He knows what he must do.
It's time.
In a way, I know he's here, Wesley warned himself, standing in the entrance of the embassy. I can almost smell his stench. Not of gasoline . . . but of something far more evil. He knew the risks, he accepted the danger.
But in some ways, a firetrap didn't really appeal to his taste. Wes, there are people who need you in there. Just do it. In sheer momentum and will, The Sandman made his way across the door. Well, tough . . . The first thought that entered his mind, just before the door became burning debris. Now to find Saint.
"Who are you?" Ambassador Cayland stared unto the cold act of murder, the Patron Saint's rifle, bloodied by Ponceby's own.
"Are you ready, Ambassador?" he asked calmly, as the diplomats huddled in a corner of the room: Dr. Stuart; the French contact, Leuchante; and himself. "I need your sacrifice, you see. The people won't shake and make up while your kind stay at lavish accommodations, and discuss the further advancement of war. No more. Today, the city will be purified."
Then, silence. A cloak of purple. A gas mask. Sandman was there. "I have come for you, Saint."
"And there's no denying that, dear Sandman. Save your sentiments for these. They are the ones who caused the chaos in the world today."
Wesley turned to the diplomats, who, even at the sight of their savior, cowered in fear. "No. It's not them. It's not their fault at all. There are here to end this war. Do not you see, Saint, that the Nazis are the ones turning the wheels of war?"
Patron Saint knew. Or did he? He took a step forward, and pointed the shotgun in Wesley's face. "Move."
And that he did. The gunshot deafened the blaze, and Wesley struggled. The floor began to break away, as the Sandman grasped on his shotgun. In Saint, his eyes burnt like a lighter ready to ignite a fire.
"You know! In your eyes you know! Your words betray you, Sandman! I have seen the future!"
Wesley staggered upon these words. The . . . future? Then Patron Saint managed to swerve him off, crashing into the window. He did not let go, and brought along Saint with him. "You know! You know! Your eyes can tell, you can see it as well!"
"Saint! What are you talking about?!?!"
They crashed on the ground, and Wesley felt the sharp shards cutting him, yet did not hesitate to fight back. "Yes . . . it's true. I see the future. And I know as well, that by killing the ambassadors, the diplomats, even the Nazis in the world will not make a difference to what happens to you!"
Saint staggered back, bleeding. Beneath the mask, Wesley prayed that all would end. "It doesn't end that easily," Saint muttered, as bullets spread across the embassy grounds. Wesley dodged them all, heading behind a tree trunk. Saint lashed onto the rifle, and was out of bullets. Take the chance. The Sandman ran towards Saint, and before he grabbed another cartridge, kicked away the rifle, and punched Saint. He fell back, trying to get up on his knees, as the blaze began to circulate. Not now! The trees began to set aflame, and one fell on top of Wesley, crushing his foot. He managed to get it out, though bleeding. He's heading for the gun. I have no choice now but to . . .
Leap.
He landed on Saint, pushing him away from the gun. Still dazed, he was grabbing onto the edge of his consciousness.
"No more time for this foolish nonsense," Patron Saint uttered, before grabbing a nearby carriage. He flung the whip, and the horses bellowed, signaling his getaway. No . . . not this time. You'll make the same mistakes. Wesley grabbed another carriage, though burning, and raced after the Patron Saint.
The sky was red with the burning flames coursing through New York City. Patron Saint galloped faster, as if he knew where to go. Wesley, behind him, knew that time was running out. I've got to get near him, his mind yelled, as the flaming carriage slowly began to tear apart. He tried to harness the horses, but they were too wild, getting too afraid. Their ropes were tied to each other, and Wesley cut them off, setting them loose. Now, my problem!
The Sandman jumped off, as the carriage crashed into the alley, burning ablaze. This is it, Wesley took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
My only chance to finding him is this . . .
Dark skies . . . black skies . . . .a roll of thunder.
I see a place . . . a bridge? Yes . . . it's all clear.
Foggy . . . can't see . . . glass? Mirrors, Mirrors . . .
Lord . . . I finally know where he is.
Wesley was jolted back into reality, in time to dodge the falling debris.
Yes . . . a place full of mirrors.
The Patron Saint knew it was time to cleanse the city. The second phase of his plan was complete. All he needed was the Sandman to be there.
"I'd take a better guess if I knew you'd be a little earlier than I expected," he spoke to the shadows, and Sandman moved into the light.
"Yes. It's over, Saint. A fun house of mirrors is not exactly the best hiding place in Coney Island."
"Yes. It is over for New York," Patron Saint managed to kick the Sandman, crashing into a set of mirrors. "A long time ago, I was given a power of vision. To help purify the world from its sins. Now it's over. You destroyed everything I've ever hoped for."
"No, it's not," Wesley replied, as he got up from the mirror, once again seeing reflections of himself. "I saw myself in a different way. I saw I can change the future, in a different way. You can too."
"No." He tried to punch Wesley, who took it.
Too slow, Wesley thought, trying to regain his footing. "Saint, I turned to the mirror and found a face I didn't expect. The mask I'm wearing now, it's to protect the innocent. As I will do."
"No." A kick, missed it.
"No." Another punch, dodged it. Wesley tried getting close to the Patron Saint, losing all hope of logic and sanity. "No. No. No."
From the above, the storm clouds churned, the rain fell on them, a serene end to the blazing inferno that ravaged New York. But it did not end the Patron Saint's own. "It's all over. You've destroyed everything I've ever hoped for."
