Absolute Zero

   Over the last year, a lot of things have happened to me. After I got hit by a bolt of lightning and drenched in a random bunch of chemicals, I ended up connected to something I call the Speed Force. It's like this energy that's constantly running through me. I don't know if I'm drawing power from it, or if I'm generating it, or what, but whenever I move at all—especially when I run—it feels like it's getting more powerful. It does some cool things. First of all, I can move incredibly fast. I've never been able to accurately time myself, but I'd say that I'm easily breaking every speed record known to man. I can even run across water. My body heals really fast, too. Every time I've been burnt, cut, or bruised since the accident, I've been perfectly fine after only a few minutes. I think the Speed Force protects me from friction and impact a little while I'm moving at super-speed, too. Lucky, since I've run into a few walls here and there.  Lastly, I made this cool red jacket; it's coated in a slick polymer that cuts down on air friction and acts like a conductor for the Speed Force. I keep it with me wherever I am and put it on every time I run, so whenever someone looks at me, all they see is a red blur. Iris even wrote an award-winning story about me, though she doesn't know that it's me, of course. Just "the Red Blur." Speaking of Iris, I need to be across town right this second...

   Iris sat quietly at the outdoor café waiting for Barry. He was late. For anyone else, this would have been merely a minor annoyance, but Iris prided herself on speed and impatience. It was what made her a good reporter; why she was the only person in the city to be able to get a decent story on the Red Blur. She tapped her foot under the table as she sipped her coffee, eyes darting back and forth for a sign of her date. She waited a while longer, then called his phone. He didn't answer. Finally, she grabbed her purse and started to get up.
   "Leaving already?"
   Iris looked up across the table and saw Barry sitting there. Iris did a double-take. She could swear he wasn't anywhere in sight two seconds ago.
   "You're late."
   Barry checked his watch. "I'm exactly... two minutes and two seconds late. So... I'm sorry?"
   Iris frowned a little and checked her own watch. Had it really been only two minutes? It had.
   "Huh," she said, sitting back down. "Felt like longer."
   "Tell you what," Barry said, "I'll make it up to you. You're probably almost done with that, right?"
   Iris looked into her cup. Sure enough, she'd nearly finished the entire thing in those two minutes. She wondered if she could be classified as a drug addict.
   Barry got up. "A triple-shot house blend, right?"
   Iris lightly smiled and nodded. Barry was a little dorky, being a science geek and all, but he was sweet. And pretty hot. But that wasn't for him to know.

   Iris's phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. "Rudy West." Iris rolled her eyes. It was her older brother's phone number, but it was almost certainly not him calling. It had to be Wally, Rudy's five-year-old boy. Iris loved her little nephew, honestly, but he did get a little bit annoying at times with the way he always followed her around and asked her questions about the Red Blur.
   Iris sighed and answered the phone.
   "IRIS!" a tiny voice yelled from across the line. "THE RED BLUR JUST STOPPED A BAD GUY AT THE BANK!"
   Iris shot up from her chair, purse in hand. "Which bank?!"
   Barry walked out of the café, steaming new coffee in-hand.
   "Sorry Barry, I've gotta run!" Iris said quickly, running off.
   Barry stood in place, awkwardly unsure of what to do.
   Iris suddenly appeared at his side again, gently lifting the coffee out of his hand.
   "Thanks! I'll, um... see you later."
   And she was gone again.
   Iris felt a little bad about ditching Barry, but work always came first for her. Besides, it wasn't like Barry was her boyfriend or anything. They'd just gone out a few times.
   Barry's phone rang; he answered it.
   "Mr. Forrest?"
   "Barry. I'm on my way to a crime scene."
   "The one at Ducard National Bank? Sure; I'll be there."
   "No, not that one. Apparently that was a decoy robbery; another quieter theft happened over at Elias Labs."
   Barry stood in silence for a few seconds. It was a decoy? It seemed real enough. Was it there to distract the police, or to distract him?
   "Barry?"
   "Sorry, Mr. Forrest. I'll be right there."

   "What was taken, specifically?" Detective Curtis asked.
   "Just one thing, oddly enough," the doctor replied. "An absolute zero module."
   "A what?"
   Barry's eyes widened. "You finally completed work on it?"
   Barry had been standing quietly out of the way and doing nothing but observing until now. Curtis liked it that way. But Barry was very familiar with the work of Dr. Darwin Elias, and couldn't stop himself from excitedly opening his mouth.
   Dr. Elias smiled. "A fan, eh? Yeah. I finished it. I hadn't announced that I was done; only my assistants actually knew it was completed."
   Curtis wasn't happy with being left out of the loop. "What exactly is this..."
   "Absolute zero module," Elias said. "It's a small metal device, around three inches long and two inches wide. Roughly shaped like an oblong sphere, with angular sides. When it's activated, the sides of it glow blue."
   Curtis nearly rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but what does it do?"
   "With nothing more than the simplest electrical current flowing through it, the module creates an internal temperature of absolute zero. There is literally no way to make anything any colder than that."
   "And that would be useful to a criminal because...?"
   Elias shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe to sell it? The tech could fetch a price of millions if sold to the right foreign country or organization."
   "Gotcha. Okay, so which one of your assistants would you say most likely did it?"
   "Oh, none of them!"
   Curtis rolled his eyes. "Really, doctor..."
   "No, honestly! I only hired people I knew I could trust. All of them truly love science. Their motives in being here are purely altruistic. I'm sure of it."
   "But you said no one other than them even knew the module was done."
   "Yes... I don't know how anyone else would have known."
   Barry looked around. Since being given the Speed Force, he'd had to hone his observational skills. Too many instances of tripping and hitting walls otherwise. Barry glanced around the room, taking in every detail. Something caught his eye.
   "Dr. Elias," he said, "what about the janitorial staff?"
   Elias slapped his forehead. "Of course. We tend to forget they're there; we're so focused on work, you see. But yes, now that you mention it, I don't recall seeing the normal morning janitor today."
   "Do you know his name?" Curtis asked.
   Elias thought for a moment. "...Leonard. That's the name on his tag. I can find you his records."

   As soon as Leonard Snart's information was given to the police, Barry took off. In case Snart was dangerous, there was no reason for the police to put themselves at risk. Barry zipped up his jacket and pulled on a mask made of the same slick red material. The mask was more of a cowl, actually, covering everything but his mouth, nose, and eyes.

