<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v666/shinobi42/shinobi.jpg)</td><td><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2em;">Kid Arrow</span><br/><br/>October 12, 1985; <br/>Day of Comedians' Murder<br/>Tokyo, Japan<br/>Evening</td></tr></tbody></table><br/>Built in the shadow of a mushroom cloud, the 23-citied metropolis shone a neon so bright that it captured the starlit sky in a haze.  Heat rose from the busy streets below, a million people clamoring as they transitioned from setting to setting, some without a word, others with raucous, satyric glee.  Overhead, the whirling blades of a fleet of helicopters darted past ultra-modern high-rise apartments, affording the city a totalitarian spirit that it had not seen since 1945 when half the city was destroyed.  But no bombs emanated from the belly of these black flying steeds to-nite; only a man.  Garbed in white, he appeared like a shooting star plummeting earthward, hands outstretched and legs coiled for impact.  The man landed in a roll atop of a high rise, disappeared in the shadow of the building, then emerged running across rooftops, bounding and vaulting past obstacles, and treading the dizzying heights like an overeager schoolchild when he first sees snow.  Near perilous edges, the man accelerated, his running body conducting itself like a missile, his red scarf blowing wildly behind him.<br/><br/>Taut, lean muscles all worked in unison to draw him skyward near the precipice between two tall buildings, his body outstretched, his arms symmetrical, his feet together.  Then, in the apex of the leap, he curled his body at the abdomen and dove down, parallel to the vertical horizon of the building.  Windows blurred past him, but he kept count of them.  Removing two shafts from his quiver, he expertly drove the cylindrical arrowheads into the concrete, thus gradually decreasing his speed.  He braced himself in the frame of a window, peeled the tip of his rough rider leather glove from his wrist to inspect his watch, then tapped the radio on his forearm guard.<br/><br/>"I'm in position," he said.<br/><br/><em>Elsewhere.</em><br/><br/>"We have received confirmation that the Fourth Estate has reached his position," an African American gentleman with a boxed haircut and a crisp white shirt said as he lowered his brick-sized cellular from his ear.  He reached over and placed his hand on top of Mrs. Cumberland's hand.   "This is almost over."<br/><br/>Mrs. Cumberland, who appeared to be Italian, had dressed immaculately for the occasion in a shoulder-padded purple blazer with a low cleavage cut.  Expensive, custom jewelry adorned her neck, ears, wrists and fingers.  Her husband, a middle-aged gentleman with slicked back peppered hair, sat beside her.  Of the two, he seemed to be the most in anguish, but that is because Mrs. Cumberland was a proud and strong woman.  She eyed the American agent quietly, considered what to say, and then finally said:<br/><br/>"Then make the call."<br/><br/>Agent Murphy nodded, then picked up the phone.  A number of other agents picked up their phones, too, but no one approached the conference table that had served as the Cumberland's work space and psychiatric couch for the last three days.  Murphy made the call.<br/><br/>Someone on the other side picked up almost immediately.<br/><br/><strong>"So do you have the money?"</strong>that someone said.<br/><br/>"Yes, we have the money.  We are willing to cooperate."  Mr. Cumberland was nearing hysterics.  'The girl!' he mouthed.  'I have to talk to my girl'  Murphy nodded at him, put a finger up, and continued to speak in a clear, affirmative voice into the receiver.   "Listen, we have to know that the girl is all right."<br/><br/><strong>"No, first you give me the money!"</strong><br/><br/>"Look, we are going to give you the money, but first we have to know the girl's all right," Murphy said sternly.<br/><br/>There was a shuffle on the other end.  Then, a soft, melodic voice, filled with a deep understanding of melancholy.   "Hello?" the child whispered uncertainly.<br/><br/>"Hi, Debra,"  Murphy said in a reassuring voice.   "Your parents are sitting right beside me.  They want to tell you that they love you, but I only have fifteen seconds to speak to you.  I need you to do as I say, okay?  But before you do anything, I need you to listen to everything I'm going to say.  First, I need you to put the phone down.  Then you're going to shut your eyes, cover your ears, and lay on the ground, okay?  Can you do that for me?"<br/><br/>"I think so..."<br/><br/>"Good.  Do it now."<br/><br/><em>In a lavish apartment in a Japanese high rise.</em><br/><br/>A tiny little girl of four years of age looked quizzically at the sneering men lounging about on the couch.  Then, she placed the heavy cellular on top of the coffee table.  The men were a bit puzzled.  They were in the depths of savage curiosity when the little girl, dirty but generally unharmed (if a bit mishandled), curled up into a ball on the ground and dutifully covered her ears and shut her eyes.  Her handler immediately grabbed the phone.<br/><br/><strong>"What is all this ab--"</strong><br/><br/>He was interrupted by a loud crash.  An arrow pierced the glass window and soared through the circle created by his arm as he spoke on the phone.  Since the rope that it was attached to had given up slack, the arrow sputtered in the air momentarily before the rope caught his wrist in a grapple.  After a second of two, the dangerous satellite crashed head-first into the cellphone, piercing it, and then had enough force to penetrate his palm.  Before the man could register pain, he was pulled off of his feet and through the window, screaming.  Doppler effect came into play.<br/><br/>The men stood up, looking on in astonishment at what had just occurred.  Then, another arrow soared through the window and past them.  Their eyes followed it as it lodged itself into drywall on the opposite side of the room.  One of the men, the most intrepid of the bunch, thought that the arrow might contain a message; but there was no message at all.  Not a comprehensible one anyways.  There was only a blinding flash and a thunderous roar, followed by a cloud of smoke that billowed with amazing volume into the room.<br/><br/>A voice said behind them:<br/><br/>"Well, boys; guess what time it is...?"<br/><br/>Kid Arrow stepped forward, his eyes narrowed into two condemning slits of hatred, one set of knuckles being sharpened by a squeezing palm.  He was garbed in white, save for a long red scarf; his helmet had six eyes; his presence spelled certain doom.  The Kid seemed to cheer up considerably when no one answered his question though.  He shrugged his shoulders with indifference and in accordance to what time it was, dashed towards one of the men and socked him in the face, the resulting impact ramming his nose into his brain.   "It's hammer time!"  Arrow said in monotone: then he broke out with a lyrical:   "Woah, woah woah woah woah woah, woah!"  He grabbed another man's wrists, jerked his arm out of his shoulder socket, spun him around, kicked him in the spine with enough force to drive another man through the wall, then discarded his immobile body on the couch.  Turning, the Kid drove his heel into another man's temple with a roundhouse, crushing his skull.<br/><br/>At the obscene violence, two of the remaining men attempted to flee.  However, their path was blocked by a special sort of arrow.  The kind that binds items by freezing them.<br/><br/>"Only one way to escape, fellows," Arrow said, his hands outstretched sympathetically.  Then, he hiked his thumb.   "That's through a window."  Arrow shrugged.