Picture New York City. It's a massive, sprawling metropolis, an assault on the senses, the greatest city on Earth. My home. Imagine now that you were tasked with learning its every nook and cranny by heart. No mean feat: most of the city's taxi drivers can't even manage it. But think of how you might do it. How you'd use various key landmarks around the city as your signposts, and span outward from each of them, thinking of the various navigations through streets and avenues to get you back to your markers. Then you'd note the other memorable visuals to let you know you were on the right track. And as you built outwards in these concentric circles as your confidence and familiarity with the city, you'd start to see different ways that all these areas overlapped and interconnected. You'd reach out from Manhattan and start getting to grips with Brooklyn, Queens, each of the five boroughs. By the end, it would be a vast amount of knowledge to try and keep in your head.
Now imagine doing all that with your eyes closed.
Back when I could see, my New York City was very small, confined to a small chunk of Manhattan stretching from 34th to 59th Street and spanning from 8th Avenue to the Hudson River. These days many refer to it diplomatically as Midtown West. But for me it'll always be Hell's Kitchen. But when radioactive waste took away my sight as a boy, I got other things to compensate. My four remaining senses were enhanced to a superhuman degree, and my sight was replaced with a kind of 360 degree echolocation I've taken to calling my "radar sense", which I use to make out shapes and contours all around me. I can navigate through pretty much anywhere in New York City with reasonable confidence, but my picture of New York City is likely very different from your picture of New York City.
I can tell which part of Brooklyn I'm in by feeling the texture of the brownstone under my fingertips. The air in Queens has its own distinct smell and taste that sets it apart from the air on Staten Island. And the iconic Manhattan skyline is shaped out like an intricate, comforting grid by my radar sense. my unique perspective making its rooftops and flagpoles a far easier, more serene route of travel than its bustling, noisy streets.
My current resting spot is on top of a modestly sized 14-storey office building at West 44th Street and 9th Avenue. I like this little nook of the city. 9th Avenue is known for some of its great eateries, and there's a French place called Marseilles and Five Napkin Burger both on the ground floor of this building, not to mention a couple of pizza places across the road. The smells coming from them are mouth-watering. And while this building is reasonably high up for this area of Manhattan, it's hardly a skyscraper, meaning I'm not too far removed from the people roaming the streets on this brisk but thankfully dry New York City evening. I've trained enough to cope with it, but rain has more of an impact on my abilities than the inconvenience of getting my tights wet. From here, I can sit still, and listen to the city share its song with me, my ears attuned to pick up certain lyrics...
"...that'll be four dollars and seventy-five..."
"...watch where you're going you..."
"...not you, it's me, I..."
"...TAXI! TAXI..."
"...then I told him that if he's gonna act like..."
"Help me!"
Help me. A woman's voice, about 8 blocks down. I leap from rooftop to rooftop, headed in the direction of the screams, using the grapnel hook in my billy club to assist in the longer jumps. When I'm almost directly above the scene of the crime, in a densely packed back alley, I stop. A man and a woman are struggling. The man is average height, wears snakeskin leather shoes. Judging by his stink, he regularly uses chewing tobacco. But I'm more interested in the woman. She is screaming for help, and she certainly sounds scared, but her heartbeat tells a different story. Steady, only slightly elevated from exertion. Not the mad, spiking rhythm you'd expect from somebody fearing for their safety. So, an actress then. I scan the area and pick out two other men, believing themselves concealed behind a dumpster. One is short, with a very slender build. They reek of cheap cologne, the kind of watered-down bootleg junk that was probably sold as a brand name before it got watered down with other chemicals. With his nose he might not even know the difference, but to me the noxious fumes roll off him in waves like formaldehyde. Next to him is a giant of a man, nearly 7 foot tall, who judging by his body odour hasn't showered in at least two days.
This is quite clearly a trap. I smile at the thought that they've gone to all this effort for me.
