearance. But that doesn’t make him a terrible person, right?
Instead of feeding the judgments tossed around the room, Jared heads to the kitchen and calls out, “Anyone need another beer?”
With his friends’ replies, he loads his arms with half a dozen beers and joins them around the couch to start up the latest slasher flick that’s gone straight to OnDemand. He resolutely ignores the finger that itches to turn on the nightly news for another glimpse of the Black Falcon taking flight during rush hour.
As the story on screen unfolds, Jared’s mind wanders back to the Black Falcon and murky nights and shadows covering empty alleys. The first blonde bombshell is taken out of the movie with a nasty neck wound, and the Black Falcon and Jared’s research unroll in his mind like a summer blockbuster.
Jared still remembers the stories from his grandparents, how the world was at a standstill due to unsustainable infrastructure and unstable industries. The economy crumbled just as many buildings all around them became little more than crushed brick and mortar. As politics tore apart the American sensibility, and families holed up like the third World War was upon them, an unlikely superhero swooped onto the scene.
It was the mid-2110s, with most of Chicago abandoned like the very Gotham City it once portrayed on the big screen, when the Black Falcon made his first public declaration that all was not lost and good would persevere. He saved a construction worker that day, one who had nearly tripped off of scaffolding a dozen stories from the ground. Weeks later, it was a working woman with a heel stuck in the at-grade crossing and a train heading her way. As his character grew, the Black Falcon knocked the Mayor away from a scope’s target and helped police secure the assassin mid-escape.
For nearly a decade, his real persona, his real name and background, remained a mystery. The savior with a twelve-foot wingspan always escaped to his own fortress where no one could follow, and little was known beyond the shape of his crouch and the width and breadth of his reach. The only reason he was branded the Black Falcon was from his first run-in with a four-year-old daughter, who was stretching her hands as far as she could and crying out for her kitten in the tree. After the hero swept in to gather the kitten in his arms and gracefully dropped down next to the girl to return her pet, she cried out, “The birdy saved Mittens!” and wrapped her arms around his legs, unable to part for some time. Certainly, a superhero needed a more dignified name, and so the Chronicle heralded the Black Falcon, always seen in black slacks and a black jacket, for his good deed.
Goodwill followed the Black Falcon after each of his appearances, even when he constantly strayed from public attention. He simply popped in at the perfect time to stop major havoc, save the resident in distress, and fly off into the clouds to avoid being tracked.
In due time, the Chronicle questioned the Black Falcon’s real resources and life-saving opportunities. Suspicions arose that the Black Falcon was behind much of the chaos and depression winding through the City, and then capitalized on the distress of his fellow residents. This led to the Chronicle closely monitoring all of the Black Falcon’s activities and ultimately to the fall of the unknown, winged hero into disgrace.
More specifically, the Black Falcon was prepared to head-off a bank robbery when a Chronicle reporter intercepted him en route and caused another incident just north of Lake and Wacker Drive. The sun was just setting and glaring off the glass buildings to the east, not to mention bouncing off the Chicago River. The Black Falcon flew up about thirty feet, drawing his massive wings back and unknowingly encouraging the Chronicle to snap myriad photos at his exit, which then prompted a young mother of three to be distracted, belatedly hitting the brakes and driving right into a moving intersection. It was the very first time reports turned for the worse, but certainly not the last.
In a matter of slow-motion seconds at the bottom of the Dearborn Bridge, the Black Falcon’s fanfare and popularity quickly disintegrated with the death of two of those children. Even as a few die-hard fans would maintain the Black Falcon’s innocence and pointed fingers at the Chronicle’s neediness for ‘the next big story’, the Black Falcon’s appearances throughout the city dwindled over time. The Chronicle still continued to cover his every move, for the sake of upping its readership.
Jared didn’t learn about the Black Falcon until his family moved north from Texas when he was fifteen. By then, the Black Falcon’s image had been tarnished, but Jared was still interested in all the stories he could eavesdrop on, read in the Chronicle, and occasionally see on the news that ran during dinner.
Going off to college kept Jared occupied, just as something else seemed to keep the Black Falcon out of the spotlight and the press went quiet on that particular creature while discovering dozens upon dozens more. Across the country, stories popped up of hundreds of transformations among regular citizens. No one was born with these talents-and sometimes curses-that established themselves. No, humans were adapting to poor conditions around them.
A year ago, though, Jared’s world tipped over when Black Falcon popped back up on the radar. Lightning struck a weak elm and nearly ended a family barbeque. The tree was one of few that survived Dutch Elm Disease, but still met its maker as the trunk split and the bulk of its weight tipped into a backyard where guests were celebrating a retirement. The Black Falcon dipped in, shoved the tree out of the path of picnic benches and tables, and left just as quickly.
