Painted in absolute darkness, a vehicle tore through the streets with barely a whisper from its raging engine. It drifted around corners without slowing, carving impossible turns with surgical precision, yet not a single collision, not even a scraped bumper.
The dashboard displayed a composite view from a dozen cameras, stitching together multiple perspectives into a seamless, real-time panorama of the surroundings. Divided into three panels, the left one showed a flying shadowy figure never captured in full, escaping one camera's frame before partially reappearing near the Iceberg Lounge.
Batman tapped a button on the steering wheel, establishing a communication channel while the right panel tracked a small truck.
"Robin, Iceberg Lounge."
"Got it boss."
A figure wearing a domino mask climbed the restaurant's wall on the left panel. Too late to reach the target, but heading in the right direction. The cameras shifted their angles to scan the empty sky before returning to their original positions once the sprinting figure had left their field of view.
The front panel displayed red lines over the street views. Each line suggested different angles and positions to remain hidden, avoiding the people on the street. After the vehicle left the camera's view, the timestamp was overwritten to repeat the previous ten seconds.
After reaching Foundry Street, Alfred's voice crackled through the communication channel, calm as ever, but edged with concern.
"Master Bruce, should I prepare some black tea when you return?" Alfred asked, selecting a few dry leaves. "You've been following this truck for eighteen hours. It left Star City before dawn." He placed three cups on the kitchen table. He waited for the water to boil. Batman stayed silent. "What is it carrying?"
"A solution... Not from Earth. A mineral required for KRYPTON-12."
"You speak of solutions, yet I see only preparations for war. Crime in Metropolis has declined in recent years."
"All it takes is just one bad day... Just one."
Alfred stood alone in the kitchen, letting his arms hang at his sides for a moment. He was used to this, Bruce taking risks, but this time the danger wasn't some petty criminal or terrorist. He looked outside, to the end of the garden where a stone house stood in its usual silence.
"Very well. I shall prepare the tea."
Crossing the street, Isaac kept the same rhythm despite barely seeing the signs and the cold spreading through his side. One step after the other, he stayed clear of a group of three people sitting on the curb on the other side, their cigarettes illuminating their eyes as they watched his every step.
Shadows from Robinson Park covered the Church of Blood. Isaac stopped at the front door, whispers and weak light slipped beneath the metal edge. He grabbed the handle. It didn't budge. Closed. His fingers curled into a fist. He struck once. There was no response. His fist hit harder. Footsteps approaching from inside stopped him before a third attempt.
A weathered man with a shaved head greeted Isaac but didn't invite him inside.
"Sorry, young man." His eyes seized Isaac before scanning the street behind him. "The church is closed to the public."
"Old man... I'm bleeding." Isaac showed his hand and the red coloring on his cloth.
"No exceptions." The monk removed his rough wool robe and offered it to the injured teen.
Isaac's mouth hesitated before forming words. Was that man 'special' among the monks? Who would stay half-naked after being told someone was bleeding? The monks usually helped anyone during the day. Isaac refused the robe, his hand pressing against his wound. "Silas there?"
"May the old blood bless you."
The door closed with a heavy click. Isaac slammed his fist against it three more times. The footsteps faded anyway.
He slid down the cold stone steps, back against the wall. His breath eased a bit. Using his mobile phone he dialed Silas. The automatic message began with Silas's voice telling his name. Indeed at this hour, Silas must be sleeping thought Isaac. His head rested against the stone. Just before the recording reached the 'or leave a...', the call connected.
"Silas you're still at the church?"
"Isaac I'm busy right now."
"Robinson. I'm injured."
The call ended.
"Fuck." Isaac stared at the black screen, breathing hard. His grip tightened until the phone cracked in his hand. The fabric offered little resistance as the device bent. Under his fingernails, the glass finally gave way, collapsing inward with a faint electric hiss. New blood scarred his palm.