Now that I'm aware of the set-up, it would be very easy to get the jump on them and end this quick. But then they might not be so talkative. My gut tells me I'll be able to find out more from them if they think they have the upper hand. But that depends on the assumption that this trap involves them sending a message rather than just quietly killing me, and they won't just try to put a bullet in my head the second my feet hit the ground. My radar sense tells me that Cheap Cologne and Chewing Tobacco are both carrying guns, but they were holstered, and Cheap Cologne was clutching a blunt instrument around the size of a crowbar. Seems like their plan is to take their time and beat to death. Yeah, good luck with that.
Of course, all this is speculation. They could still open fire once I show my face. I smile to myself. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I descend into the alleyway, leaping willingly into the trap that awaits.
I land in amidst the fray, causing a momentary spike in heart rates all around. Even though they were waiting for me, I still managed to surprise them. Chewing Tobacco throws a punch, I see it as a solid mass of motion propelling at me through the dark. I sidestep it with minimal effort, grabbing the arm attached to the fist and using Tobacco's lack of balance to sweep him off his feet.
As expected, the woman stops screaming and runs off, her part in the drama done.
"Mr. Devil Man!" shouts Cheap Cologne, "We've been expectin' you!"
I make a point of looking up in the direction of the voice. I can "see" 360 degrees, but in order to not give away my blindness while in costume, "looking" in the direction of voices is a habit I had to train myself into. But even as I make a show of turning towards Cheap Cologne and Body Odor I'm aware of Chewing Tobacco pushing himself back onto his feet.
"We've been watchin' you," evidently Cologne is the talker of the group, "You may have some of the cheap amateur hoods convinced you're some kinda demon, but we know you're just a man. Fancy Dan ain't scared of no man."
"That's you, I take it?"
"Yeah," he replied, "And the big fella behind me goes by the name of Ox. You've already acquainted yourself with Montana."
"Howdy," says Chewing Tobacco behind me.
"People call us The Enforcers," Fancy Dan continues, "We're under instructions to make sure you suffer a great deal before we let you die. You've been makin' the wrong kinda waves with the operations you've been interferin' in. We need to make an example outta you to make sure no other fool thinks about puttin' on a silly costume to change the world."
I love it when they can't stop talking. Saves me the trouble of an interrogation later. I clutch onto the billy club in my holster.
"Well you'd best get started then, shouldn't you?"
All three charge at once. Fine by me. I vault off the ground, leaping over Ox and kicking off his back, pushing him forward so he barrels right into Montana. I land behind Fancy Dan, and he's about halfway through turning round and raising his crowbar in the time it takes me to draw my billy club and extend it, then bring it swiping across his face, knocking him off his feet.
KLIK
Montana's drawing his gun. I follow the sound and pick up the outline of Montana on his knees, taking aim. I throw the billy club like a javelin and it cracks square into his wrist, jerking his hand upwards and causing him to drop the gun. Then I get hit by a bus. Or that's what it feels like, at least, as Ox rams into me, sending me flying off my feet and crashing hard on my side into the ground. I let out a ragged cough, trying to catch the wind that's just been knocked out of me. I try to take a moment to readjust, my ability to pick out clear shapes from my radar sense dampened when it feels like my whole head is still vibrating. I feel a massive boot connecting with my gut, causing me to roll along the ground. I spit out a wad of blood, still rattled enough to throw off my radar sense. I focus, and listen...
Thud-thud-thud-thud...
hear footsteps rushing towards me. Lighter footsteps than Ox's heavier footfall. Fancy Dan back on his feet. I roll onto my back, and my radar sense comes in focus just in time to pick up Fancy Dan's weapon being swung down towards my head. I catch it, and kick Fancy Dan with both feet to separate him from his weapon. It's cold in my hand, metallic, course. Seems my crowbar guess was correct. I roll round onto my feet, keeping a low stance, and scan my surroundings.
THUD...THUD...THUD...
Heavier footsteps, slower. Ox is approaching on my left. Just as he lunges, I swing the crowbar hard and low, embedding the clawed end in the back of his shin, the back one he was putting the weight on to push off from.
"AAAAAAAARRRGGHHH!"
