He will know pain.
He will know suffering.
He will know justice.
For he is now the Dreamer.
The night was young and the distant echoes were vivid. Wesley stood over the building, waiting for something to happen. What if . . . she doesn't come? he thought, readying his sleep gun as never before. Suddenly, a rattle disturbed the silence, and the Sandman turned to the action.
The cloaked figure, as black as night, swooped down on him, as he leapt back to defend himself. The figure laughed, and charged at him. Wesley knew, he knew that he could do it. He had been practicing battle tactics for at least two weeks. Is that really enough? he thought, split seconds away from the figure's fist making contact with his stomach. In a swift, agile motion, he flew. And behind, he gave a roundhouse kick, and a jab. The figure somersaulted back, and stared at him coldly. I think I can do it, he whispered in his mind. I think I can.
"I know what you're thinking, Sandman," the figure said. "I know when you're going to use that straight punch, I can counter it by holding onto your arm, and turn to your back, and knock you down."
"You know that much, Phantysima?"
"It's a knockout assault." The figure revealed her face, a young woman with green eyes, and a black costume that allows her to blend in the dark of night. She slowly made her way to Wesley, and stared at him in the face. "Foolish boy, for two weeks now, you have been training with me. You should know how to fight quicker than that." She leapt across the building, and fell in a freefall, yet landed gracefully on the lower roof. Wesley stared at her, knowing that there was something about that woman that made him feel light.
"I can say the morning was bad for you, eh, Wes?" Raymond Stark said, slapping the young investor in the back. Wesley could only take so much of a sip before choking on it at that time. "N-no, sir . . . Bad night."
"It's R-A-Y, not sir. Are we forgetting something here, Wes? We're partners! How many times does that need to get drilled in your mind? Kid, we're in the business together! Show some pride!"
"Okay, Ray. Show some pride . . . say, where's Troy?"
"Oh . . . that . . . Troy's out. Didn't you know?"
"No."
"Well, okay, then go to your office, count paperclips or whatever you heir-to-the-throne executives do!"
"Okay, what are up to?" Wesley mumbled. Just then Troy entered the room, with an engraved letter in his hand. His brown hair was cut short, shorter than the last time they saw him. "Hello, Ray . . . " groaned the thirty-five-year old executive, as Wesley took a look into the letter. "Troy! I see you got . . . the mail." Raymond moaned.
"Hey, this is . . . "
"Yes, Wesley. It's an engraved invitation to the touring of the ambassadors around the city. Dinner included," grumbled Troy, beady eyes stretching beyond annoyance at Raymond. "Raymond Stark, do you know that we'll lose more money not working than funding that . . . war!?!?"
"Are you a pacifist, Troy?"
"Raymond, we can't ignore our business! Where's your sense of responsibility? Where's your loyalty to your work?"
"Where's your loyalty to your country? We're helping out and making history at the same time!"
"I knew you'd bring that up. Just like before."
Wesley sighed. Maybe I should count the paperclips, he thought as the other two partners of DSA fought over the matters.
Hammerhead stood stiff as Patron Saint took a seat in the rundown apartment, now flocked with doves, before, a home of a family -- before they got killed by the Patron Saint. Patron Saint placed his gun on the desk, as began to play with a coin.
"So, Mister Hammerhead, I assume you've got all the ingredients we need to create a utopia?" he asked.
Hammerhead silently placed one of the cans of gasoline and a cloudy flask on the desk, and behind the mask, Patron Saint just smirked. "Good."
Hammerhead, still stiff, had other plans. "You know, Boss, I've been thinking," he said, and then grabbed the man with one of his fists. "Why don't we rob the bank and split it, 50-50? We'll have a rich utopia . . . " He then pointed his other hand on his head, hard as steel, and knocked on it. "Or I've got a better idea. You see, I'm tired of working with you already, and I think it's time you learned who's boss . . . "
With a swift kick, the doves fly from the porch. Hammerhead fell down on his knees, unable to move. Patron Saint stood before him, and kicked him in the stomach. "Yes. It's time you learned who's boss."
Another kick. Hammerhead cowered in pain, and fear. Patron Saint, still emotionless, kicked him again. "I know, I know you're afraid. Everyone will be. For this utopia will not have truth, justice and peace . . . " He paused, watching the doves flying away.