   Just as Barry was about to run, his phone rang. It was Iris.
   "Hey! Barry!" Iris said as soon as Barry clicked the answer button. "Is there any chance you coud give me the exclusive on the perp behind the Elias Labs robbery?"
   Barry really did not want to tell her, but it'd be easier just to give her what she wanted and get on his way. "The suspect's name is Leonard Snart. He's a janitor at the lab. The police are on their way to his place now."
   Barry and Iris said their goodbyes then hung up. Barry took a deep breath then started sprinting towards the opposite side of town.

   Barry reached Snart's apartment and knocked. There was no answer. Barry slammed a super-speed fist down onto the doorknob and it broke apart. Barry rubbed his sore hand, then slowly pushed the door open.
   It was dark; every curtain was pulled shut and every blind closed. On the kitchen table, a layer of frost covered a collection of various metal parts and tools. Snart had clearly toyed with and activated the module, but it was nowhere to be found.
   "Looking for this?"
   Barry spun around to see the voice behind him. Snart, dressed in a full hooded parka, stood with a strange gun pointed at Barry's head. Snart pulled the trigger, and Barry felt a wave of cold nothingness wash over him. The water in the air crystalized in front of his eyes, turning thick and solid. Barry quickly realized that he couldn't move. In a mere few seconds, Barry was completely encased in a gigantic chunk of ice, a look of pale lifelessness on his face.

Runtime

   Barry snapped awake. An officer he didn't recognize was crouched next to him, yelling. Barry squinted; the lights in the room had gone out, but the officer was shining a flashlight straight into his eyes.
   "Woah, kid! What happened?!" the officer asked.
   "...Lightning bolt. Window," Barry groaned, rubbing his head.
   "C'mon! We gotta get you to a hospital!"
   Barry shook his head. "Why?"
   The officer took a step back and shined the light across Barry's body. The burn scars were completely gone. If not for the charred holes in Barry's clothes, you'd never know anything had happened. The chemical soup had suddenly dried as well, leaving only dust behind.
   Barry checked his watch: 11:48 PM.
   "Oh, man! Sorry, officer, curfew's in ten minutes! I gotta get home!"
   Barry jumped up and ran out the door, leaving the officer confused and questioning his own sanity.

   Barry ran through the entrance doors of the CCPD, skipped down the front steps, and turned down the street towards the suburbs. If he ran the whole way, he could make it home and only be five minutes late. Maybe.
   Central City always had a thing for speed. Pedestrians were always pushing past each other to get where they were going as fast as possible, cars were always zooming through the streets at all hours of day and night, and virtually everyone seemed to be addicted to caffeine. But tonight, as Barry sprinted down block after block, he half-noticed that the city seemed a lot... quieter. Calmer. Slow, almost. It was odd, but Barry didn't really have time to stop and stare at the traffic.
   Finally, Barry reached his front door. He quietly turned the key and opened the door, hoping his mother would have already gone to sleep. She hadn't.
   Barry heard her voice from across the living room. "Hmm. Eight minutes to go. Good job."
   Barry frowned and looked at his watch: 11:50 PM.
   That's weird, he thought. Must have not read my watch right the first time...

   The alarm clock buzzed. Barry hated that alarm. He groggily reached over and slammed the snooze button.
   As Barry slowly sat up, he tried to remember last night's events. He looked down at his clothes, burnt and torn in a few places. Did he really get hit with a bolt of lightning? Or did it just hit near him? He couldn't be sure. He probably should have taken up that officer's offer to go to a hospital, although he really did feel perfectly fine at the moment—just tired. In any case, it was nine in the morning on Saturday, and he needed to get ready before meeting up with Forrest again at eleven—except that it wasn't nine; it was eleven.
   Barry felt a panicked shock run through his brain; how could he have slept this late, through two straight hours of his alarm ringing? He jumped out of bed and threw his clothes on—then took them off again, remembering that he still needed to take a shower—showered, dressed again, then took off out the door. His mother had taken their only car to work, and Barry didn't have a bike, so his only option was to get there on foot.
   Barry began running and focused very intently on doing so. Maybe he'd get lucky again and somehow get there on time. As he pushed himself, however, he noticed an odd feeling. He wasn't getting tired; he was getting more energized—he was getting faster. Every time his foot hit the ground, it seemed to burst forth with some kind of energy. Barry felt it crackle as he ran, like static. He felt himself surge forward, not realizing what was happening. His legs moved one in front of the other like the spokes of a wheel; he couldn't stop running. The world around him blurred into a maelstrom of golden light and wind. He felt himself instinctively moving around large objects, but still moving forward like a blind jet engine.
   At this point, Barry started to freak out.

   Eventually, Barry stopped trying to force his legs to be still; it wasn't working. He did his best to calm his focus and clear his head. He felt like an engine that was simultaneously generating and being pushed forward by a kind of force. Like electricity, but made of literal motion; a speed force. Instead of trying to control his body, Barry focused on that energy. With all the will he could find, he mentally guided the speed force through himself and slowed it to a crawl.

   Barry found himself standing in a grassy area behind a few trees. He looked to his left and saw a city street; he looked up and saw a billboard: "Welcome to Coast City! Pop. 4,015,026."
   Coast City was in California. Central City was in Missouri. Barry probably should have been panicked, but he was a little more astonished. His mind raced at the possibilities. Did he now have some kind of special ability? Was this connected to that lab accident last night?
   Barry heard a girl yelling over his right shoulder; he turned to see a teenage boy and girl in front of a high school.
   "HOW COULD YOU, HAL?!"
   "Diana, I was just—"
   "NO. FORGET IT."
   Diana stormed off into the distance. Barry thought he heard a slab of concrete crack as she stomped away.
   Barry slowly walked out of the trees and toward the school. He wasn't really sure he could get back home the way he came, so he decided it'd be best to see if he could grab a phone and call someone. He began making his way up the front steps when he felt himself fall. It was like he was a pitcher of water that someone had tipped over, and now he was losing energy fast.
   "Woah, you okay?"
   Barry felt a firm hand grab his arm, holding him up.
   "...Yeah, thanks."
   Barry looked up; it was the boy from earlier.
   "You're Hal, right?"
   "Yeah. Do I know you?"
   "No, but I think everyone in a mile radius heard your girlfriend's yelling."
   Hal winced. "She's not my girlfriend anymore."
   "Sorry about that."
   "Nah, I deserved it."
   Hal looked Barry over. "So are you okay, really?"
   "Yeah, I just... went running, and got kinda winded."