His grip loosened. He forced himself to focus and drew a long breath. Distant whispers entered his ears. He couldn't make head or tail of it.
Isaac counted silently up to sixty then opened his palm. What was he thinking, he cursed inwardly. Thankfully, the SIM card slot was just above his index finger. With slow, careful movements, he retrieved the intact SIM card and slipped it into his wallet.
Still present, the pain felt like another kitchen blade splitting Isaac's skin. He took a look at his ribs under his clothes. A mess of pink and redness, a bit wet around the lower half but nothing flowing like in the beginning. Isaac's hand caressed the taser in his pocket.
Should he try cauterizing the cut to make sure nothing would go worse, he pondered.
He hesitated. A short intense pain for a novice medic or keep pressing it to heal slowly. YouTube video and online documentation were no longer available. As long as he stayed still it wouldn't worsen. With no music either to distract his focus, Isaac started counting again, watching the street. A distant engine rumbled somewhere down the street, growing steadily closer.
The trio from before no longer sat under a flickering streetlamp, they stood, lighting new cigs. When he reached seventy, Isaac noticed a woman in a short jacket approaching them, laughing softly as she slipped into their circle.
She leaned against the brick wall, one boot propped up, waiting for one of them to light her cigarette.
Isaac slowed his counting. Something in the scene felt off. At the far end of the street, a yellow headlight swung into view.
Her pale skin never even had time to catch the orange glow of the lighter before a rush of air sliced through the night. Before any of them reacted, a dark shape dropped from above, shattering the streetlight on impact. Indirect light source allowed Isaac to see the creature's claws hook around one of the men, lifting him off the ground in a single, fluid motion.
The woman screamed. The remaining two stumbled back, staring upward at the silhouette already disappearing into the dark.
Isaac froze, breath caught in his throat. Whatever that thing was, it was already gone.
By the time the shaken trio scattered, a black motorbike took the corner at speed, heading straight toward the church. The engine vibrated softly beneath the metal, and the narrow headlight cut a sharp line through the dark. It slowed, rolled to a stop, and parked right beside Isaac.
The driver removed his helmet. A familiar red-head came into view. Silas.
"Shit. Can't you stay in one piece, Isaac?"
Isaac managed a weak grin but didn't respond. His chest eased for the first time in hours.
With one hand, he stood up using the wall for support. Silas moved to Isaac's uninjured side, and shouldered his weight as they walked along the church wall. A reddish glow shimmered faintly across the stained glass. No stars showed in the sky, only a dull, opaque reflection.
After a few minutes, they reached the church's backdoor. Silas took a key from his pocket and pushed it open.
"And the monks?"
"Don't worry about them."
"That Silas, you are my savior."
"Well... You might drop dead next time, I guess."
"Funny as always."
Silas walked Isaac to the nurse's office. They slipped past the main hall. Isaac's heart stopped for a second. His eyes carved the image into his mind as they hurried by. He had seen something he probably shouldn't have.
In that room, the monks were arranged in three circles.
Three stood in the inner ring, tall around a golden cup, glowing dimly.
Six in the middle ring, sitting on their tibias, backs straight.
The outer ring held nine monks, their foreheads pressed to the ground in prayer.
Red liquid circling each monk, tracing lines and triangles that used the middle ring as a center, with candles marking every connecting point. A low murmur vibrated through the room, too soft to form words. None of the monks moved, not even to blink.
Sitting on a familiar table, Isaac jerked his chin toward the entrance. "...They?"
"Did you hear his voice?"
"Who?"
"Nevermind."
In the small nurse's office, Silas peeled back Isaac's shirt without ceremony. He worked fast, cleaning, packing the wound with something that smelled like pine and copper, then wrapping it tight.
"You need better protection."
"I'm trying, but..."
"How much you got?"
Isaac dug through his bag, counting the crumpled bills taken from the clown's pockets. "Around four fifty three."
"Should be enough for that ceramic vest you keep talking about?"