"If we do not have purity. And I shall instill what is pure."
A dove landed on his hands, and Patron Saint looked down on it. In an instant, he crushed it, then let it free. He turned back to Hammerhead, and whispered to him, "Even if it means pure fear."
And now, both Hammerhead and the dove knew pure fear.
"Quite a gentleman, to escort a lady around a new place," Marriane intoned to Wesley, as hand-in-hand, they ride the carriage along with the other ambassadors and businessmen. "I'm sure my father loves that kind of men to be . . . " she whispered, then paused, giving Wesley a little nervous feeling climbing up his spine. Mr. Leuchante laughed, as did the British diplomats. "The young lady seems to be taken quite a fancy to you, Sir . . . "
"Dodds. Please call me Wesley Dodds, Dr. Stuart."
"Yes, yes Wesley." The chubby, old doctor smiled through his handlebar mustache, as the carriage rolled along the streets of New York. Then, Marriane spotted the Statue of Liberty, and asked her father to look at it. Wesley just watched, as the two began talking like a true father and daughter relationship, even if they haven't seen each other for a while. "A, ma petit, that was a gift from us French, non?" Mr. Leuchante said in his native accent, and Marriane giggled. Yes, Wesley thought, as the carriage rolled on. Marriane is like the sunlight in my days, yet how can I tell her?
"Something wrong, Wesley?" Raymond patted him on the back, bringing Wesley back into his focus.
"Yes, Ray. Quite fine."
"Well, you better not get motion sickness on this ride, you young sod! Look at you, almost acting like your old man!"
"Raymond Stark . . . " Troy elbowed him in the stomach.
"No, Troy. I'm far past that. It's okay."
"Fine, Wesley. It's too bad your father's not here to see this moment. You, making history, a prominent businessman, and . . . "
A light . . . a match. Falling.
An explosion, a shadow . . . gray trenchcoat?
Something charging my way. I have the sleep gun. I have a gun. Why can't I use it?
It's that Hammerhead . . . he's coming right at me . . . jump!
Wait . . . there is no Hammerhead . . . ? How did . . . not your concern . . .
The shadow, enveloping a group . . . Leuchante? Oh my god, that's Mr. Leuchante!
Could that group be . . . the diplomatic ambassadors?
Marianne! Marriane! Is she . . . ?
Phantysima . . . she's here. She's here to comfort me. She's here . . . to . . .
Blood. My hands are . . . covered . . .
"Wesley, are you okay?!" Marriane woke him up, shaking him from the vivid dream that cornered his very mind.
"Y-yes . . . Marriane, I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
She took his hand, and in her eyes, he saw a worried heart. "Wesley, what happened to you?" He could only look at her, yet tell her nothing.
"Nothing," he said. "Nothing but a dream."
The Sandman leapt into action, and behind the embassy, he hid himself. "Hammerhead's going to show up," he muttered. "That dream couldn't be more real . . . wait a minute, Hammerhead's wearing a gray trenchcoat?"
Wesley took a minute to wonder about that. Then thought to himself. Even if he didn't, someone may attack the embassy. I've got to stay here. After all, this mist bomb may help.
The night was young, then he saw it. A big hulking shadow across the moonlight, moving across a construction site. "That's got to be him," Wesley muttered, and leapt into action.
Hammerhead was caught by surprise, but this time, he might have had the advantage. "So, the cloaked man comes out to play."
"The Sandman does not play, Hammerhead!" Wesley moved quickly, grabbing the pipe by the railings, and used it as a staff. Hammerhead laughed, and knocked him off with a backfist, hurtling him towards a metal wall. With skill he learned from Phantysima, Sandman reclined his feet, and recoiled from the wall. And with a sideswipe down, Wesley crouched in a defensive position, ready to take on Hammerhead. The nightlight illuminated the mist, covering them from anyone's view. Why is the mist so . . . thick? Wesley thought, before noticing the fist of Hammerhead's left arm connecting to his stomach. He flew back, but managed to press his weight down to the ground.
"Well, aren't we defensive today?" Hammerhead hollered, as Wesley silently observed his foe's moves. He may be bulky but he is fast . . . I need a precise attack, one that can take bruise him with no time to recover as I deliver a finishing blow. Wesley stood up, and then, noticed a trickling of water nearby. That smell . . . gas!