   Sirens echoed off in the distance. From here, Barry and Hal could see two police cars and a van in pursuit of a single blue Mustang. Hal smirked a little at the car; it was a 2006 model, the same one that Mischa—a girl from Hal's school—drove. Hal rubbed his neck; that car's backseat was really cramped. The Mustang driver did a few quick turns and dodged around a corner of thick bushes and trees where the police cars couldn't see him. As it turned out, that spot happened to be right in front of where Barry and Hal were standing. By sheer coincidence, Mischa was also driving her Mustang on the same street. The unknown Mustang driver pulled over and parked on the side of the street between two SUVs, well-hidden from glancing eyes. When the police arrived and saw Mischa's car turning around the corner, the police followed her instead. Once the police had left, the other Mustang zoomed off in the opposite direction towards the highway.
   Hal felt a heavy weight in his gut when he realized what was going on.
   "We have to go after them."
   Barry blinked. "What?"
   "That armored car was from Border Patrol's bomb squad. That car's carrying a bomb, and the police are going the wrong way."
   Hal grabbed Barry's shoulder. "COME ON!"
   Barry just went along with it.
   Hal jumped into his car—which was conveniently parked in the reserved space of a teacher who was out sick that day—and waited a split-second for Barry to get in before gunning the engine and screeching out of the parking lot.
   Barry reached for his phone to call 911, but his pocket was empty. Barry slapped his forehead.
   "What?!" Hal asked.
   "I left my phone at home. Do you have yours?"
   "My phone's out of minutes."
   "Doesn't matter; a 911 call will still go through."
   "Okay, um..."
   Hal shifted gears hard and skidded around a corner.
   "THERE! That's them!"
   The blue Mustang was right ahead of them, just entering the on-ramp for Broome Highway, aimed straight for the city.
   "Where's your phone?" Barry asked.
   "Um, it's in my pocket."
   Hal reached for his pocket, but quickly threw his hand back onto the gear shift as he swerved around a car and downshifted.
   "I need both hands! You get it!"
   "...You want me to take your phone out of your pants pocket?"
   "YES!"
   "...Really?"
   "YES. WE DON'T HAVE A CHOICE. Just... don't tell anyone after this."
   "Trust me, I won't."
   Half a second later, Hal felt something leave his pocket, and Barry was already holding the phone.
   "That was fast."
   "Didn't wanna spend more time in your pants than I needed to."
   "Thanks."
   "...Hey, Hal, shouldn't we be, I don't know, more discreet? I mean, you're chasing them down like it's the end of the world. I bet they know we're following them."
   The Mustang's passenger window rolled down and a man leaned out. A man holding an AK-47.
   Barry and Hal's eyes went wide as the gun erupted in flashes of fire and a hail of bullets. The boys ducked down, barely missing getting their heads torn apart.
   Barry glanced down at the phone; it had a bullet-sized hole torn through it. Well, now they were out of options. Barry opened his mouth to yell that Hal should turn around when he froze. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the skyscrapers of downtown Coast City, right where they were heading. The sign Barry had seen earlier read the city's population as over four million. If these people they were chasing really had a bomb, then over four million people could die unless they were stopped.
   "Hal, keep the car steady."
   "What? Why? What are you—"
   Barry slowly opened the passenger side door, pushing it forward against the wind. He put one foot outside the door, then quickly threw himself outside and started his feet moving before he hit the concrete.
   Barry felt his feet moving like pistons in an engine, driving themselves forward. Summoning all his will, he took control of his body entirely. This "speed force" was his to own now.
   Barry ran forward, easily catching up to the Mustang. A trail of golden lightning followed in his wake. Barry grabbed the rather confused man holding the gun and pulled him through the window, throwing him off the highway and into the waters of the harbor below.
   Barry ran around the front of the car toward the driver's side. He made eye contact with the driver, who seemed more than a bit bewildered. When Barry saw the driver pull out a gun, Barry decided to try something crazy. He'd noticed that his legs hadn't shattered from pounding the ground at a thousand miles an hour, so maybe the speed force gave him some kind of protection against hitting things at high speeds? Barry punched straight through the glass like it was made of sugar, knocking out the driver in the same move. With his arm inside the car, Barry gently turned the wheel towards the highway's concrete divider and moved out of the way. The car drifted towards the divider and hit it, slowly grinding to a halt from the friction. Barry zoomed back to Hal's car while it was still moving, opened the door, and sat down inside.

   "...Barry?"
   "Yeah?"
   "...What was that?"
   "Um... I don't really know yet."

Flashback

One Year Ago

   This is just so cool.

   Sixteen-year-old Barry sat in a corner of the Central City crime lab, completely overjoyed. He'd been shadowing James Forrest, a CSI with the CCPD, as a special project for his A.P. Chemistry class. The project actually ended two weeks ago, but Barry conveniently failed to mention that to Forrest. Forrest knew what Barry was up to, but didn't mind. Forrest liked Barry; he was a very bright, very good kid who soaked up every detail of forensic work like his life depended on it.
   Forrest liked to give Barry little projects to work on, just so he'd get a taste of what real CSI work was like. One day, he had Barry use nothing but a pocket calculator, a pencil, and paper to determine the exact angle that a hypothetical bullet would have traveled along in order to hit a specific target. Another day, Barry's task was to cross-reference around three hundred photos and fifty pages' worth of information on knife wounds to figure out exactly what type of weapon was used on a dead body. Tonight, Barry was working on figuring out a specific chemical combination to reveal a unique type of Chinese hidden ink. Barry managed to complete every single task to absolute perfection—sometimes above the standard of most of the actual CSIs in Central—but he worked very slowly. It was a trade-off, Forrest thought. Barry might take forever to find a solution, but once he did it was a sure bet that he was right. If he ever became a CSI here at Central, he'd be a good balance for the rest of the lab, who valued speed over accuracy.
   Barry felt a tap on his shoulder.
   "Hey, Barry, it's time to go. It's ten-thirty."
   Barry looked at his watch and sighed loudly. He hated the fact that he worked so slowly.
   "Mr. Forrest, I'm almost done, if I could just have a few more minutes..."
   Forrest glanced over Barry's written progress thus far.
   "Looks like you've got around a half-hour of work more to go."
   Barry nodded sullenly.
   "But..." Forrest began, "I guess I could let you stay here by yourself a bit longer. You've been around here long enough to know the rules. Just be careful and don't touch anything on your way out."
   Barry sighed with relief.
   "Thanks, Mr. Forrest!"
   Forrest nodded and left.

