Maybe that�s how it happened. Maybe the truck driver didn�t see the light change. He�d been driving for hours, peering anxiously through his windshield, wipers rhythmic and ineffectual against the downpour. Maybe the noise from the wipers hypnotized him. Maybe he went blind.

Maybe he really didn�t see the light go from green to yellow to red.

That night, thirty-thousand pounds of Detroit steel slammed into something on the Aparo Expressway. For miles of city blocks, drivers slammed on their brakes, everyone praying to come to a stop before their front bumper met the rear end of the car ahead. Insurance premiums had to be considered.

The truck driver wasn�t worried about insurance rates; he�d felt the car wedged under his front right tire crumple from the impact. What had he been doing? Sixty? Seventy? Legal in Gotham, at least on the Expressway before the Sprang Bridge. He jumped out, his feet crunching glass.

The smell of gasoline was pervasive. One spark from his own truck or the car and everything would go. He approached the wreck cautiously, his hands shaking. He knew the car. Everyone in Gotham knew this make and model.

And there was no way the driver could have survived the impact.

A scrape of metal on metal, muffled by the endless rain but not concealed by it. The driver approached, his shirt already soaked through. The front of his truck steamed, the grill crumpled. And the sleek, dark machine beneath was all broken fiberglass and twisted metal.

He leaned closer, trying to figure out where the driver�s side would be. His semi had pushed the car�s passenger side into the driver�s seat, the whole thing folding like an accordion. It took him a moment to see this, because of the rain and his own fear. He was a good man, paid his bills, took care of his wife and kids. How could he ever explain-

The scream of metal on metal again. He crossed around to the other side, wondering if the red puddle being diluted by rainwater was transmission fluid or blood. Driver�s side door, something hunched over the spot where the wheel should be. Silence, and the rain. �Oh God,� the driver muttered, touching the mangled body behind the wheel. No doubt now whose car it had been.

At his touch, the body jerked upright. He saw the other man�s face, the cowl still firmly in place. A harsh, rasping breath, and from the sound, the driver knew there was blood in the man�s lungs. The other guy didn�t have much time.

�What can I do?� the driver asked, leaning close, eyes widening when he saw the gear shift sticking out of the man�s chest. Had it gone through his heart?

�Can�t feel my legs,� the man in the mask said, his voice low, strong, stating a fact.

�Help�s on the way,� said the driver, trying to understand the situation for what it was. The wail of sirens, penetrating the thick curtain of rain.

Their lives had intersected once before, during a bank heist. Did the dying man recognize him? He�d pointed a gun at this mangled body before, back when it was fast and powerful. He�d held him in his sights and pulled a trigger. Fifteen years, and the shot of the gun still rang in his ears. The sight of two shells slamming into a Kevlar vest imprinted with that dark logo. He�d tried to kill him before.

Now he was watching the guy bleed to death on some rainy highway, his body crushed, his mind going. And the driver couldn�t think of anything to say. He wanted to explain how desperate he had been, back then. How the bank job had seemed like the answer to all his problems. And when he�d seen that shadow descend and fired those two shots�he�d had a whole new set of problems. He�d gone to prison and come out a different man. He hadn�t breathed for ten years.

The driver leaned in close, slipping his hand behind the other man�s neck. It looked like he couldn�t hold his head up anymore.

�What can I do?� the driver asked again, because he couldn�t say anything else.

Those white-slit eyes opened wide, alert. The man whetted his lips, pulling the driver close, whispering something in his ear. The driver backed away.

�I can�t-�

�Please,� the man said, simply, quietly. �Please. Don�t let them�� he muttered, losing it a little. There was blood on his lips now, and the driver thought he saw the other man�s eyes glaze over a little behind the mask. His body slackened a little. �No one can know.�

The sirens had stopped, stuck somewhere behind them in the snarl of traffic. The rain fell harder, stinging his bare neck, bouncing off the crumpled hood of the car. The driver looked again at the dying man, his eyes growing hard, resolute. He went back to his cab and reached for something in the glove compartment, then back to the car.

�I owe you this,� the driver said quietly, through the rain.

The man didn�t reply, just kept watching, waiting. Finally the driver nodded, opening his palm. Sparking the Zippo to fire. Dropping it.

The night exploded in flames, snaking through the lingering puddles of gasoline to the engines of both vehicles. The driver backed off, waiting for the explosion. It came, faster than he would have guessed. His rig went up, the heap of twisted metal just after.

The last thing he saw was the man�s body going up with the Batmobile, taking his secrets with him.

The fire was out by the time the ambulance got there. Nothing left but a few charred chunks of metal. Jet fuel, they said. The crazy bastard had been using jet fuel. The driver didn�t listen, stayed away from the news afterwards, mumbling his way through the investigation after the crash. He was never able to really tell anyone what had happened.

Because of the rain.

*******************
THE END

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