#reader is kidnapped by john wick and forced into a new identity

[overheardatthecontinental]

As requested, here is more of Dark!John, extended from the kinktober somnophilia fic Mine.

Please read the tags. This is dark yall.

You wake up feeling stiff and achy. You go to stretch but you can’t. Your legs are locked in place. All at once, you find yourself wide awake and searching for what has you restrained.

Your hands are bound above your head, tied together. Your legs are spread open, each tied to the end of the bed. There's a bit of wiggle room but you sure as hell aren't moving more than a few inches.

“Easy.” The familiar voice says to you, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

The events of the previous night, the previous week come back.

The feeling that you were being watched, thinking yourself half-crazy until you heard the lock click open and you ran for it. You didn’t even make it past the alley behind your apartment before he had caught you, wrapping you up in his arms, trying to quietly goad you into submission.

You had tried to run. To fight.

And he had choked you.

After that, it all went blank.

You swallow, heavily and ignore the pain in your esophagus to look to where the voice comes from. He is sitting in front of a large window with views to a balcony and of a green yard. You’re not sure where you are but this sure as hell isn’t New York.

He’s… attractive and it’s stupid, but that just infuriates you all the more.

He’s wearing a three-piece suit with the tie draped around his neck, undone. He’s got a dark beard and long hair. And he has dark piercing eyes and immediately, you feel your body shiver. Those were the eyes that were following you. The eyes that hunted you.

He stands from his seat in the armchair, opening a bottle of water. He slips a straw into the water and offers it.

“Here.”

You wonder if you should take it. Your throat burns and water sounds so good right now, but you don’t trust him.

“It’s safe.” He promises, a hard tone to his voice, followed by an authoritative “Drink .”

You lean forward and take the straw into your mouth. The water is still cold and it feels divine as it falls down your throat. You wonder how long it has been since you last ate or drank. The sun is out and you can see it from a large wall, covered in windows.

You release the straw and he sets it on a bedside table.

“Where am I?” You ask, wondering if he’ll even bother to answer.

“You’re safe.”

Safe? Was he mad?

You look around the room. There are three doors. One to the balcony, and two regular doors. You’re unsure where either leads. The one across from the balcony wall has a pinpad and some sort of complicated locking device. So does the balcony.

The last doesn’t, which makes you think that it isn’t an exit. A bathroom, perhaps?

The room itself is largely white and utilitarian. There’s the bed and matching armchairs by the balcony. A nightstand on either side of the bed. But that is all.

“How… how long have I been out?” You ask, hoping for a clue to your unconsciousness.

The bed dips as he sits next to you.

A large hand reaches up towards your face and you wince as a finger tracks down your throat.

"Nearly twelve hours.” He pauses and says, “I'm sorry I had to hurt you."

You don't know what the fuck to say to that. so you don’t say anything.

You need a plan. You need a way out and right now, you don’t have shit. Twelve hours. Fuck, you could be anywhere in North America.

You can’t stand. You can’t even sit up.

But even if you could, you’re locked in this room. Locked in this house and you don’t know where the fuck you are.

The only way out, if any, is by leave of this stranger. This stranger who has stalked you, kidnapped you, and now has you tied up in this room. A kidnapper’s humanity is her only chance out of this.

You swallow. “My name’s Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. What’s yours?”

And apparently, that is the wrong thing to say. His eyes flash dark and his face tightens. “Your name is Helen.”

There it is again. Helen.

Does he have someone confused for you? Is this your way out?

“No, it’s Y/N. I swear. You can even look at my ID. It’s in my wallet.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t help it. He’s glaring. He’s getting angry.

“Your name…” He says slowly, “is Helen.”

“It’s not! I’m not who you’re looking for! I think this is a mistake…”

His thumb presses down on your lips, hard. It stops you from continuing and you wonder if he notices how much you are shaking. When you stop trying to speak he gives a small smile.

“Good girl.” He praises, “You are exactly who I’m looking for.”

You want to argue. You want to insist on your name, your identity. To convince him that you’re not this Helen that he is looking for but survival instincts kick in and you decide not to piss off the man who has you strapped to a bed.

You nod. “Okay.” You whisper and he moves his thumb, “Okay. What’s your name?”

His face relaxes a bit, “I’m John.”

“Hi John.”

Progress. Okay. That was progress.

"Can I… Can I ask you some questions, John? I'm just so confused." You try your best to look as such. As it turns out, it isn't hard to look confused and scared when that was exactly what you were feeling.

John pets your head and pushes your hair back from your face, "Of course, my love.”