"Ceramic is expensive. And single-use. One shot, one save."
"Tomorrow," Silas's voice lowered. "Give me all of it. I'll get you something with ballistic steel. A bit weaker and heavier, but it can tank more than one hit."
Isaac flexed his fingers, testing the wrap. He hesitated.
Ceramic was his goal, light, clean, easy to replace after a good impact. Steel was different. It bent, warped, kept going... and every new dent could push metal deeper into his flesh. A bad hit could turn the plate into a blade.
But the money... he couldn't just steal from people. He wasn't a real criminal. Not yet, Isaac told himself. Not really. He met Silas's eyes. "You serious?"
"Yes." Silas didn't blink. "But I'll need a small favor later." Silas exhaled through his nose. "For something... personal."
Isaac studied him for a long second. "Aren't we friends?"
A small spasm flickered under the redhead's eye. "... Would I be patching your shit up if we weren't?"
The silence stretched just long enough to feel uncomfortable. Isaac spoke before Silas could throw hands. "I'll get the money."
"Rest now." Silas cleaned the room, tossing the tainted clothes into the trash bin. "I'll take you home before sunrise."
Isaac lay back on the table, thumb raised in a tired gesture. But one question gnawed at him like a splinter he couldn't reach. How the hell had he broken a phone with his bare hand? It wasn't adrenaline.
After sleeping a bit, Isaac guided Silas's motorbike through the waking city until they reached New Town district. He bid farewell to the redhead, watching Silas vanish behind a silver tanker that rumbled quietly as it carried volatile gas past the neighboring building.
Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose before stepping into his own building. Climbing the two floors to his apartment felt like wading through a fever dream. Cold sweat traced a slow path down his spine. Each step drew a complaint from the old wooden floorboards, a soft groan that seemed to echo far longer than it should.
Isaac pressed his palm over the keyhole, turning the key as quietly as he could. Darkness swallowed the living room. A shape stirred on the canopy couch, breathing. Even as his body stiffened, he shut the door, and the faint click seemed to wake it anyway.
The figure rose slowly, arm reaching for the lamp. A soft pop, and light spilled across the room. The blanket slipped to the floor. Her hair tangled, eyes puffy and red-rimmed. Emma said nothing, her gaze locked on him. She drank in the dried blood on his gloves, the fresh bandage peeking from his torn hoodie.
"You're bleeding again." she said. Not a question. Flat. Tired.
Isaac swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper. "What do you want me to say?"
"Don't."
"I was with Silas..."
"Shut up." Her voice cracked on the second syllable. "Just... shut up for once." She crossed the small living room in three steps. Up close, he could see the tremor in her hands as she grasped his sleeve. Dry and fresh crimson seeped through.
She walked three steps toward the kitchen, paused, then turned back. Her chest heaved. "I waited. All night. Again."
Emma dragged both hands through her hair. "Why are you lying? You do this again and again. If you weren't, you wouldn't disappear. And who knows where? You come back looking like... that. And I wait. Alone. Wondering if tonight's the night I lose the last piece of my family."
"This isn't normal. This isn't teenage rebellion." Her voice broke completely on the last word. "I hoped you had a girlfriend." She pressed her palm to her mouth, but a sob slipped out.
Pressure built in his chest. He opened his mouth. Closed it. "I'm sorry." There was nothing safe to say.
"You're always sorry... seven more months and we can move to Metropolis." She gestured at him, at the blood, at the exhaustion carved into every line of his body, everything would be gone then.
Isaac looked down at his boots. Mud and blood crusted together on the laces. "I'll stay tonight. I promise."
"Two hours. That's cheap." Emma went still.
Isaac didn't answer. He couldn't. She was right.
Emma stepped closer. He smelled the cheap lavender soap she always bought in bulk. She drew him into a careful hug, mindful of the bandage, of everything. He let her. For once he didn't stiffen. He just stood there, arms hanging useless at first, then slowly rising to wrap around her back.