Good, that hurt him. He collapses down onto his knees. I use the opportunity to run and springboard off his back, connecting with a flying knee right to Montana's chin just as he had started to move towards me with my own billy club.
KRAKK!
Sounds like something broke. I land on my feet as Montana hits the gound like a ton of bricks. My radar sense picks up my billy club swinging overhead, having been dislodged from Montana's grip after that last strike. I raise my hand and catch it without even looking. Montana's breathing pattern tells me he's now unconscious. One down.
Ox's arm swings round and clubs me, even the glancing blow enough to throw me off-balance. Even on his knees, he still hits like a grizzly bear. I regain my balance and start moving towards Ox when...
KLIK!
Another gun, Fancy Dan's this time. I'm not in the position to disarm him from a distance in time like I was with Montana, so I pull back a fraction of a second before Dan pulls the trigger, and the bullet sails past where my head had been a moment earlier and embeds itself in Ox's shoulder. Ox doesn't even get a chance to scream from that wound before I haul the embedded crowbar out of his shin.
"AAAAARRGHHHHH!"
I send it swinging at Fancy Dan and it clocks him square in the face, around where I imagine his nose would be.
"UNNH!"
He drops the gun and clutches his face. That'll give me a breather. I turn to Ox and hit him with a flurry of blows from my billy club to various pressure points around his torso, before leaping upwards and bringing the club crashing down into the side of his head. That rocks him enough to bring him slumping forward, where I hit him again with a sharp strike to a precise point in the back of his neck. He crumples forward, and his slowed breathing tells me he too is now finally unconscious, the giant cut down to size. Two down.
CHIK!
Sounds like a switchblade. Fancy Dan is moving towards me tentatively, his heart pounding in his chest like hell. For all his talk, he's scared now. I smile and holster the billy club. Now it's my turn to make an example of him.
He takes a swipe at me, slashing across my chest. Just a glancing blow, enough to draw blood but hopefully not enough to leave a lasting scar. He tries again and this time I'm ready for him, rolling into his slashing motion and grabbing a hold of his knife hand. I crash it into my knee to make him let go, but then the slippery son of a gun does a flip of his own to break free from my hold. I go to strike and he blocks with a parry. The guy has some moves, he's light on his feet. He hits me with a leg kick as I block my torso. He hits me with another, same area, and already I feel myself favoring the leg. I adjust my stance, lowering my guard, and then Fancy Dan swings with a roundhouse kick and connects with the side of my now unguarded head, with the strength of a knockout blow.
Or, at least, that's what he's
going to do. My radar sense picks up a stronger vibration coming from the ground around his back foot, suggesting he's about to push off it with greater force than in his previous strikes. I anticipate the move, and at the exact moment he raises his left foot off the ground, I swing in with my right fist and clock him square under the chin, knocking him to the ground. And in an instant, I'm on top of him. He's struggling, writhing, but he's rocked from that last blow. I land an elbow strike to weaken his guard, then follow it up with two punches in quick succession to the nose area, already softened up by that crowbar blow from earlier, and then that's the fight over.
From beginning to end, that whole fight lasted less than two minutes.
Fancy Dan is dazed. I wake him up by grabbing a hold of his hand and breaking a finger.
"EEEEAAAAAHHH!"
"Manfredi hired you, didn't he?"
"Nnn... go to hell..."
Another finger gets snapped.
"AAAAH! Yes, yes!"
"And once you'd killed me, how were you to let him know?"
"Nnnn...nnnn...a p-phone in my jacket pocket. We've to use that to c-call him."
His heartbeat confirms he's telling the truth.
"See? You're a fast learner. Now you know to be afraid of me."
Another elbow strike, and Fancy Dan is unconscious as well. I'll leave the three of them for the police to pick up. I remove the phone from Dan's pocket, juggling it around impotently in my hands. Most likely the number he'd to call would be logged in his contacts. But that's not any good to me if I can't see the display screen. I can take out three assassins in close-quarters combat, but I'm useless when it comes to navigating a cellphone.