It was all just a tiny blip with a short echo, yet still enough to entice Jared to jump back into the fan club. Now Jared collects every Chronicle clipping and is contemplating adding a map on his compu-screen to detail each and every one of the Black Falcon’s appearances.
As Jared imagines bold, block letters declaring To be continued … on the Black Falcon’s story, the credits roll on screen and a handful of popcorn smacks his cheek and falls into his lap.
“You with us, Jay?” Aldis asks, wide eyes appearing judgmental and concerned all at once.
Jared pops out of his seat with a put-upon smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Anyone need another?” Before anyone can answer, he’s back in the kitchen, leaning into the fridge, and gathering up a third round to cover for his escape.
Jared has spent the last six years working at the Metro Credit Union, where he’s tried his best to apply his finance background. He’d worked at the same branch at the tail end of high school and returned once he had a degree in hand. Now at thirty-one, he’s the trusted morning shift manager. His dreams still include grander variations on investments and three-piece suits and penthouse brunches with the love of his life on a lazy Sunday morning.
Instead, it’s six thirty on a Tuesday morning, and he’s fighting the lock on the vault while a few of his high school and college-aged employees, ones that he surely behaved like a decade ago, tap feet to the tile floor and fingers at a nearby counter and loudly smack gum and sigh. They’re waiting on their drawers to open their stations while Jared swipes at the lock screen, creating intricate patterns the system won’t accept when not perfect.
Five minutes pass as an eternity until Jared finally gets the correct paths in line. Now he can pass out the drawers and ignore the eye-rolling and sigh-heaving teens that slowly drag their feet to get to work by seven in the morning.
As the day progresses, customers come and go, and the employees make piddly errors that are hard to document, yet pile up for a mound of trouble over such a short time. When Mrs. Dunne, a sixty-four-year-old widow who always minds her dollars and cents for her savings, raises her voice above the soft hum of conversations about deposits and withdrawals, Jared knows he’s in trouble. It’s a monthly issue-Mrs. Dunne’s attitude-and Jared wishes she would disappear with her empty threats.
“No, no, no, I said I would wait,” she says sternly. Her declaration is loud enough to draw attention from every patron and employee in the building.
“Ma’am, I can help you,” Brock Kelly, one of Jared’s newest hires and a fairly earnest man, replies with a tiny shake in his voice.
She laughs cruelly and pointedly looks away from Brock’s station. When she crosses her arms with her purse tucked tightly to her chest, Jared notices how she scratches at her wrist then rubs it with her whole palm.
Brock is doing much the same, yet in protection of his skin issue thanks to a youth spent as an army brat. The thick dermal armor has protected Brock from the most treacherous sandstorms in Arizona, but does him no favors this far north. People like Mrs. Dunne shrink back with fear-filled ignorance and refuse to face it.
Jared steps out from behind the counter, and the swinging of the half-door echoes along with the soft clacks of his dress shoes on the pristine marble floor. Now, he’s drawn everyone’s attention. Everyone except for Mrs. Dunne. She continues to stare at Celine, the raven-haired, part-time college student bank teller standing at the station next to Brock’s. The one who’s still handling a business transaction with a tall brown-haired man-maybe a savings withdrawal by the shade of that pink slip on the counter.
Jared offers them both a quick smile and wave, alarmed by the customer quickly turning away, but focuses on the real problem. “Mrs. Dunne, how can we help you today?” he asks kindly.
She barely grants him attention as she scoffs. “I can’t believe a place like this, and a nice man like you, would bother employing one of them.”
Jared feels the hit as clearly as he imagines Brock does, with his stomach swirling, blood pressure rising, and his palms sweating. “We’ve talked about this before, Mrs. Dunne. Any one of our certified tellers can help you.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’ve trained them all myself. I can vouch for each of them.”
She still refuses to look at him. “I’ll wait for one of the others.”
He sets his hand to the middle of his chest where heat begins to flare. He’s had a tough day so far with quite a few counting mishaps and Tom Welling starting an argument when Jared wouldn’t let him into his wife’s safety deposit box, no matter that the divorce wasn't final yet. Now, he’s encountering a well-known flash of heartburn. As a nervous habit, his fingers brush the outside of his dress pants, pulling at the pocket only to discover it’s empty. His antacids are back at his desk, though it’s likely better for him to not show the crutch that keeps him going through annoying days at the bank.
Once Celine is done with her customer, Jared sighs with relief. He motions towards the young girl’s counter even as she appears nonplussed to be given Mrs. Dunne as her next customer. Jared simply hopes for some efficient service and as little noise as possible for the rest of the day. He’ll fight her next month.