The silence between them pressed harder than any words. Even through the closed windows, the hiss of the tanker crept into the room.
After sleeping through all his classes and half the afternoon in the park, Isaac followed Silas to the Church of Blood. No monks. Just the two of them in the backyard, and a suitcase. Silas knelt, popped the latches, and opened it. Inside, two bulletproof vests, a pistol and two magazines. He didn't bother with pleasantries. He slipped the vest over his shoulders and held the gun out to Isaac.
"Ballistic steel has no problem with a small caliber like this." Silas adjusted his straps. "Go on, shoot."
Isaac took the gun. He hesitated. It was colder than he expected. Heavier too. He flicked off the safety, breath shortening. Why was Silas so calm about this? His finger hovered over the trigger. The barrel lined up with the center of Silas's chest. Still, he couldn't press it.
Silas stepped in. The muzzle against the center of his own chest. "Don't think. Do it."
Isaac opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Silas reached out, slow and deliberate, wrapping his hand around Isaac's. His thumb settled over Isaac's index finger. And he pushed. The trigger broke. A single shot exploded at point‑blank range. Silas grunted, absorbing the impact.
"Still breathing." he said, voice a little rough. "Hurts like a punctured kick, though." Silas retreated five meters away. "Your turn."
Isaac raised the Taurus G3C, hands trembling slightly. He aimed at the center of Silas's chest, hoping the recoil wouldn't deviate the trajectory too much. He took a deep breath, squeezed his core and readied his arms.
Isaac pulled the trigger. The round struck the vest with a heavy thump. Silas staggered slightly, letting out a controlled hiss, and then peeled the vest off. Small dents marked the surface, and a faint bruise had begun to bloom on his stomach.
"See? Not invincible. But it works." Silas applied some cream on the bruises. "It should stop most shotgun slugs and rifle rounds too, but try to avoid those."
Isaac gulped. His brain felt lighter, but it wasn't a comfort. He handed over all the cash he had for the second vest. He didn't close his backpack when Silas put the gun and the two magazines inside.
"Don't lose it. It's borrowed."
"...Of course."
Silas massaged his stomach, the corner of his mouth twisting into something bitter. "Better not find your corpse on the curb."
"I'll try."
Silas closed the suitcase. He entered the church's backdoor and before closing it, made a triangle in the air, saluting Isaac. "May the old blood bless you."
The backpack weighed more than just before. "Yada yada." Isaac replied as he stepped into the street, the smell of gunpowder still clung to him. His heart thumped with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
One name among thousands, carved in gold, weighed heavier than the rest. Head down, Isaac threaded his way between the giant slabs of black marble, casting nervous glances over his shoulder at every corner. Was someone following him?
He froze. For a treacherous second, he heard it again, that warm yet trembling voice in the hospital before the city was cleaved in half.
'Isaac... listen to me. You can't forget... but you have to be the better man and forgive.'
His teeth ached from clenching so hard. A metallic taste filled his mouth. He shook his head violently, trying to rip the words out of his skull. The chemical stench hit him before he even realized he had left the memorial grounds. He had reached the rotting industrial strip of Old Gotham far faster than he should have.
For years this zone had been nothing but a rusting maze of shipping containers, a growing wasteland fed by the occasional new arrival. Gang members slipped between them like ants, gathering in the shadows while guards kept their distance. The pay wasn't worth getting close.
Isaac had never set foot here. He circled the nearest container twice, jaw tight. Old yellow paint covered every side, but no number, no name. If they were all like this, finding Warehouse 17 would take forever.
He stopped. Searching blindly was pointless. Instead of hunting for a number, he'd hunt for the clowns. Wherever they gathered, that was his best lead.
No footsteps. No voices. Isaac pulled the bulletproof vest under his clothes without slowing, the weight dragging at his back. He tightened the straps, slid the gun into his belt, and kept moving.
A flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision.
