Megachiroptera and the warning signs of the times

Some nights can weigh heavily. With its velvety softness, it can bind the limbs more securely than leather cords or steel shackles. Tonight is one such night, and I know I must throw myself into it. The ocean of blue and black must crash down upon me.

My hands fiddle with the car keys. Almost compulsively and restlessly, my gloved fingers make the ring slide back and forth across my palm.

It is just before midnight, and I should have been out long ago, swimming through this dark sea like a shadow dolphin, with stars shining upon its body like phosphorescent jellyfish. But today, the mirror won't let me go. My reflection has pinned my gaze to its smooth surface and I cannot tear it away. What I see is decay – not obvious decay, not yet. But I can see this weariness and the creeping slackening. Just like the greying hair, it is a sign that time gives me – a warning.

Not so long ago, I would usually leave the car at home, this high-tech projectile that makes me almost invulnerable. But I can no longer do without it. The dark dolphin has grown weary, and the effortless grace of its nocturnal dance is gone. What is a legend? Merely a dream of something that ended at just the right time? If so, I have long outlived my own saga. No one is exempt from decay, no matter how hard they try to halt the process. I knew that when I began. But I'd forgotten that for a long time. Now it's long since over. The superior technique with which I once operated, almost mastering the night, is now outdated, and I'm too tired to work on it. Perhaps I could catch up again, but it's probably not worth the effort anymore.

The police are everywhere, and so are the other side. None of the bad guys need to lift a finger to steal anymore, nobody lingers in dark alleys waiting to snatch someone's wallet. I can't remember the last time a street robbery took place in this city – it must have been years ago. The only thing that happens on the streets at night is the ritualistic showing off of youths, as they always do. Sometimes it ends fatally, sometimes they just smash things up. They're children, ever younger children, who sell drugs under a big black velvet cloth. They send their sisters out onto the streets, thinking they can hide their pathetic fear. They have nothing to do with the law. It's a world of its own.

I once saw a gang beating someone up. I slowed down to get a better look. But I didn't stop, get out of the car or reveal my presence. The boy had got back to his feet and was shouting abuse across the filthy street. He gave a middle finger, the internationally recognised language of every neighbourhood here. That gesture has become the country's new flag, or even the world's. The girls were laughing and screaming, so I pressed down on the accelerator. But that mad finger, with the power to trivialise anything that might matter to anyone, wouldn't leave my mind. It haunted me in my dreams, burned onto my retina like a stele of some evil god.

There are no more crimes on the streets, only frightened, evil children and desperate, stinking people looking for a place to sleep. Sometimes they kill each other, sometimes they help one another. Mostly, they sell each other something to temporarily numb their pain. Alcohol, drugs, sex, or the fleeting illusion of power. Brass knuckles never go out of fashion – the thrill still works. A quick blow, an incredible gush of blood, and the feeling of having won – for now, at least. Until next time, when someone else has the knuckles and breaks your nose.

The real hurting, robbing, stealing, blackmailing and raping happens inside houses and within the fine, tightly woven digital net that spans everything and pulses through the night. It's a gigantic trawl net that even catches and paralyses shadow dolphins. I drive around in my car because I'm too tired to glide – the rooftops have become too high for me and the alleys too dark. I should stay here tonight, and ideally every other night for the rest of my life. But what would I do then? I left the point of no return far behind me.

I must have been a little spaced out, because I hadn't noticed that I'd pressed my hand against the mirror – as if I wanted to be close to the figure inside. The mask dangles from my back. I feel it, and then I take my hand away, reaching for it. When I put it on, I am what I used to be for a moment – for the blink of an eye. It's not that I've become evil or indifferent, or that I've truly given up.

But I have grown old, and above all, I am completely useless. The night and the city no longer need each other. Yet we cannot part ways. For the old man with the mask, it is time – midnight has struck. I will set off to patrol the streets, even though some now regard the Batmobile as nothing more than a publicity stunt.

© 'Megachiroptera and the warning signs of the times': a short story by Ilona E. Schwartz (translated by Izabel Comati), 06/2026. The illustrations show an epaulette bat. Drawing by G. H. Ford. Source: 'Proceedings of Zoological Society of London', 1859, Licence: public domain.