Archer City. The crown jewel of New York City, and the pinnacle of the United States of America. All across the cityscape, gleaming towers and skyscrapers reached up to caress the heavens, their glass surfaces brilliantly reflecting the sun’s beams to the rest of the metropolis. There was nowhere that the light didn’t reach. Thanks to a multitude of engineering firms dedicated to environmentally-friendly technologies, the layer of thick smog that purveyed so many other major burgs was absent from beautiful Archer City. This city is prospering.
This city is suffering.Over in Uptown, a lone figure stands atop one of the district’s many high risers. On each corner jutted out a sculpted eagle, ornate patterns decorating its detailed wings. The symbol of freedom and patriotism watched over the streets of Archer City, an eternal sentinel, just like the man crouched on the statue.
Fluttering in the winds was a blue and yellow butterfly, outlined with hard, black lines. This was a completely carefree creature, not a care in the world. Deciding to take a break from its frolicking, it glided down to a black surface, similar to spandex, or maybe polyester. Then it was crushed under the spectacular, black fist of justice.
Goth brought his clenched hand in front of him, opening it to examine the little miscreant that landed on him. On his palm lay the crushed, mangled remains of an insect from the suborder of Rhopalocera. Its wings were crumpled like designer origami paper.
The masked face, concealed entirely in black, save for white eye-slits, looked down at the dead butterfly. From his mouth came a gravel-y voice, a man with a permanent sore throat:
“I ended your pain...before you could feel it.”Down below in streets of the city, a shriek rang out. Goth Sulkman, the Brooder, perked up from his crouch. Someone was in trouble.
He turned his gaze in the direction the cry for help came from. Downtown.
“Justice never sleeps,” growled Goth. He leaps from his perch, headfirst. Wind whips around him, his black trenchcoat flapping wildly. In his descent, he whips out his trusty grapple gun from his belt, aiming at an overhanging gargoyle on the next building. All of the factors run through his mind: wind speed and air resistance, the velocity of his fall, the weight, speed, and angle of the grapple...everything. Goth’s finger squeezes the trigger, letting loose the hook with a loud
thunk, cable trailing behind it.
The grapple lands true, latching onto the head of the gargoyle. Goth is pulled into a sudden change of direction, , sloping his fall into a smooth landing, breaking straight into a run.
The sound of static crackles in Goth’s ear; his butler, Tuffmeister, was radioing in.
”It’s the middle of the day, justice wouldn’t be asleep in the first place.”---------
Goth assumed he found the source of the sound: a crowd had gathered around a man crumpled on the ground. He pushed his way past gasps and excited whispering, crouching down beside man. He wasn’t dead, but he was banged up alright. Goth lifted up his shirt, finding several thin bruises. Perhaps from getting hit by a metal pipe some punk wielded as an impromptu weapon? Not likely…
Looking around, Goth noticed several thin shadows projected onto the buildings, like spindly spider legs spread across a web. He looked around to find the source; there. Cables were stretched out between the buildings on either side of the street.
Those would explain the bruising...He fell from this building.A civilian from the crowd cautiously approached Goth, nervously asking, “Uh, M-Mr. Brooder...what’re you gonna do?”
Goth stood up straight, and looked up.
“Every waterfall has a spring.”“...uh, what?”
Without responding, Goth extended his arm straight up, aiming his grapple gun at the roof of the building. The hook caught hold, and he zipped away.
“What did he say?”