He spun, gun snapping up. Not a clown, too fluid. The figure leaped onto a container's roof and disappeared. Isaac held his aim until the muffled footsteps faded, then lowered the weapon, index still on the trigger.
He checked the next alley. Another empty corridor of yellow and blue boxes. He swept it, crouched at the corner, and leaned forward just enough to see ahead.
The moon's weak light brushed his back as he crept to the end of the container. He stopped. There was a faint, rhythmic tapping, something hitting the ground repeatedly.
Three clowns were sitting near a battered blue container, rifles slung over their shoulders. The one leaning against the metal wall tapped his foot nervously while his eyes swept the shadows. Just behind them, a thick fist-sized padlock gleamed dully, sealing the container doors.
Isaac scanned each face, heart tight. Maybe it was the bad lighting... His arm trembled as he kept the gun trained on the group.
"Man, I can't wait to see the boss lady... I just wanna touch her feet." said a clown with two stars painted on his face, rubbing his palms together eagerly.
The tallest one snorted and elbowed him in the ribs. "Heard if you pin her 'dogs' she gives you a real good time afterwards." His grin stretched the cracked white paint on his cheeks.
"Will you two idiots shut up?" Snapped the third clown, the only one actually watching their surroundings. "You tryna get Mister J paying you a midnight visit?"
None of them was Frank. Isaac forced himself to take a slow step back. If he stayed any longer, he wasn't sure he wouldn't pull the trigger.
"Fuckin' Arthur..."
"I'm Bozo, asshole!" Bozo stopped tapping his foot.
"Don't care, Bozo." The stars clown kicked the side of the blue container. The metal rang out like a hollow drum. "Thanks to your broken-down car we're stuck here tomorrow instead of smashing those Superman-worshipping pricks with everyone else."
"Boss promised us fireworks..."
Bozo slammed the butt of his rifle into the tall clown's side, stopping him.
Isaac took one last look. No Warehouse 17. Just three armed idiots and a locked blue container. He tightened his grip on the gun and slipped back into the maze. Inside its blue gut, no breeze could slip through. Containers piled high blocked out the sky.
Somewhere, metal creaked. Rusty doors wailed, softly. After an hour of wandering the maze, Isaac had found no other crews, only the same guard who'd decided to turn back and resume his patrol.
Isaac drifted back toward the earlier area. Before the blue container came into view, a soft voice slipped out of the shadows above.
"Hmmmm..." A slim figure dropped down onto the next container, outside his line of fire. "I swear I've seen your face somewhere." Her mask tilted, the pointed ears tracking the barrel of his gun.
Isaac lowered his stance, gun targeting the ground. "...What do you want?"
"Nothing you can't handle... A little running, a little sneaking." Her fingers traced the metal beside her, skittering like tiny legs.
"Like what exactly?"
"See that?" Her index flicked toward the green container, hiding the blue one behind it. "Yeah, that little box over there. Full of paint and other boring goodies."
Isaac watched her head rolling to the side, exposing her mouth. "And what do I get out of it?"
"A kiss. A real one, if you behave."
"Yeah, no. I'm out."
Isaac turned to leave but the figure slid to the ground. "Running already?" Her voice carried a hint of regret. "Shame. You're cuter when you're desperate." She leaned just enough to expose her head and one leg, the rest of her body still hidden behind the container's edge. "Six for me, four for you. By the way, if you insist, I can even pay in cash afterward."
Money wasn't something to turn down if the job was easy. "They're armed."
"Relax. You distract them, I slip inside. Easy."
"No fucking way."
This city never ran out of psychos. Who would even accept a deal like that? Isaac raised his arm.
"Fine." She lifted her arm high, empty, no weapons. "I draw their attention, you go in." A faint, fruity scent reached Isaac. "But you've got zero experience. You'll barely grab a few hundred bucks." Light caught in her eyes as she leaned forward. "If I go, we're talking five thousand at least. Think again."