The endearment sends a shiver down your spine but you don’t have time to be scared or confused. Not when you don’t know who this guy is or what he intends to do.

The only good thing you can think is that if he wanted you dead, he could have killed you already.

That was comforting, right?

“Where are we?” You try, hoping for some kind of hint.

“Our house.”

“Which is where?”

His hand curls around your chin and you’re struck by how large it is. Hands aren’t something you think about being strong but his… he tilts your head up, barely using any force, and you find yourself wondering just what those hands are capable of.

“You don’t need to know that right now, sweet Helen.”

“But--”

“Now I know this is new and I’m going to do my best to be patient with you.” He says, his fingers pinching your chin, “But we’re going to set some ground rules. Understand?”

You nod, swallowing hard.

“Say, ‘I understand.’”

“I… I understand.”

“Good girl.” He lets go of your chin and sits back up. “You’re safe. And right now, that’s all you need to know in terms of where we are. Right now, you are in our house. In our bed.”

Our house. That was the second time he had said that. Our bed, however, was far more intimidating a thought.

Is that what this was about?

It couldn't be.

He was, she hated to admit it, ridiculously attractive. In any other circumstance, he would make her mouth water. He wouldn't have an issue finding a woman. He could definitely have picked one more attractive, she thinks, younger with silky skin and a gorgeous figure.

She wasn’t hideous but she sure as hell wasn’t so sexy that she drove men mad. To kidnapping.

Our bed,  she thinks again.

“I’m going to take care of you.” John continues, petting her hair back again, “And you’re going to let me. I will provide everything for you that you need. I promise that you won’t want for anything.”

“Except my freedom.”

His face gains back that hardened edge and you wonder if it was a mistake. But just as quickly as it arrives, it vanishes.

“I will make this as simple for you as I can: when you are a good girl, you will be rewarded. And when you are a bad girl, you will be punished.”

The last bit sent another shiver through you. You weren’t sure what he meant but punished but you were certain you didn’t want to find out. That meant escape. And fast. God, you had to get out of here fast.

His hands reach up to where your wrists are bound. “We’re going to start small. I’m going to undo your hands and legs. I can assure you now that there is no getting out of this room without me. I don’t recommend trying. But you’ve been here awhile now. I’m sure you need to eat and use the bathroom.”

You definitely did, to the second.

As far as eating went, you are torn completely between denying anything he tries to feed you and ensuring that you keep your strength up. Either way, however, you nod.

John unclasps your wrists and you bring them to your chest, holding them tight to you.

He stands up and walks to the end of the bed where he unties the bindings from your ankles.

Your body aches but you feel instantly better when released.

Even though your arms feel weak, you push yourself to a sitting position.

“Go easy.” John warns, “Your limbs will need time to adjust--”

You push yourself to your feet, ignoring him, and you instantly regret it. Your legs are wobbly and you’re not entirely sure you can fully feel them. You hazard a step forward and collapse.

It is only John’s quick reflexes that keep you from hitting the ground.

Bastard.

John wraps his hands in your hair and tugs, just short of true pain, forcing you to look up at him. “That was strike one. I’ll let it slide because this is still new for you. But the next time you outright ignore me when I’m trying to help you, you’ll find yourself in a precarious situation.”

He lifts you off the ground easily and sits you back down on the edge of the bed.

“Stretch your limbs. Wait until you have full feeling and then stand up.”

You feel your cheeks burn. This is the last man on the planet you want to be schooled by yet here you are, listening to him speak to you like a misbehaving child.

Still, you listen, stretching out your legs, giving your body the time to adjust.

This is a lesson. A reminder of where you are.

Even when released from one kind of bondage, you are trapped in layers. And you couldn’t even make it a single step after getting out of those bindings, let alone to the door. That was something to consider if you were to try to escape.

You hoped he wouldn’t keep you locked in those bindings but there was no way to know. You sure as hell weren’t going to ask.

After a minute, John offers you a hand.

You don’t take it but you do push to your own feet.

Your legs still feel tired but not nearly as wobbly.

John doesn’t comment on your action, merely points with his head towards the door in the back. “That’s the bathroom. The door on it is a privilege. Eventually, you may earn the privilege of having it shut. For now, it stays open. And before you get any clever ideas about closing it anyway, I’ll remind you how easily I busted down your bedroom door.”

Fuck.

It feels like every possible action has been divided into his stupid constraints of good girl / bad girl. You listen to him, you’re a good girl. You ignore him, and you face the consequences, whatever they may be. It was barely a choice but it felt like rebellion was the only tool you had left at your disposal.