   As it turned out, Barry needed another 45 minutes to finish his assignment. By the time he was done, he felt like he'd merged with the office chair he was sitting in. He stood up, stretched, and gently put all the chemical bottles back into the glass cases lining the shelves.
   Lightning cracked outside the window. Barry was a little bit startled. He'd been so enveloped in his work that he hadn't even noticed the huge thunderstorm outside.
   The CCPD lab had an entire wall of windows overlooking the city; Barry had been working was at one corner of that wall; the adjacent wall was the one lined with chemical shelves.
   Barry felt the hairs on his neck begin to stand on end.

   An insanely bright flash of light rammed through the window, through Barry, and into the glass shelves. Before Barry could even take a split-second to finish thinking "so that's what getting struck by lightning feels like," the chemical bottles shattered, drenching him in a maelstrom of burning liquid.

   A few seconds later, Barry was found unconscious, drenched in a multicolored soup, covered in burn scars from head to toe, and intermittently sparking with electricity.

The Hooked Man

   "You're sure about this? A hook for a hand?"

   "Definitely. It just took me a bit to remember."

   Bruce and Crispus stood outside a small shop. The crackled neon sign above read "CUSTOM GUNS." Bruce glanced at Crispus; he didn't appear to have any memory of being possessed by Boston. Definitely for the better that way.

   Bruce and Crispus entered the shop. Crispus resisted the urge to sneer at the very air inside. It galled him that with all the violent crime in the city, this shop was allowed to remain open—especially here in North Gotham, where murder was more commonplace than birth.

   The shop owner was alone in the store; it being the daytime, most of his customers were nowhere to be found. At the sight of Crispus, the owner seemed to stiffen. Good, Crispus thought. He recognizes an out-of-uniform detective; he's connected.

   "How can I help you?" the man said, his eyes nervously looking back and forth between Bruce and Crispus.

   "Detective Allen," Crispus said, lifting his badge. "Have you sold any rifle attachments to accommodate an amputee?"

   "An amputee?"

   "For instance, a man with a hook on his left hand?"

   "...Wh-why would you come to me about this?"

   "We have reason to believe that a man with a hook on his left hand used a rifle to commit murder last night. You machine custom gun parts, is that right?"

   "Y-yes—"

   "So tell me."

   Bruce watched the shopkeeper's brain working rapidly behind his eyes, weighing the options. Bruce guessed it was between risking jail time and risking retribution from his customer.

   "Okay," he said, leaning in close. "Listen, I normally don't like to ask questions. I just make what the customer wants and leave it at that. But this guy... he scares me, man. He came in last week, with a big shiny hook on his left, like you said. Said he needed something to help him hold his gun. Gave me a blueprint for the design and everything."

   "You still have that blueprint?" Crispus asked.

   "Yeah." The man rummaged through a drawer near the front desk. "Here." He laid out the blueprint. The design showed an addition to the underside of a rifle; it had a circular hole with precise dimensions, as well as an intricately-carved design. It looked like a crest of some sort.

   "He wanted you to carve this into the gun?" Crispus asked, pointing to the crest.

   "I told him that wasn't my thing; I could make the piece, but I ain't an artist. He kinda sneered at me. Real creepy-like. Told me to just make the piece then. Then he left and came back two days ago to pick it up."

   "You get any information on him?"

   "So, like I said, I don't normally ask questions, but this guy was different. I asked a few of my buddies, and they said they heard about some kinda secret society meeting up at Walker Pier, in the East warehouse."

   "Secret society?"

   "That explains the crest," said Bruce.

   Crispus thought it all over for a few seconds. "Alright. Thanks for your cooperation. Mind if I take this?"

   The shopkeeper nodded vigorously. "Yeah; sure. Take it," he said, handing the blueprint to Crispus.

   As Crispus turned to leave, Bruce stopped. "Why are you so eager to help?" he asked the man. "You're five blocks from Crime Alley; surely you don't rat out all your customers like this."

   "...Like I said, man. This guy was creepy. And if he's really part o' some secret society... nobody needs that in Gotham. 'Sides, I hear about what they do to people like me. Outsiders who find out about 'em. They turn up dead. So, way I see it, you blue boys take 'em down, everyone's happy."

   "So what now?" Bruce asked once they were outside.

   "Now I call Montoya and have her do a check on Walker Pier. See if there really is anyone there. If there is, we might sweep in as early as tonight. Don't wanna risk them skipping town."

   "I want to be there."

   "No."

   "What?!"

   "Bruce, no. There's no way I'm letting you tag along in what's probably gonna be a gunfight."

   "I deserve this!"

   "You don't deserve a thing. You've helped, and I appreciate that. But you're also not a cop. You haven't taken that oath; you're not trained. Go home; I'll let you know if anything happens."

   Bruce turned and walked away.

   Bruce walked through what was now called "Old Gotham." It wasn't actually the oldest part of the city, but it the lively nature of the place had entirely disappeared in the last ten years, mostly replaced by corruption. The buildings were cracked and rotting; parents kept their children indoors. Most of the people in this part of the city were too poor to move anywhere else; they just did what they could to keep a living. Bruce passed an old movie theater that had long since shut down. He merely stared at it for a while, standing under the dark shadow of a nearby balcony. The street was entirely deserted.

   "You still here?" he said.

   Boston suddenly appeared, floating at his right. "Yeah. Now that Zatanna showed me it's possible, I can control whether or not people see and hear me in my ghost form. So, hey, you're not gonna just let them leave you outta this, are ya?"

   "What choice do I have?"

   "We go get this hook man before the cops show up."

   "...How?"

   "I can go float on over to the GCPD. See when they're planning their raid. Then you an' I can sneak in before they get there and grab that sonofa—"

   "Why do you need me for this? Couldn't you just go in yourself and possess the guy? Make him walk into the police station?"

   "...Hey, I'd be lyin' if I said it hadn't crossed my mind. Hell, I'd probably make him walk off a cliff. But I figure I owe ya for helpin' me track him down. And besides, it seems like you've got somethin' personal to deal with here. I know how that can weigh on your conscience. So I wanna help."

   Bruce wanted to say thank you, but he couldn't quite at the moment. "Alright. We'll meet up later. I have something to do first."

   Bruce turned down an alley near the theater. Halfway down the path, he stopped and knelt.

   Here, he thought. This is where it happened. I promise you, mother, father... I'll make it right.

