10 years ago . . .
A dream . . .
. . . of silver sands . . . and infinite skies . . .
. . . a bomb? . . . The wings of death encircle over the land . . .
It's falling . . . falling . . . falling . . .
How come I'm saying these? Who's there?
A country? The voice echoed a name. What was it again? Hiroshima? Nazis? A War of the Worlds? Where're those?
I stand before the skies, and my eyes it up, as the bomb toppled me, and scorched from within . . .
"MOTHER! MOTHER, I'm burning!"
"Wesley? What is it, son?"
"Mom, I . . . was it . . . a dream?"
"Oh, a nightmare? My poor baby, let me tuck you in."
"Mother, I'm twelve. I'm not your baby anymore. And that dream . . . so real . . . "
"Now don't go there, son. Give your mother a kiss for the night."
"Go to sleep, Wesley. Tomorrow's a new day. Sweet dreams."
Present Year: 1940.
He stood in his bed chambers, watching the sunrise. Unlike many, Wesley Dodds never takes this activity as a rare thing. Indeed, he has been watching for almost ten years. "Mother, I'm sorry," he sighed. "I couldn't sleep."
Mornings at the Dodds's family mansion used to be cheerful ones; Father would usually take a leisurely walk in the garden, Mother would fix some cookies, with the help of the family maids, and the Dodds siblings, the cradle of the next generation for their family, would play in the pool.
Now, it was only the whistle of the morning wind that envelopes the household. Wesley sighed. "How is it, that things can change so quickly?" Behind him, Kingston, his butler replied calmly. "Master Wesley, our country has been in war with others for years now. Surely--"
"Kingston, it's not that," Wesley pounded on the glass window, and over the view of the Statue of Liberty far off. "It's Gerald."
And silence again filled the house once more.
Sometimes, Wesley thought, I cannot attest to this . . . The twenty-one year old investor made his way towards the skyscraper, the DSA Corporation. Greeting the guards, he entered the building, known to all watching eyes as the legitimate heir to the Dodds's family fortune. They know I'm now their boss, since Gerald's stuck in some Eastern European country. He walked straight to the elevator, and asked for someone for Floor 21. I'm not supposed to run this . . .
" . . . operation without necessary help from you, my colleagues!" Raymond Stark bellowed at the two chief executives. Wesley just eyed the one beside him, Troy, with silence. "The ambassadors of the Allied countries are coming here to talk with us. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Ray," Troy sighed. "What are we supposed to do? We're businessmen, not some escort service asked by the mayor to guide some tourists around the city."
"Troy Angus, doesn't the word prominent mean anything to you? We're just going to settle around accounts regarding funds for the Allied corps. We're making history!"
"We're going bankrupt." The argument went on for about five minutes, until Wesley just stood up. "Er, sirs . . . "
"Wes! Call us Ray and Troy! We're your colleagues, after all! Don't be so formal about it!"
"Er, okay . . . Ray, sir."
"Just. Ray."
"Yes..si--Ray. Can I stress my opinion?"
"Go on," Troy muttered, making Wesley all the more nervous. He took a big bite of his tongue, and forced the words out of his mouth. "I think we should encourage it. After all, we should be hospitable to these foreigners." The room was silent, before Raymond decided to turn to Troy. "Told you, you big old spoilsport! The kid's got smarts! Just like his dad, before . . . "
"Don't go there, Ray," Troy added, turning to Wesley, who knew all the more than others what happened to his father.
" . . . Okay, I understand." Raymond silently muttered, and patted Wesley on the back. "Sorry, kid."
"It's okay, Ray," Wesley silently said, but in his heart, he knew the pain.
Another vision . . . what is it?
I see . . . something? A . . . shotgun . . . pointed at . . . this group?
Fire . . . a fire . . . no, not from the gun only, but all around me . . . I'm burning . . . how come I don't feel it? . . .
A woman . . . with some kind of mask on . . . is it a party? No . . . it's dark . . . so . . . dark . . . c . . . can . . . can't . . . .
