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John Carpenter's
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HOSTILE TAKEOVER - CHAPTER 1
They say that Gotham City is one of the most dangerous cities in
the world. Crime and corruption are so common that it virtually goes
unnoticed. Desperation and despair are a companion to most and misery
is everyone's friend. This is a city that most people fear to visit,
let alone want to live in. The ones that are here wish they weren't.
The ones that come wish to leave as soon as possible.
The buildings have seen better days. The once proud landscape is now a
victim of time and apathy. The buildings only reflect the desolation
that governs and lords over the attitudes and consciousness of the
city's population. If you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you can
just barely make out the former glory that was there many, many years
past. Now, these monstrosities are a constant reminder of an era of
beauty and elegance that is long gone.
The people here have become accustomed to the bleakness of the land.
Most are indifferent to the plight of others. They have problems of
their own to be concerned with, without worrying about the fool next
to them. Others believe that this is their punishment for crimes they
have committed in a past life; Their own, personal Hell on Earth.
The daytime is no safer than night. Pain and suffering are waiting
behind every corner. Predators know no boundaries when it comes to
light and darkness. A daylight robbery, mugging or murder is just as
common as the terror that haunts Gotham's nights. This is a city that
has too few glories and accolades.
The Bowery area was known as one of the worst areas in Gotham. At one
time it had been a thriving upper class location with elegant
restaurants and theaters for everyone. It was a place to take your
family out for a pleasant night on the town. The wealthy and the
middle class rubbed elbows with each other without a single care.
Unfortunately, a terrible incident changed it all. Two specific
murders that had been committed there over twenty years ago signaled
the end of the glory for the Bowery. The patronage slowly left the
area never to return, finding newer, safer places to enjoy.
Undesirable elements crept in and claimed the Bowery for its own. It
had become a haven for the dangerous and notorious, known by the
appropriate nickname of "Crime Alley". This was an area to avoid at
all costs.
The Clauer Hotel had been in Gotham's Bowery longer than it should
have been. In other cities a building as old as this would have been
condemned and demolished, but the owner of the Clauer had paid off the
officials and still had rooms let out to the despondent and desperate.
Like most of the flophouses in Gotham City, The Clauer was a place to
go if one wished to disappear and not be found. The tenants could not
care less that the building is barely standing. They were more
interested in privacy and shelter than five star accommodations. Room
#14-C was just as luxurious and accommodating as a broken down
tinderbox could offer. The sheets on the bed that should have been
thrown away years ago were unceremoniously strewn across a battered
and stained mattress. The carpeting was as filthy and worn as the rest
of the room. You could almost tell it was a pale-yellow at one time.
The color had faded and mutated into a crude shade of gray. Large,
gaping holes in the carpet revealed a shoddy wooden floor beneath.
Cigarette burns and stains formed abstract designs that did nothing to
enhance the carpet's aesthetic beauty. The television was an ancient
relic as well. It was rare indeed to find a TV that needs rabbit ears
in this day and age. On a good day, you might be able to get a
semi-clear picture if you did not mind watching a program while
standing in complex yoga positions. The indifferent manager of the
Clauer did supply each and every room with a curtain for their dirty,
opaque windows. Most people would have called them old rags and towels
but to the manager, it was simply a covering.
The occupant in 14-C didn't seem to mind. In fact he was oblivious to
his surroundings and the filth around him. He had been sitting there
for the better part of two days not eating or sleeping. Sitting and
staring into a void that only he could perceive. He barely moved as he
sat. The only noticeable movement was the slight rising and falling of
his chest as he breathed long, slow breaths. The blinking of his eyes
was the only other sign that he was indeed alive. The bottle of scotch
on the nightstand sat half empty and not touched in hours. He stared
out to nowhere, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Not even the
incessant blinking of the pink neon letters right out side his window
snapped him out of his hypnotic stupor.
Clutched in his right hand was a .45 automatic. The black barrel
reflected a sliver of pink from the hotel sign. The weight of the gun
went unnoticed in his hand. He no longer felt the gun or realized he
even had it. It was as if the gun was a part of his person. It was
just a lethal, metal digit that caused no more of a distraction to him
than a fingernail would be physically acknowledged by anyone else. The
lamp on the nightstand gave a dull glow to the room. Any more would
illuminate the hovel to the point of vulgarity. The glow lit up a
newspaper that was neatly folded and placed on the stand. The paper
was folded to expose a particular article. The article was encircled
numerous times in deeply pressed black ink. The headline of the
article was underlined repeatedly.
WAYNETECH AND WAYNE INDUSTRIES TO BUILD NEW ANTARCTIC RESEARCH
FACILITY ON SITE OF LOST U.S. OUTPOST.
A deeply drawn "X" covered the photograph that accompanied the
print. The photo was of a well-groomed man, barely in his early
thirties. His features were strong and confident. His jet-black hair
was neatly trimmed. His smile was warm and inviting without being
arrogant. The man had an air of charm and class about himself. A
captioned name went along with the face:
CHAIRMAN AND CEO OF WAYNETECH, BRUCE WAYNE
The man in the room stared straight ahead. His ice-blue eyes opened
wide. Sweat poured from his brow, despite the fact he was sitting in a
poorly heated room in late October. His long brown hair was damp, as
was his thick beard. His facial expression was that of pure terror. He
was a man in fear; fear beyond what most would understand or even
accept. He was afraid, for himself and the entire world. For the first
time in countless hours he gave any sign of life. His head slowly
turned toward the newspaper. He looked deep at the photograph as if he
were sending the man in the picture a mental message. His left hand
reached over to the paper, trembling as he grasped it in his sweaty
hand. Holding the paper he kept reading the words over and over again:
LOST U.S. OUTPOST
LOST U.S. OUTPOST
LOST U.S. OUTPOST
Methodically, he put the paper down. His gaze never moved, still
experiencing the terror. The look of terror slowly metamorphosized
into pure rage. His head started shaking in defiance. His resolve was
set. He would end the threat before it could happen again. He looked
back at the photo. His anger and outrage vocalized it self towards the
image of the dark haired man. "Not again, not again," he hissed. He
knew what he had to do. To end the threat before it could reoccur, to
stop the horror from having a second chance of spreading, this
desperate man named MacReady would have to kill Bruce Wayne.
Chapter 2
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