   Bruce peered at the docks from the shadows of a nearby fire escape. The sun had set an hour earlier; it was perfect. Only moonlight and a few street lamps illuminated the area. Bruce knew enough of Gotham to know that this was truly when the city woke. When the few good people of Gotham slept, and the rest—the dark underbelly, the true power of Gotham—arose.
   The image of Boston appeared at Bruce's side.
   "They got ten guys spread across the docks keepin' watch. All of 'em armed. Then there's twenny more in the main warehouse. Sharp-lookin' guys, those. If I had'ta guess, I'd say they're the brains of this whole thing."
   "Did you see the man with the hook?"
   "Nah, but I heard two of 'em sayin that somebody was comin'. I figure it's gotta be him."
   As if in answer, a car pulled up to the docks. From here, Bruce and Boston could see a man step out. Bruce strained his eyes to see if... yes. There it was. The same glint of metal on his hand. This had to be him.
   Boston gritted his teeth and clenched his translucent fist.
   "I got him."
   "No," Bruce said, instinctively reaching for Boston's arm and passing right through it.
   "No?!" Boston said.
   "This whole thing is bigger than just him. If we stop him now, we'll never find out what this whole group is up to—or why they've been targeting circus performers."
   Boston struggled with himself for a moment.
   "...Fine. We do it your way."
   The hooked man walked down the docks and entered the warehouse.
   "How can I get in?" Bruce asked.
   "I saw a blind spot in the security over near that stack o' crates. You said you've been trainin'; think you can vault over the fence?"
   "We'll find out."
   As Bruce began to move, Boston put a ghostly hand in front of him. "Wait a second. Where's your magic friend? We could use 'er help."
   "No. I don't want to "
   Bruce silently ran across the street, dodging the light as best he could. Taking a deep breath, he jumped on top of a pile of crates and flipped neatly over the fence, landing squarely on the other side—his shoes slapping the concrete a little harder than he would have liked. Bruce winced. That was too loud. Any moment and—
   One of the armed men turned a corner, gun drawn. As his eyes began to fall on Bruce, they suddenly rolled back into his head, as if he were passing out. He flinched, and suddenly looked fine. He winked at Bruce and walked away.
   Bruce smirked. Thanks, Boston, he thought.
   Bruce stalked his way towards the warehouse. He climbed up a forklift and made his way toward an open window near the roof. He squeezed inside, then, finding himself on an upper level, made his way towards a single light and the sound of voices. Eventually he reached the other end of the warehouse, where the floor gave way to a wide view of the ground floor. A half-circular table was illuminated by a single light from above. Twenty men in business suits sat along the table, staring at one man in the center. One man with a hook on his left hand. Bruce felt a rush course through him. This was the one. He glanced up at the other side of the roof; Boston briefly turned visible and gave Bruce a thumbs-up.
   "Care to explain why you failed?" one of the seated men, a large, deep-voiced African-American, said. From his body language, Bruce guessed he was the leader of this group.
   "Somebody shot a clown just as I was about to pull the trigger," the hooked man said. "The crowd went crazy. No way I was gonna be able to get off a good shot and get away. Hell, some guy almost grabbed me as I was running; I had to ditch my coat just to lose him."
   "Your mission was to kill the two acrobats," said another of the seated men. "You failed."
   "What was I supposed to do?!"
   "You've been accepted into a sacred order of assassins," the leader said grimly. "Once you've been given a target, you kill. You don't run. You don't accept anything less than perfect death."
   The hooked man looked visibly shaken. "Look, I—I already killed that Deadman guy in New York; you know I can do this."
   "A hooked assassin needs three perfect kills to pass the initiation trial. You've failed at only your second attempt. There is nothing more to discuss."
   Each of the seated men at the raised their left hands and placed them on the table with a clang. Bruce nearly gasped. Each one of the men had a hook for a left hand. Bruce had wondered why this gunman chose a hook instead of a more useful prosthetic hand; apparently the hook was a sacrificial tradition among these assassins.
   The man in the center looked back and forth between the hooked council, terrified.
   "No, PLEASE! I—"
   The loud snap of gunfire boomed from the leader's lap, where he tightly held a pistol. Bruce saw a sliver of blood drip from a perfectly-placed hole in the hooked man's head.
   If Bruce could see or hear Boston at that moment, he would have seen the ghostly man's face distorted in a cry of anger and loss.
   The whooping sound of a helicopter echoed from above, and a powerful beam of light shone through a skylight. The police had shown up early.
   The hooked men scrambled to their feet and ran to a nearby pile of crates, pulling out a plethora of automatic guns. Bruce recognized most of the guns as MP5s and AK-47s; this was about to get very, very bloody.
   A single bullet cracked through a window pane and left one of the hooked men dead on the floor. The others immediately ran to the windows and doors, readying themselves for whatever was about to come.
   Bruce immediately began searching for a way out, but he knew that was unlikely. The GCPD had surrounded the building, and a helicopter was shining its spotlight on the same side of the building as the window Bruce needed to exit.
   Boston's face faded into view in front of Bruce's eyes.
   "I'll cover you; get out of here," Boston said.
   Bruce noted the seriousness in Boston's expression; the hint of anger and loss. Boston faded out, and several seconds later the helicopter's spotlight shifted away from the window. Bruce soundlessly slipped out and ducked behind a crate. Before he could take a step further, however, the sounds of gunfire echoed from every corner of the dock. Flashes of yellow and white lit up the night; bullets thunked and pinged off every surface.
   Ever so slowly, Bruce gradually made his way from building to building, crate to crate, with Boston possessing and thereby distracting cop after cop until he could finally make it back to the street. He ducked into the nearest alley, climbed up a fire escape, and sat on top of the roof to watch everything.
   The hooked gang was all but eliminated. The few that survived only did so because they were knocked out before they could take their own lives. As the fight ended and the police began shoving the survivors into armored cars, Bruce climbed back down and joined the growing crowd now surrounding the scene.
   Bruce heard Crispus loudly arguing with another GCPD detective.
   "I TOLD YOU TO HOLD FIRE; WE WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE THEM ALIVE!"
   "Hey, we got the bad guys," the detective said nonchalantly. "Quit complainin'."
   "You'll lose your badge for this, Flass. I swear to god."
   On the other side of the crowd, two men stood alone.
   "Looks like they're gonna blame these guys for the circus shooting," one said quietly. "You're, eh, off the hook."
   "No puns. Please. No such thing as a good pun," the other said coldly.
   "So, I don't get it. Why'd you kill the clown in the first place?"
   The other man grinned with a devilish, wide, chillingly heartless smile. "Because he wasn't funny."
   Bruce glanced across the crowd and made eye contact with the grinning man. Bruce felt as though he'd just been electrocuted. There was nothing terribly out of the ordinary about this man—nothing except for his somewhat sinister-looking expression, that is—but Bruce felt as though he somehow knew this person. Like they had a connection. As though somehow their lives were destined to cross paths.
   Bruce moved to follow the man, but the crowd was thick. After a minute or two, Bruce gave up and left.