"My God!" Wesley got up from began, in wide shock. No . . . no fire, he thought. It . . . was . . . all a dream. Another one. He stood up, poured himself a glass of wine, and stared into the dark sky that silhouetted the Statue of Liberty. Why does this happen to me? What does this mean? He took a sip, and stared once more. His reflection was dim, yet he could see himself. His own face, staring back at him. What does this mean? Could I be seeing . . . something else? His memory went back to ten years ago. A dream . . . it all started there. A world war. Yes, I remember a world war. It was in my dream. It happened, for the love of God! It happened! He took another sip. The reflection was starting to twist, something darker. He stared to the ground, looking at the carpet the flowed across his room. Then it came to him. Could I . . . be seeing the future? He stared back at the window, only to find a different reflection. Breathing heavily, a man wearing a gas mask stared at him, with the cloak of dark purple on his shoulders. Yes . . . yes . . . I shall become the dreamer.
The sky was dark, twilight stilled the noise of merry chatters of civilians in the streets. The masked man in the gray trenchcoat stood at the top of the building, which has a moderate view of the city. "Sooner than anyone thinks," he said, to the old man behind him. The old man was a shattered soul, a beer drinking bum with no more of a heart than a healthy habit. The plain black mask covered all the emotions of the other, as he walked slowly towards the old man. "So, what's the plan, Boss?"
"The plan is simple, my dear Jordan," the masked man said, grabbing Jordan by the neck. "I am here to rid this city of its sins. Can you hear the cry of the babies in the night, Jordan? What would it be if we brought them up in a world of sin?"
"N-no, Mister Saint, sir."
"And what would they say if they saw you, or any of your kind, drinking beer and ranting about malicious thoughts of women?"
"I-I don't know, Mister Saint, sir."
He took out his shotgun, a Winchester, and fired. He then let go, and Jordan dropped dead on the rooftop.
"This city must burn, dear Jordan. That is the solution. I have received information that Ambassadors of the Allied Forces have come to this city. Which makes matters worse than before." He turns his back on the bleeding Jordan, and once again eyes the city. "There must not be a blemish of war on this city. I shall make this a safe haven for truth, justice, and peace. I am their salvation, the first . . . and the last." Beneath the mask, he muttered.
"And, my dear Jordan, my name is not Mister Saint. Please, we're friends after all. Please call me by my real name."
He whispered, "Patron Saint."
The sky was clear on that day, and the ceremony in the park was grandeur. Mayor Redfield addressed each one of them, the most prominent businessmen in the city, and their achievements to the people, then introduced the ambassadors: Ambassador Cayland, Dr. Stuart and Lionel Ponceby III, from Great Britain; and Pierre Leuchante, French contact for the Allies. Wesley, bored as a young twenty-one year old could be, chanced upon a lady beside Leuchante, a beacon of beauty in this seemingly slow event. A golden opportunity, Wesley thought, as soon as the ceremony ended and the crowd, the businessmen and the ambassadors indulged themselves on the buffet lavishly set on the picnic grounds. "Pardon me, madam," he started, touching her hand by accident, "You do speak English, yes? Or maybe, should I say this, I can tutor you?"
"No thank you, mein freund. I'm quite capable, thank you," she said to him, although somewhat teasingly. Embarrassed, Wesley just went on. "Ah, but I haven't introduced myself," he eloquently said as he kissed her hand. "My name is Sir Wesley Dodds, heir of my father, and part owner of the DSA corporations."
"Ah! You were that Wesley Dodds that the mayor was introducing! Such a poor matter, that the mayor had not introduced me!" she curtsied at Wesley, and blushed. "I am Marriane Leuchante. How I came to speak such fine English, well, my mother immigrated here when I was two."
"Then, why are you among the ambassadors?"
"Father wanted to see his precious child," Marriane said, taking a piece of tiramisu from the tray. "A way fine to make palatable desserts, don't you think?" Wesley could only but smile.
Once again, the night became his surroundings. Only this time, Wesley Dodds could not sleep. Impulse . . . overriding my senses . . .