Same clothes. Different location. It was her, from the prison cell.
"You go. I enter."
Catwoman clicked her tongue in annoyance, though the corner of her mouth lifted. "Let's meet afterward behind the fifth memorial stele." Her silhouette sprinted in silence toward the other side. "Try not to die." she tossed over her shoulder.
The teen stepped back to the edge of the path, spotting the blue container and the three rifles guarding it. He tightened the bulletproof vest. Its weight reassured him. It should hold for a few hits, he hoped. Did I just trap myself, Isaac wondered.
A distant metallic thud echoed through the maze.
"Heard that?"
"Shut it, Arthur."
"Think it's Batman?"
The trio turned north, toward the source of the noise.
"Hey boys. Miss me?" Twenty meters away, Catwoman flicked a rusty handle. It clattered against the tallest clown's boot.
"Get that bitch!" Bozo barked but stayed behind. His eyes followed the other two as they charged after her.
Once they vanished around the corner, Isaac counted to thirty, making sure they were far enough. He still had one clown to deal with. Unlike last time in the old basketball court, there was no way to get closer without being seen.
Isaac first aimed at the head. Bozo wasn't looking. Just another piece of trash. The barrel lowered toward the torso. Bigger target, less chance of missing. A shot to the lung or stomach would be fatal. His visor steadied on the left leg instead.
Isaac took a deep breath. Only white noise filled his ears.
Fire burst out. Bozo screamed as his leg exploded in blood. A second shot smacked into the container, spraying blue paint. Isaac sprinted forward and fired three more times. Two of the rounds tore into Bozo's leg and arm. The rifle thrown atop of the next container.
Bozo threw his arms over his face, trembling.
The hot barrel drew a straight line toward the cracked makeup.
For a split second, Isaac wondered if he had looked like this back then.
He didn't press the trigger. Instead, he lunged forward. Hammering the metal cross down on the clown's skull until there was no resistance, just breathing.
Blood smeared across his hands. There was no key in Bozo's pocket. Isaac grabbed the fist-sized padlock. His phone wasn't full metal, but it still snapped in half. With all the strength and whatever emotion he had at that time, he squeezed.
The padlock wasn't the same afterward. A faint imprint marked the metal. Not his hand, smaller and six fingers.
He raised the Taurus G3C and fired into the padlock's keyhole. The metal dented, but not enough. He pulled the trigger again. The slide didn't move. Something was stuck.
Heart pounding, Isaac ripped out the magazine and racked the gun hard. A twisted round fell to the ground. By the time he looked up, the two clowns were already at the far end of the container alley, rifles leveled at him.
A bullet shaved the edge of his boot.
Isaac bolted, firing blindly over his shoulder as he ran. Two meters ahead, blue paint burst off the container wall. His lungs burned. He took the right corner at full speed. Something ricocheted off the ground behind him. He pushed harder. The chemical stench grew stronger with every step.
Then he saw it, a gap in the metal mesh, half‑torn open. He didn't think. He dove through it. Gunfire echoed off, lost in the maze. By the time he slammed into a crumbling stone wall, he was already out of the industrial zone. He didn't stop. He ran until the tower of containers vanished behind him.
Near the slabs of black marble, a slim figure waited for someone who never came that night.
Gathered since six in the morning, a group of fanatics in red caps played music on top of a red kiosk and shouted slogans in front of City Hall. Police officers kept their distance, making sure the path to the Memorial Steles was marked with white arrows on the asphalt and secured with Vauban barriers.
Hours later, after lunch time, at five to two in the afternoon, hundreds had gathered. Cars, trucks and bikes moved slowly inside the human maze. An artistic car was even used to hold fridge-size speakers, blasting the speeches of self‑proclaimed leaders.
"Justice for Superman!" A
"He saves lives, he's a savior!"
"We are here, even if you don't want, we are here for him!"