   Bruce sat in his study, slumped into his father's giant armchair.
   "Bruce!"
   Bruce didn't need to turn; he recognized Zatanna's voice from behind him.
   "What did you do?!"
   Bruce lowered his head slightly. "Nothing."
   Zatanna noticed rips and a few burns on Bruce's clothing. "You were involved in that gunfight, weren't you?"
   "Not exactly, no."
   "But you were there."
   "...Yes."
   Zatanna was beyond trying to comfort him now. She was practically furious. "What the HELL were you thinking?! Trying to find these guys on your own? Why didn't you call me?!"
   "It wasn't your fight."
   "And it was yours?!"
   "...I... I should have stopped him the first time."
   "Bruce, you're not responsible for stopping every criminal in Gotham! It's not your—"
   Zatanna suddenly realized what she was saying and felt a pang of guilt. Once again, she glanced at the portrait of the Waynes. She knelt in front of Bruce and gently held his hands in hers.
   "It's not your fault, Bruce. It never was."
   Bruce didn't answer.

   Zatanna sat with Bruce in silence for an hour or so, finally leaving him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise from Alfred that he'd be taken care of.

   After Zatanna was gone, Boston appeared in the study.
   "Hey," he said quietly.
   Bruce slowly looked back up.
   "I'm sorry we didn't catch him, Boston."
   "Yeah, me too. At least I know who he was. But still, I shoulda kept 'im from dyin'."
   "Why? I would have thought you'd want revenge."
   "I ain't sayin' I don't, but one thing I learned since gettin' put on this task is that death never balances the scales. It only makes things worse."
   Bruce thought for a moment and nodded. He had to agree.
   "So what are you doing now?" Bruce asked. "I thought finding your murderer was your goal in... life."
   "It's more than that. There's still work I'm supposed to do in my mission. Y'know, before I can... pass on."
   Bruce's mind was swirling with questions for Boston. Questions about life and death; about everything. But he quickly decided that it wasn't important for him to know. The logical, the concrete; that was where his mind belonged.
   "Speakin' of missions, Bruce," Boston said. "What is it, exactly, that you're after? I mean, you seem like you wanna bash in the head of every kinda scum in this hellhole of a town."
   Bruce stared into Boston's translucent black eyes. "I swore to fight criminals; to stop the same kind of crime that killed my parents."
   "Ah. That's why you're trainin' with the acrobats and the detectives and everythin'. You wanna be a one-man army."
   "Want has little to do with it anymore," Bruce replied. "I have to."
   Boston quietly regarded Bruce for a moment.
   "Well, maybe I can help ya with that."
   Bruce raised an eyebrow.
   "There's a hidden city, high up in the mountains of Tibet," Boston explained. "It's called Nanda Parbat. After I got turned into a ghost, some of the monks there taught me to control my powers. If you wanna become... well, more than what you are, that's where you need to go. I can show you the way."

Late

Sorry I've been late posting chapters. I've been really busy. I'll try to write more as soon as I can.

Ghost of a Man

   "You didn't see anything else? Just the hat and coat?"

   "No. Nothing."

   Bruce couldn't abide his own ineptitude. How could he have let the shooter escape?

   Crispus looked him in the eye. "Bruce. You know this wasn't your fault."

   Bruce shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

   Crispus sighed. "Alright, well, we'll have forensics go over the coat and hat; there's gotta be a hair follicle or something in there."

   Bruce walked around the circus area, now covered in police tape and lights flashing red and blue.

   "Thank you," a voice said from behind. Bruce turned to see Mr. Haly.

   Bruce frowned. "For what?"

   "If you hadn't followed him, we wouldn't have a single lead. But the detective tells me they've already got one thanks to you."

   Bruce didn't tell Haly the harder truth: that even if they found DNA evidence in the clothing the shooter left behind, they'd still have to find someone to test it against. It wasn't as though Gotham kept a DNA record of every person that ever came through town.

   "Did he have a family?" Bruce asked.

   Haly shook his head. "No. Harry never even really had a girlfriend; he was sort of a loner like that. We always told him he should find somebody... I guess now it's better that he didn't."

   Bruce walked back over to Crispus, who was standing along the quiet edge of the circus finishing up a phone call.

   "Anything new?" Bruce asked as Crispus hung up.

   Crispus forced the exasperation out of his voice. "Not in the last five minutes, n—"

   Crispus suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and flinched. When he opened his eyes again, he looked awkwardly at Bruce.

   "Hey, uh, I know this is kinda weird, but... could you tell me again what happined here? And what you saw?"

   Bruce eyed Crispus suspiciously. Nothing about Crispus' mannerisms or voice sounded right.

   "What's with the Boston accent? And what are you talking about?"

   "Look, I just need you ta'—"

   "What's wrong with you?"

   "Nothin's wrong with me, I jus—"

   "Who are you?"

   Crispus stopped. Clearly, this kid just wasn't going to buy it.

   "Alright. Listen, um... I'm not Crispus. My name's Boston. Boston Brand. Yes, like the city, and yes, my accent's ironic, okay?"

   Bruce's mind whirled. Crispus wasn't one for jokes, nor was he the type to have schizophrenia. This was something different.

   Crispus continued. "I'm... well, a ghost. I got killed back in August. I needed to talk to ya, so I hopped inside Crispus here and—"

   Bruce's eyes were wide with apprehension; his hand darted inside his pocket and pulled out his cellphone, finding the speed-dial buttons as fast as possible.

   "Hey, wait a sec," Crispus tried to say, but Bruce wasn't listening anymore.

   A voice spoke over Bruce's phone. "Hey, handsome."

   "I need you here. Now."

   A second and a half later, a whirl of sparkling violet light appeared and disappeared, leaving Zatanna standing in its empty wake.

   "What's wrong?" she immediately asked Bruce.

   He pointed to Crispus. "He says he's a ghost inhabiting this man's body."

   Zatanna narrowed her eyes.

   "Leaver siht tirips!"

   A transparent image of a second figure appeared over Crispus. It was a slender man, dressed in dark red, with a chalk-white shrunken face.