Be patient , you tell yourself.

There will always be time to rebel later. Right now, you really just needed to fucking pee.

He doesn’t follow you in, which is a comfort in itself.

The bathroom is huge. It’s ridiculous. It was bigger than any bathroom you’d ever seen. A jack and jill sink is in the open when you first go in and you nearly gasp when you look at the counter.

Your favorite lotions and soaps and makeup are all meticulously arranged on one side. Did he take your things? You weren’t sure if that was a comforting thought, to have your own things, or the most invasive part of this whole fucking disaster.

The other has shaving cream and hair products and aftershave.

You go in farther and, fuck. There’s a huge, square shower built into the wall. It’s tiled with a large overhead spout that’s at least a foot wide.

Beyond that, in the far corner, is a magnificent bathtub. It’s large and deep and looks far better than the one you had in your childhood home.

You missed baths. You hadn’t had one in years, living in an apartment with only a shower.

Fuck.

And, Christ, there’s bubble bath and salts and all kinds of products on a stand near the tub that most definitely were not there for John.

He didn’t seem the type to use lavender scented bubbles.

You snort at the thought and check, again, that John has not followed you in, and you walk over to the toilet. You relieve yourself quickly and go to the sink to wash your hand.

There are a lot of products. Mini-projectiles, you think, but none that would stop him. And none that were worth the consequence if you fucked this up.

From the looks of the doors and the complex security there, you would need John to get out of this room, one way or another.

You walk back into the main room and John stands at the end of the bed.

“How do you feel?”

As if that wasn’t the most loaded fucking question on the planet. How did you feel? Angry and scared and helpless and pissed the fuck off.

You open your mouth to lie, to say fine and anything else that will appease this madman but nothing comes out. You try to speak again and find yourself completely mute and terrified and unsure of how the fuck to respond to all this.

John steps into your space and you try to move back but, again, his arms are around you before you can blink.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” He says lowly and you can’t help it. A giggle escapes. A tiny, hysterical giggle.

“I want to go home.” You whisper.

“You are home.”

You shake your head, frantically, “People are going to look for me!”

“It's a possibility,” And that gives you a spark of hope before John adds, “But they’re not going to find you.” He forces you to look up at him, “That life is in the past.”

“I have a job and when I don’t show up on Monday--”

“They’ll find a notice that you’re leaving New York, effective immediately. Family issues.”

Your heart sinks even further and John pushes back a lock of hair and you helplessly ask, “And when my family looks for me?”

“Oh sweetheart,” and it’s not condescending as much as it is sympathetic and fuck him, but that stings all the more, “They’re not even going to notice you’re gone, are they?”

A breath stutters out of your chest and you want to collapse onto your knees because he is right. They won’t look for you. You only call home once a month or so but it could take a year before anyone realizes they haven’t heard from you. And maybe they’ll reach out but maybe they won’t.

“My friends…” You try, shaking your head.

“Won’t be surprised that you’ve finally cut off contact. You never see them, do you? They reach out every so often but you always turn them down when they want to get together. It was only a matter of time before you went your own way, they’ll say. Face it, sweet Helen, you’re alone, except for me.”

Oh God. Again, he’s right. You like having time to yourself and most of the time you prefer it. You’re there for your friends but you’re not even sure you remember the last time you went out for drinks or dinner or for anything other than hugging someone through a break-up. And they asked, but you turned them down.

And for what?

To read at home?

To relax and make things and watch crappy tv?

You had isolated yourself and he could be right. There was a very strong possibility that no one would be looking for you. That no one would even think to report you missing.

You had wondered, at first, why he had chosen you.

Was this why? Because you were such an easy target?

No. No , you think. He’s messing with your head. You have friends. Sam knew you weren’t close to your family. When she heard that you quit to take care of them, she’d know it was bullshit. She’d reach out.

And Meg… she wouldn’t just let you disappear from her life, if only because she needed someone to listen to her talk about her bad decisions.

And, almost as if he can sense the hope building within you, John tilts your head back up.

“And anyone else who tries to take you from me will be dealt with.”

There was an edge to that sentiment. He had proved to be capable of kidnapping. Was it so far a jump that he would kill?

Maybe. Probably.

You want to cry but you can’t. You won’t in front of him, and John is watching you like a fucking hawk. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you came out of the bathroom

“I’m all you have.”

It’s stupid. You’ll look back on the moment and know that it’s stupid. That it’s a waste of energy and irrational. Even at your strongest, you wouldn’t stand a chance against John. He’d knocked down your door, ran down four flights of stairs, and choked you out without breaking a sweat.