Isaac drank a cup of coffee on the side. Caffeine wasn't as energizing as the front row holding a banner several meters long, filled with signatures of a father, a mother, a son, a daughter who'd been saved by Superman. Four hours already and no clown in sight, only policemen in blue and other lost youths like him among the population.
A strange vibration crept through the square. A few heads turned. Isaac frowned. Engines, maybe. Or just his nerves. Hard to tell in that kind of noise.
A speeding black car, if one could even call it that. More like an armored tank in civilian clothes cut through the street just ahead the crowd. It impacted a closed magazine kiosk. The frail glass door didn't stand a chance. It shattered on impact.
The stench of burning plastic and paper hit Isaac's nose at the same time blue and black smoke covered the ground. People stumbled. A shadow flew from above.
"...Gordon the perimeter, take them out."
Isaac barely heard the voice before the red kiosk burst into flames and a large projectile trashed out Gotham Knight. Eaten by the mobs, under their rioting feet.
Fireworks detonated over the building behind the City Hall. Isaac couldn't hear from his left side. His hand grabbed the gun from his belt. Ahead of him, a man in a cheap grey coat stood unnaturally still, shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to fold himself into the crowd. He didn't scream. He put on a mask.
The plastic clown face caught the sunlight. White cheeks, blue diamonds around the eyes and a red mouth stretched into a smile. He pressed a small controller in his palm.
Ten small trucks from five different avenues slammed against the crowd. Two vehicles didn't make it past the police line, and the hidden military units shot half of the others down.
A boot hit Isaac's head. Part of a grey pant leg still attached to it, burned and crimson. He crouched down. The ground tore apart. Shattered asphalt, landed on his skin, hot.
He had to leave this place.
When a new gang member climbed onto the top of the artistic car, sawed-off shotgun in hand, Isaac's pupils enlarged. That face, despite the sunken cheeks and the new eyepatch, he couldn't be wrong. His lips tore open. "...Frank?... WAIT!!!", he screamed.
No more than ten seconds later, the car crushed the abdomen of a schoolgirl and the leg of an overweight man before ramming against the metallic barrier, taking with it six innocent protestors and a security officer.
Isaac elbowed a panicked face, jumped above the crying mother and lifted his arm. "Move out the way fucker! Damn...", he didn't care and shot.
The bullet hit the car window. It shattered. Two workers pushed each other aside to keep a distance from Isaac. The constant noise didn't hide the shot. It made it home. Something wetted his eyebrow.
Not even a step later, the subway underground swallowed hundreds.
As he fell, Isaac grabbed a metallic bar. The cold didn't register in his hand when the bar brought down the rest of the street with it. Broken ribs and fractured backs reduced the fall impact. He survived, but not his savior, nor his neighbor.
Dust filled his sight and mouth. The light from above reached for dispersed gathering of flesh, stones and cables. Meters away, over the stopped wagon, the artistic car crumbled speakers and citizens alike.
Isaac pressed against his ribs, it still hurt but no blood. He spat more grey than saliva. Alarm filled his intact ears more than the many complaints all around.
Green hair, blond head, poorly painted faces crawled at the end of the station. They entered the wagon. He followed.
An elderly more than eighty, full of wrinkles grabbed Isaac's leg, trembling with effort. Half her waist stuck under debris. Away, the clowns jumped on the railway. Tears slid on the grandma's cheek. He put his hand over the debris and pulled. Her frail fingers bled on the holed floor.
It weighed more than he could bear. The elderly had move less than ten centimeter away, part of the debris crumbled under Isaac's fingernails. Some fell over her ankle.
Isaac let go of his hand. Faster than before, he pulled the older woman away from the stone and metal scraps. Blue and red covered her lower half. She would live. He sprinted away. He needed information. He couldn't let them escape. Trashing a crawling clown. Under the mask, bitter laughter.
Isaac dropped to the clown's level. The laugh died. His last eye widened first but the muscles around his mouth tightened. "...Isaac?"