   Crispus shrugged. "Told ya."

   Zatanna's eyes went wide. "Bruce, this spirit is incredibly strong. I can't exorcise it without preparation."

   Crispus raised his hand. "Guys—"

   "What do you need?" Bruce asked Zatanna.

   "Uh, guys—"

   "I'll need a bucket of water, three bat wings, and a—"

   "GUYS!"

   Bruce and Zatanna stopped and looked at Crispus.

   "You don't need ta exorcise me. I don't wanna cause no trouble. I just need your help."

   Bruce and Zatanna exchanged a confused look.

   Wayne Manor stood like an ancient monument. While still within Gotham City limits, it stood separate from the rest of the city, atop a cliffside on the other side of Gotham river. It was huge; huge and empty. The massive rooms were full of paintings, sculptures, suits of armor, and ornate furniture—but rarely any people. Out of twelve bedrooms, only two were in use—one tiny room for Alfred, who kept it clean enough that no one would have known he was even there, and the gigantic master bedroom for Bruce.

   "Man, I'm dead an' I feel cold in here."

   Alfred gave the floating image of Boston a look crossed between indignance and fright. He was unaccustomed to having a visible ghost in his home.

   Boston had slipped back out of Crispus' body without a fuss and followed Bruce and Zatanna to Wayne Manor. Now that Zatanna had cast her spell on him, everyone could see and hear Boston even though he didn't have an actual body.

   Bruce leaned over his computer desk, typing at the keyboard.

   "Is this it?" he asked.

   "Yeah," Boston replied grimly. "That's it."

   Bruce clicked the video link.

   A one-ring circus, not unlike Haly's, was in the middle of a show.

   The announcer yelled into his microphone. "Introducing the one, the only, the daring DEADMAN!"

   As the audience cheered, a man in dark red spandex and a white ghost-like mask jumped onto the trapeze. Before he finished his second swing, however, a gunshot sounded off and "Deadman" fell to the ground.

   "That was you?" Zatanna asked.

   "Yeah" Boston replied. "That's why I look like this, I guess. I died in my Deadman outfit, so I'm stuck this way. Not that people can normally see me or anything."

   "But I don't get it," said Zatanna. "Spirits pass on immediately after death. Why are you still here? And why can you possess people so easily?"

   "It's, ah... it's a gift."

   "From who?"

   "Rama Kushna."

   A flicker of recognition went through Zatanna's eyes. "The goddess of karma?"

   "Yeah, somethin' like that. When I died, I saw these huge eyes lookin' down on me from the sky, and heard her voice. She said I had more to do in death than I did in life. I'm supposed to do somethin' here before I can pass on. Help people usin' my power, and try to find my murderer."

   "And you think that this shooter is the same one that killed you seven months ago,"

   "Yeah."

   Bruce turned to Zatanna. "This all sound right to you?"

   Zatanna shrugged. "Yeah, actually. It does. I think he's telling the truth."

   The frown that Bruce had been wearing since the shooting seemed to get worse. He stood up and walked to the nearby window.

   Boston looked at Alfred. "Was it somethin' I said?"

   Alfred shrugged, as if to say "he just does that."

   Zatanna put her arm around Bruce. "Hey. Are you okay?"

   "No. No I'm not. A man was shot to death in front of me, and I... I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't even catch him afterwards. Now a... ghost is in my bedroom, and... I just..."

   Bruce seemed frustrated at the very air in front of his face.

   "Nothing makes any sense!"

   "Bruce, things don't always have to make sense. Sometimes things just are the way they are."

   "No! There has to be a way. Somehow, there's always an answer. There has to be! There just..."

   "This isn't about the clown, or about Boston, is it?"

   Bruce didn't answer.

   "It's about Lois, isn't it?"

   Again, Bruce was silent.

   "You can't hold yourself responsible for her."

   "I should have just left her out of it."

   "She made her own choices; it's not your fault."

   Almost instinctively, Bruce looked up at the huge portrait of his parents hanging on the wall nearby.

   Zatanna moved in front of him. "Bruce, listen to me. You're not failing them. You're not. You're human, and that's all they'd ever want you to be."

   "I made an oath, Zatanna. And I plan to keep it."

   "You're sure you don' know anythin' about how the Socks did last season?"

   "Sir, honestly, I've never followed baseball in my life. Couldn't you just... float away and go find out for yourself?"

   Alfred was relieved to see Bruce return from his usual dramatic window-staring.

   "So, hey, Bruce," Boston said. "I had an idea about one way we could track this guy down."

   "What?"

   "Well... if I, uh, jump inside ya, our minds can link. Maybe between the two of us, we can piece together somethin' about the killer."

   "Uh-uh. No."

   "Aw, c'mon!" Boston pleaded. "You won't feel a thing."

   "Bruce," Zatanna said, "this might be the best way to find the shooter. Boston's not shown us any reason to doubt him yet."

   Bruce sighed. "Fine. Do it fast."

   Boston dove into Bruce's chest, completely disappearing inside him.

   Bruce and Bostons' memories swirled about them like a pool full of paint. Boston saw Bruce's perspective: the man standing in the tent supports; the gun barrel, a glint of metal. Bruce saw Boston's perspective: from high above the ring, looking down at a muzzle flash somewhere within the crowd—along with a similar glint of metal. Bruce had assumed that that metallic shine was from the gun, but now that he had two perspectives, it seemed to be something else entirely. Gradually, the image that both Bruce and Boston held in their minds merged, and they both saw the shining object: a steel hook where the shooter's left hand would have been.

