Yes Father

 “- Eaten well,” he finishes.

Terrified faces. Shaking hands. Foul smells spoiling sweet aromas of gourmet meal. First victory.

As the words finally escape his mouth he knows that he has created legend.  A myth that is already writ large on these faces that are as clear to him in the darkness as the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. As clear as the Narrows, as the mad, as the poor, are not to these people.

He allows himself a moment of gloating, a moment to soak in his victory. He is no poet, as his friend and father back in the Mansion would attest, and perhaps later, Bards and Balladeers and Sensationalists shall embellish his Legend. For now, he shall fall back on the clichés. On his many vulgarities.

It is a Chilling thought.

He is but one of them. He has his Mansion. But he has journeyed to the depths of his Palace, to an altogether different kind of depravity from theirs. The only depths they have plumbed: decadence. 

Resting on their gilded table, counting down the time, sweat heavy on his brow under the stuffiness of his cowl despite the unearthly chill in the room, he makes his excuses, he makes his penance. 

Nice chandelier.

Pretty plates.

Tempting food. Sharp teeth, finely honed over the ages.

“But your feast is nearly over.” 

Finely stained trousers.

And in that twilight moment of his birth, before he puts out the candle, he thinks, just once, of legacy. A long line, one of the oldest con-jobs in the world, and not philanthropy- that is their word. No, he knows, he asserts, that he is no champion,

That

She is no-one’s saviour. She is not offering emancipation. Salvation. She is here to help. Disregard circumstances of birth, Disregard Parity of Purchasing Power, Disregard Equitable Distribution, Disregard the Iron Heels: She is here, simply, to take back what was plundered. 

This city. Its wealth. Its spirit. 

This Haven of Goats that have, for far too long, had wolves living among them. 

The cowl rests uneasy on her head, and thus its likeness to a Crown makes her uncomfortable. As she climbs through the window, as the room is plunged into darkness, as the smoke becomes a shroud she thinks of the years of preparation and the months of planning that it took to come here. 

All of which culminated in throwing the smoke bomb, a swift jerk of the hand, in breaking the window, the tinkling of glass, in moving through the tiny mirrors darkly. 

Who benefits? Who is she helping? Who, in her arrogance, has she forgotten? They do not need saving, but do they need, or want, her help? 

Does little Jason from the Narrows need or want the secret hand of a cloaked beneficiary, the little Jasons of the stolen tyres and the venom pellets whom generations of her forebears have failed to show anything but crowbars and Death?

Is she not the one wearing the cape?

No higher purpose. Maybe just the thrill. The terrified faces. The mixed aromas. The stained trousers. The satisfaction of creating legend.

Fulfilling the circle.

As she lands on the table, and through the darkness sees clearly their faces, the thoughts clear, to be replaced by one single word of power and purpose. The cowl is no longer a crown or a twisted reflection of their ugliness, but an ancient, beautiful face from beneath the ground, a comfort; the cape is now a swirling mass of terror, unfurled.

Sweat drips from her brows. “Ladies, gentlemen,” She begins. “You have-“

When she finishes, there will be Legend.