He hurries back to his office as quickly as possible, but decides to forego to the antacids and swallows down the rest of the water in his filtering bottle. With a sigh, he drops into his desk chair, which wobbles back and forth on its shaky base. The pack of antacids sit on his desk with the wrapper peeled away to show a fruity tablet. Orange, his favorite, stares at him. He only plays with the roll enough to tear away the loose paper then sets it back to the desk, standing on end.
Jared is startled by the abrupt noise of someone clearing their throat. In the doorway stands Celine with charcoal-rimmed eyes that judge him. His hands sneaks forward to cover the antacid and he asks what he can help her with.
“Mrs. Dunne wanted you to know that you’re an Altered sympathizer.”
Jared’s stomach gurgles acid, burning slinking up his esophagus. He swallows down the pain and blinks at Celine. “Okay.”
Her sigh is more visual, with rolled eyes, than any loud sound. “And she doesn’t like Altered sympathizers.”
His fingers curl around the roll of antacids and he finds comfort in the press of the tablets against his palm. “Alright.”
Celine’s voice grows duller with every word. “And she’s taking her business to First Metro first thing in the morning.”
Another false promise; Jared almost wishes she would. “Fine.”
“And you should probably see a doctor before your throat disintegrates.”
He squeezes the roll so tightly that he swears he can feel the tablets crumble within the wrapper. “Noted.”
As soon as Celine is gone, Jared pops an orange and green tablet and relishes the way his taste buds kick at the addition of lime.
At the end of a night at the local pub, Jared and Chad stumble out the front door with three pitchers of beer split between the two of them. Jared weaves left and right, and then hurries to Chad’s side to keep him upright as well. Instead, they both fall to the hard, cold cement. There are chuckles-both theirs and those of the nearby spectators-until Jared rolls to his back, stretches his arms and legs, and ignores the sharp twist in his side.
As he stares up at the black sky above, he counts the large, twinkling stars. There are eight of those blinking lights plus one that’s coasting the sky with two blinking lights. Jared smirks and follows the path of the red eye flight crossing overhead until there’s a dark, moving shadow distracting Jared from counting stars or tracing planes.
“Look at that!” Jared yells while slapping a hand to Chad’s back.
Chad slowly rolls to the side and winces as he gets into position to follow the point of Jared’s stretched arm and finger. “What?”
“That thing there, moving to the left,” he insists, dragging his finger along with the swooping motion of what he thinks are wings. He sees the curve of a black wing, and if he squints hard enough and fills out the hope building in the pit of his stomach, he’s sure it’s the Black Falcon.
“It’s not a bird.”
“Shut up.”
“Or a plane.”
“Chad, seriously,” Jared says with a quick dig of his elbow to Chad’s side.
“Suuuuuuuuuuuuperman!” Chad cries with his arms flung into the air. His voice drops dramatically into a tired sigh. “It is not Superman, Jay. It’s a freaking shadow.”
“Or it’s the Black Falcon.”
“It is not the Black Falcon. There is no such thing as the Black Falcon anymore, you idiot.”
“What do you mean, no such thing?”
“Guy hasn’t been around in a while. He’s probably dead.”
Jared slides up to sit and glares at his friend. “Dude, how hard you gotta be?”
“It’s true,” Chad replies simply as he moves up to the same position as Jared. He sighs and tips his head to the side with a slow movement of his hand cutting through the air between them. “Seriously. He hasn’t been around in, like, weeks. That ain’t on purpose. He’s dead or gone. Or both.”
Jared huffs and rushes to get to his feet and walk back to his apartment. Chad quickly catches up, but Jared isn’t up to listening to a single word. He lets Chad’s excuses pass by him as he starts moving quickly down the street.
“Jared!” Chad yells to get his attention, even spinning him around with a tight hand on Jared’s shoulder. “What is your deal with this guy?”
“What is yours? You’re always giving me shit about him, but you don’t care when Sophia goes on and on about the Swans.”
Chad laughs and throws his hands up. “Are you serious? It’s Sophia, and I’m trying to get laid there. I’ll let her talk about anything whenever she wants.”
“Even triplets who turn into birds,” Jared points out flatly.
“Yeah, especially that.” Chad laughs again and slaps Jared on the back before turning them around to walk towards Jared’s apartment. “I mean, they turn into birds.”
“So those birds are okay, but this one guy isn’t?”
“He isn’t a bird. Or a plane. It’s like a … freak.”
Before Jared can defend his interests in the Black Falcon, Chad’s distracted by a red light far off in the distance and is convinced it’s a fire truck.
Jared sighs and lets Chad know it’s just a red stoplight. And they’re drunk. So very, very drunk.
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