"Damn you, Hammerhead! You're going to burn us alive!" Hammerhead stood back, as dark clouds cast overhead.
A light . . . a match. Falling.
"So, The Sandman comes to play. You will be of great challenge." The mists rolled back, yet Wesley could only see a shadow.
An explosion, a shadow . . . grey trenchcoat?
"You see, the mist you're seeing now is not really mist, but flammable gas," the shadow continued on, as Hammerhead eyed him with silent contempt. "What if we mixed that with oxygen? Prechance we'll blow up this area."
"That's right . . . " Wesley let out, and realized he must return to the embassy to warn everyone.
"I don't think you'll be going anywhere. You see, that trickling water is gas, and it has replaced the water supply heading towards the embassy. Either way, you won't make it."
Wesley felt the mist closing in on him. The mists rolled back, revealing a man with a black mask and a gray trenchcoat.
A gray trenchcoat.
"The city must be cleansed, Sandman. By fear and by fire. You are the greatest challenge," he grabbed a match, and . . .
Get out, Wes!
An explosion decimated the construction area, burning every object in sight. Yet, Wesley somehow survived, as well as the masked man and Hammerhead. The heat burned him. The melting rails were falling off, as he tried to dodge them. This is not the way of die, Wes!
" . . . and you will be my greatest example. Now, accept your death. For you will not be able to save the ambassadors."
"You'll not get away with this."
"Oh, I already have. We should be friends, Sandman. I know your name, and it is high past time you know mine." Hammerhead lunged at Wesley, who tried to move back, but was blocked by the raging inferno, storming its way across the vast area. By now, the embassy knows. The embassy could be burning! Marriane, I'm so sorry. Hammerhead grabbed him, and pushed him to the ground. The bulking mobster brought his foot down, only to miss him, moving sideways to the right. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky to have a second chance.
"I am the Patron Saint, Sandman. I have come to cleanse. And cleanse I shall." Patron Saint left, as the fires burned above them. "We're going to die here, Hammerhead! Do you have any idea what that means?!?!"
"Sure I do! I just want you dead first!" Hammerhead kickked him away, which gave him a few seconds to act. Bring out the gun! Bring out the gun! Hammerhead charged, with his headbutt, a fatality beyond pain, as Sandman rolled to the left, avoiding the blow. Fire! He thought, but his instincts betrayed him. His body betrayed him. Yet he dodged another fatal blow from Hammerhead.
A gunshot was heard. And Hammerhead lied on the ground, slowly drowning in his sleep. "I-I . . . didn't . . . "
. . . no. Not this time. This is me. Personally. The Sandman landed a punch on Hammerhead, and he dropped, unconscious. He should be sleeping well now, Wesley thought, dragging Hammerhead away from the fire scene. Outside, it was burning, yet less compared to what was ablaze in the construction site. "So, you did it," Phantysima's voice echoed in the shadows, and Wesley spotted her, hiding behind the dark side of the street. "Show yourself."
"You did it. I guess you are not the foolish boy that I thought you were."
"On the contrary, I still am. The Patron Saint is going to burn the embassy. If it's not burning already."
Phantysima smirked, and helped her pupil around. "No, not this time. You did well, Sandman. Who knew you could face Hammerhead alone? But now is not the time to enjoy your victory."
"I know. What should I do? The Patron Saint may be far more stronger than I ever was."
"Follow your heart, Sandman. You know where it leads you."
"I know . . . "
"Then it's best that you do it now."
Wesley runs off into the night, leaving Phantysima alone, in her darkness, her natural surroundings. She thinks about what she says, and smiles. Calling out to her pupil, she knows he can't hear him, yet she hopes that he does.
"Follow you heart, Sandman. As much as I did, teaching you." And she is swallowed in the darkness of the streets once more.
The embassy is burning, and he walks slowly, yet lax, as he knows everyone is in fear. The Patron Saint turns to his work, and smiles. "This is the future, New York. This will be your penance."
And he enters the burning entrance, knowingly that the ambassadors await in fear . . .
Next issue: The conclusion to Gaslight! Sandman takes on The Patron Saint, whose mission of purity must end before another drop of blood is spilled! All this while New York burns into an inferno in Sandman Mystery Theater #3!