"We can rebuild."
"And we can destroy. Sandman, when I first saw you, I expected a challenge," Patron Saint cried to the heavens, as he began to succumb to his own insanity. "I believe you are more now. More than I've ever seen."
He picked up an icepick, lying around. Well, so much for reconciliation, Wesley thought, as Patron Saint drew close. "Let us reveal our innermost secrets, our innermost darkness, and we shall see, who shall be purged!"
Thunder. The icepick fell near Wesley's throat. He got up, and backed off. Saint has lost all of what was left of his soul, he thought, as the icepick came close again. Does that mean . . . I have to kill?
Thunder. Patron Saint flung a roundhouse kick onto Wesley, then a fierce jab, sending him backwards.
No. I won't let him get the best of me.
The icepick slashed his arm and suit. Thunder.
No. I won't let him.
Icepick, wounded his leg, he screamed of pain. Thunder.
No!
Icepick, bloodied, went for the throat. Thunder.
No! More!
In a rage that matches the lightning that came, Wesley grabbed hold of the icepick, staring at the plain black mask that haunted him for so long, and so much hatred. "Saint, it's over! Whatever you've done, whatever happened back, live with it!" He pushed Saint towards the mirror, to face his own reflection. "See that mask? See what you have become? It's a shell! A plain black mask that's an empty outlet for your rage! What happened, Saint? What happened?"
For the moment, the silence was deafening. The thunder rolled on, and the rain soaked each other. Wesley let the man stare at himself. "Tell me, Saint. What do you see in that reflection?"
"No." Saint pushed him away. Then Wesley saw it. Revolver. Six shots fired, one hit counted. Wesley fell to the ground, his right arm in pain, as Saint picked up a sharp shard of a mirror, and looked down on the wounded dreamer. "Your dream is over, Sandman. Mine was over when this began."
It wasn't called for. Wesley injected some of the sleep serum onto the Saint. "Wha-"
"I'm not called the Sandman mainly because of the dreams, Saint."
"No. My dream must not die . . . like this . . . "
"We can get help." Wesley tries to get up, as the Patron Saint stumbled towards the edge of the rail. "No. You see, I still have a plan."
"What are you doing!?"
"A redemption for my soul. A redemption for my soul."
"He threw a match unto the floor, and the water began to burn. "You see, you didn't take it that I spilled gasoline over the floor, did you? Farewell, dear Sandman. Until we meet again." And he made a leap of faith.
"Saint! Damn it!" Wesley, hobbling, tried opening the exit door. Locked, his last thought, before busting it open with his gun. He made his way out, the house of mirrors exploded, and traces of it fell to the floor. Wesley, down on his knees, took a breath, and went on again. No more does the thought of the Patron Saint appear in his mind, as a faint whisper beckons him.
Aftermath:
"Did you hear the news, Master Wesley?" Kingston reported while waking up the heir of the Dodds's mansion. It was a fine morning, a Sunday morning, to be frank. Wesley could only moan, much to the disappointment of Kingston. "Sir, if I may ask, where have you been all night?"
"Around, Kingston. Around."
"Well, may I say that, sir, you've been 'around,' all right." He tidied the bed, while Wesley stared again at the view in the window. The Statue of Liberty was fine, like always, and the everything was the same. Except for the repercussions of the night before. "Sir, I have news. While you were going 'around' there was a serial killer abound, destroying the city! If it hadn't been for this 'cloaked gentleman,' the city would have been in ruins!"
"Well, we better thank that cloaked gentlemen in a great way, Kingston."
"Not only that, sir, but what are these doing in your closet?" Kingston brought out a gas mask, a purple cloak and two guns.
"Well, protection?" Wesley muttered.
"Sir, are you that cloaked gentleman?"
Okay, so I was trapped.
"So, Wes! I heard there was a great disaster with the embassy! Guess, it's clean-up time in the city, eh, Troy?" Raymond said joyfully, even though it wasn't supposed to be.
"Uh, Raymond, we're now going to pay more taxes to rebuild the embassy! Doesn't mean loss of money, or has your mind been taking union breaks listening to the 'Amos 'n' Andy' show again?"
"There you are, Troy! Even you can make a joke!"
"I'm not making a joke, I'm making an insult."
"Ray . . . Troy, sir . . . er . . . "
I think I fumbled.
"Son, about that sir thing . . . "
If not for down payments, DSA is still under normal circumstances. Not that that means any good anyway.
"Well, my father is going back to France now. I'll miss him." Marriane said, as Leuchante boards the ship back to Europe. "It has been such a disaster, as much as I've heard. Poor Sir Ponceby."
"God rest his soul . . . ?"
"Yes . . . "
Wesley turned to her, staring into a beauty when last night he was staring into death. Wesley smiled. "Marriane, why are you staying?"
"Since I've immigrated here, I was given the citizenship. I believe we will be seeing each other more often, Wesley."
"Yes . . . yes, I hope so."
Wesley stared in the distant sunset, sitting on the roof, eyeing that statue that has given freedom a chance for all. The Statue of Liberty . . . it was a flame of hope, he thought, as his gas mask covered his thoughts and his old life. It was a choice . . . a choice for everyone who wanted freedom. And a choice to be themselves.
He stood up, watching the night take place of the sun.
I guess the Patron Saint's choice was his own. His thoughts disappeared into the night, as he readied himself.
The night had come. And so had the Sandman.
Next: The Gray Ghost.