Circus Act

   A funny thing about Gotham City: the walls of every alley seem to lean in, like a giant black coffin. In many cases, that analogy is more fact than metaphor.
   Crispus Allen stood solemnly over the dead girl's body. He always took a brief moment before examining each crime scene body, partly out of respect for the dead, and partly in order to begin focusing on the task at hand.
   A female voice echoed from the end of the alleyway.
   "Detective! The boy's here."
   Crispus glanced down the alley and saw his partner, Renee Montoya, standing next to eighteen-year-old Bruce Wayne on the other side of the police tape.
   "Let him in."
   Bruce and Renee both ducked under the tape and moved to meet Crispus.
   "Detective," Bruce said with a polite nod. "Another one?"
   "Yeah. Third this week."
   Bruce knelt beside the body. "Blonde hair, mid-twenties, about 5'7''. Just like the others. Any ID?"
   "Whoever killed her didn't take the wallet this time. Her name's Joanna Harper. A student at Gotham U."
   Bruce narrowed his eyes. "The killer didn't take her wallet?"
   "Nope. What does that tell you?"
   Bruce took a few seconds to think it over.
   "Either the killer was interrupted and had to run, or he was never after the money in the first place."
   "Not after the money? How do you figure that?"
   "This is the third girl of the exact same age, height, and hair color found in an alley with her throat slit inside of a week. This is serial-killer work. He finds girls who fit very specific parameters and murders them in the exact same way every time. Whoever's killing these girls is doing it out of a pathological obsession, not greed or desperation. There's no reason for him to take their wallets unless he just feels like it, or if he's trying to throw us off."
   Crispus felt proud of his unofficial student. "Good thinking," he said.
   He glanced at Renee. She seemed a bit uneasy. Thinking about it, Crispus guessed that he really should be, too. Bruce seemed to have a kind of intuition for criminology, the kind that meant he was either brilliant or horribly twisted. Or he just watched a billion of those damned CSI shows.
   Bruce only nodded slightly in return, straight-faced.
   Crispus, more than most others, recognized the flat, jaded look that Bruce often wore: the look of someone who's lost everything. Crispus knew what had happened to Bruce's parents; it was the only reason he'd agreed to let Bruce shadow him on these cases. If Bruce kept along this path, he'd probably make a great detective one day.
   Bruce's phone beeped.
   "Sorry; I need to run. I'll catch up with you in a few hours."
   Bruce turned and quickly left the alley the way he'd come.
   Crispus shook his head. Then again, if Bruce kept up that kind of behavior, he'd be lucky to graduate above beat cop.

   On the edge of the city, near the docks, a gigantic red tent stood next to a ferris wheel. Haly's Circus, one of the last true traditional one-ring traveling circuses, was enjoying an extended stay in Gotham.
   Bruce drove up and parked around the backside of the tent. The last show of the day had ended three hours ago; the place was deserted aside from the circus workers themselves. Bruce walked inside the tent and was immediately greeted by a redheaded girl.
   "Bruce! Hey!"
   Bruce returned a smile. "Hey, Mary."
   Mary's boyfriend, a black-haired boy named John, did a backflip off an overhead balcony and landed in front of Bruce and Mary.
   "Bruce! Didn't think you'd make it tonight," he said, shaking Bruce's hand.
   "I was on the other side of the island; sorry I'm late."
   John glanced at a clock. Bruce was two minutes late. "Um, yeah, you're fine. You ready?"
   Bruce nodded.

   "Watch your balance. Spread your arms a bit more."
   Bruce struggled to stay balanced on the tightrope. He'd been told by Zatara that he had incredible balance, but on an inch-thick rope that didn't matter much. As Bruce wobbled nervously, John walked effortlessly across the rope to meet Bruce in the middle.
   "See here? Hold your hips a little more to the right. Keep your knees a little bit loose."
   Bruce adjusted accordingly, and he stabilized.
   "Good. Now try to stay on the rope while I jump."
   Mr. Haly, the circus owner, a red-haired rotund man in his late forties, walked up beside Mary, who was watching from the floor.
   "How's he doing?" Haly asked.
   "Really well, for a beginner," Mary answered. "He's still really shaky, but he's already learned around a couple years' worth of gymnastics."
   "In just the three weeks he's been here?"
   "Yeah. It probably helps that John and I are putting him through the crash course and everything, but he really does have a gift for this sort of thing. Are you sure he doesn't want to become a performer?"
   "You can ask him yourself, but yeah. He said all he wanted was to learn gymnastics from the best, but he didn't want to join up. I asked if he wanted to go to the Olympics or something; he said no, he just wanted to learn. And he's paying us a ridiculous amount of money for it, so I left it at that."
   "Huh. Well that sucks. We could really use another one. A trapeze act with only two people isn't as much of a crowd-pleaser."
   Haly gave Mary a wry smile. "Well, if you and John would just get hitched and start making more little acrobats, we wouldn't have this problem."
   "Mr. Haly!"
   Mary blushed, but couldn't stop herself from smiling like a mad person.
   Up above, John backflipped, sending a bounce across the rope. Bruce wobbled horribly and fell off, landing in the net sixty feet below. Mary, Haly, and John all laughed at him. Bruce wasn't amused, but that made it all the funnier.

   The next evening, Bruce decided to go see one of the circus' shows. Bruce was never one to be impressed by anything, but he had to admit that he was very impressed with everything he saw. John and Mary, of course, were amazing. The animal trainers were masters at getting a reaction both from their animals and from the audience. The clowns were decidedly less incredible, but then again, they were clowns. Cheap laughs are what they're for.
   As the show came to its climax, all the acts went on at once. The clowns drove their tiny car in circles around the ring, while the fire-breathers, animals, and everyone else intermixed in the center. John and Mary did flips across the open air above. As the crowd roared with applause, Bruce could barely hear a muffled bang.
   One of the clowns that hung out of the tiny car's open door fell to the ground and laid there, perfectly still. As the seconds passed, a few others near him started to look down with worried faces. From this distance, Bruce could barely see a red stain on the clown's white shirt.
   The crowd began to gasp and chatter immediately. A woman somewhere screamed. Bruce realized what was happening and instantly began searching furiously for where the shot had come from. He looked upward, toward the wooden beams at the top of the tent, and saw a glint of bright metal next to a large gun-barrel held by a figure in silhouette. Bruce scanned the rest of the support structure and found a path across the beams. Bruce shoved his way through the crowd as fast as he could, keeping his eyes on the man in shadow. He climbed up onto a horizontal beam near the top of the tiered seats and began making his way toward the shadowed man. The man quickly turned around and jumped out a slit in the side of the tent; Bruce began to run. He focused. I can't miss this, he told himself. This isn't the time to fall. He jumped to another beam and kept running; bounced off a vertical beam and landed right on the tiny wooden platform that the gunman had been sitting on. He put his head through the slit in the fabric and looked down. The man—who, as if to be as stereotypical as possible, was wearing a trenchcoat and hat—had just landed at the base of the tent, and began working his way into the crowd. Bruce jumped out of the tent and slid down its side, landing and crashing into a woman at the bottom. He tossed a half-hearted apology her way as he got back up and tried to follow the shooter's path. Unfortunately, word of the shooting had now spread outside the tent, and the entire crowd was now rushing towards the parking lot. Bruce nearly got trampled in the swarm of bodies, and completely lost track of the shooter. Whoever he was, there was no way to find him in this chaos.