He knew that gathering these items, was the right thing. Opening his closet, he took out a gas mask, and a gun. A suit, and a dark purple cloak. This is my calling, he thought, putting on the suit. I know that I'm afraid of this . . . being twisted by my own ways to avert the future . . . but I must do this. Quickly, the cloak is on him, and he readied the mask to fit his face. Already, too much has passed me . . . and I've not done a thing. He placed it on his face, knowing that his normal life would be in forfeit. But, who said that a heir investor was such a normal life? I know it . . . I must become the dreamer. Wesley took out a chemical fluid, and another gun, and placed it in his pocket. Thank you, Dr. Kivalti. Your expertise in my-no, DSA's company has been well. Who knew you could create this chemical fluid to induce sleep? Let alone, a sleep gun? He opens the window of his mansion, and takes one look back. The dark bedroom where he first experienced his dreams was still dark, yet radiated a sense of home. The dreamer . . . belongs in a bed, Wesley thought. But . . . this one must play the Sandman . . . yes . . . I am the Sandman. And into the night, Wesley ran.
The streetlight was down. Hammerhead turned to the lone victim, a woman age mid-twenties, scampering for sanctuary. No chance. No chance at all. "Lady, you better give me your purse, or no one gets hurt," he growled, and the woman, as if frozen in fear, stopped. No, wait, a dead end. It was too late. No chance at all. "What? What did I do?" she cried. No chance at all.
"You were around at night alone, lady. Aren't you afraid . . . of wolves?"
"Oh my lord, someone, please!"
"You crossed my territory, and now you've got to pay."
"What did I do? What did I do?" she mourned, as if asking for her last confessions. No chance at all.
Then the wind stopped. And the lights flickered. Hammerhead gazed around, looking for a reason.
"I've got your reason right here," a voice said. And Hammerhead saw the enigma coming down from the rooftops.
Wesley flew to the wall, dazed. "Hammerhead ain't taking bullets from a masked man." Hammerhead roared, and began to charge at Wesley. If I recall from that minute ago, Wesley thought, with few seconds to spare, His headbutts are dead . . . --
"Move!" Wesley yelled, as his joints moved simultaneously, missing Hammerhead's headbutt by an inch, as he crashed into the building wall. It crumbled on him, rendering him unconscious. "Well, that was too easy," Wesley muttered, injecting Hammerhead's leg with the Sleep gun. "W-what are you doing to him?" the woman mumbled, scared not only of Hammerhead but of the mysterious cloaked figure who helped her. "Only sedation. It will keep him sleeping until the police arrive. I am the Sandman. Don't worry. He nearly killed you. Be happy that I didn't."
"K-kill m-me?"
"No, no, I didn't say . . . "
"Stay back!" she screamed, doing a cross sign with her fingers. Great, now I'm a someone's worst nightmare . . . he thought, trying to calm down the woman. "I won't hurt you. I swear."
"Monster!" the woman screamed, running away from the scene. Wesley only tries to cover his smirk from the irony, but in his mind, he tries to cover the shame of failing a citizen. Not really. "Ironic today, aren't we, Sandman?" A figure from the shadows appeared behind him, talking slowly yet as if in a trance.
"Who are you?"
"Please, call me Phantysima," she purred, and revealed a woman in black costume, cape, and mask. Her eyes were green, and told Wesley just how mysterious this woman was.
"And I suppose you back up this mallet over here?" He said defensively. Phantysima only laughed, and place her hand over his. "Foolish boy, I'm here because I'm interested."
"W-what?!?! B-but I can only live so long . . . !"
"Foolish, foolish boy! I'm interested in your training. You fought slowly back there, it almost got you killed! Come now, I shall train you. In body and soul, to prepare you as a real crimefighter in this dark city."
"And how long have you been at it?"
" . . . Longer than you, I ascertain."
" . . . Fine," Wesley said, and the two walk into the shadows, and faded away. Hearing the discussion, A man leapt from the rooftops and carried Hammerhead away from the rubble. "Foolish boy, indeed you are, Sandman. The woman seems more than interested in you. I know." Hammerhead was still dazed from the battle, yet the man still dragged him despite Hammerhead's weight. "Such naivete, such purity. Yet, I see more and more potential in you to become a worthy challenge." Hammerhead mumbled something, but the man hushed him. "Sleep now, Hammerhead. I have an important job for you. You will be my instrument of chaos in this city. And this Sandman."
"We will meet as true enemies, Sandman. I will make sure of it." The two disappear as well in the shadows, and are engulfed in the darkness. True darkness.
The man wore a gray trenchcoat and a plain black mask . . .
Next issue: Sandman vs. Hammerhead, Round Two! Just what does Patron Saint have in store? Be here for Sandman Mystery Theater #2!