You bring an arm back to strike and throw a punch.

Adding insult to injury, John snorts before he catches your fist in his hand. He turns it back and yanks it up behind you. The angle fucking hurts as he spins you and shoves you face-first towards the wall.

He slams into you, pinning you. Locking you down quite literally between a rock and a hard place.

“Strike two.” He whispers, into your ear, lowering his head. You feel his lips on your neck and your entire body stiffens. He nips at the skin, sucking at a tender spot and then licking his tongue over it. “I’m tempted to just call that a foul, because it was pathetic. I know you’re clever. You must have known that wouldn’t work.”

You can feel every bit of him as he presses you into the wall.

His chest and stomach are sturdy and warm but you have to fight a gasp at the hard length against your ass. Your heart stutters in your chest, a flash of fear flooding you yet again as his hips adjust.

John has made it clear he wants to keep you. He had called his bed our bed .

Your head feels light and you’d probably be swaying if it wasn’t for John and the wall. He must be able to tell, feel you sinking forward. He releases your arm from behind your back and steps away. Your heart jolts as you start to feel yourself falling, but he scoops you up and into his arms.

A cruel irony. He carries you like a bride to the bed, where he lays you down.

“I’ll go get your iron supplement.” He says, running his hand along your cheek.

You blink, frantically.

Your iron supplement.

Well, John has proven to be thorough. It only stands to reason he would have invaded your medicine cabinet as well as everything else.

He rises to his feet and John flashes you a smile that, Christ, should be fucking illegal.

You look down until he turns to the door and you watch, carefully as he scans his thumb, his eye, and enters a code into the keypad. His fingers move in a blur and you’re not entirely sure how many digits the code was. Five? Six?

The retinal scan is fucking ridiculous.

How much money had he poured into this makeshift prison?

He spares you a glance and you quickly look away as he leaves. The door shuts behind him and the sound of feet quickly fades.

You rise to your feet, carefully. He was right about the iron supplements. You need them daily and the last thing you need, right now, is to fall in this godforsaken room.

You check the door first. As you expect, it’s locked. You look at devices John has installed and are at a loss.

Christ.

You try the other side.

Nearly the entire far wall is taken up by windows. But, unlike the windows in your apartment, these are thick. You knock it with your fist, testing it. No. These won’t break easily.

You check the door to the balcony. It’s set up the same as the door to the rest of the house.

There’s no way you can lift one of those chairs, especially after all you’ve been through, but the ottoman is smaller but still has sharp legs. You lift it and slam it against the glass wall. It shakes but not even a dent or a crack appears in front of you. You try again and nothing. You throw it helplessly but it makes no difference.

There’s no getting to the balcony, and even if there was, it’s a decent drop. You’re at least on the second floor of this house.

The property is expansive.

Even if you escape, there are no houses in the direct vicinity. You won’t be able to scream for help.

Okay. Think. Think..

There’s got to be a way out…

There’s got to be a way…

You drop into one of the arm chairs and stare out at the land.

Any other time, you’d be thrilled to see so much green. So much beauty.

But not from the window of your new prison.

You’re trapped.

By some kind of psychopathic stalker.

Your hands are shaking. Not just your hands, you realize. You’re shaking.

It appears the door to the house is your only way in or out of this room. And John is coming back. With your iron pills. It’s the only way out and you’re reluctant to try something so stupid again, especially just after you miserably failed to throw a damn punch at your captor. But you can’t stay here. You can’t.

So you stand next to the door.

Maybe you can take him by surprise, you think. Throw him off his guard, off his balance for just a second. And maybe you’ll make it to an exit. A door, a window that can be fucking smashed. Anything.

The alternative is to stay and God only knows what will happen to you if you risk it.

You listen for sounds of footsteps and they come back.

There is a beep followed by another followed by a soft click as the door unlocks. It opens and you lunge forward but John throws out an arm, like he’s expecting this, leaning down so that it catches you around the waist.

Easily, he picks you up off the ground, kicking and swearing. He adjusts you, pulling you closer against him as he kicks the door shut.

The lock clicks back into place and you scream in defeat as John lifts you anew. Suddenly, you’re flying through the air and you land on the bed. It bounces under your wait and John raises an eyebrow at you.

“How did that go for you?” He asks softly and there it is again, that dark and dangerous edge to his voice that makes your very hair stand on end.

“Please, just let me go.” You beg, eyes welling with unshed tears. “Please, I won’t tell. No one will know, like you said. No one will have even known I was gone and I won’t tell anyone. Just let me--”

John climbs onto the bed, swinging a leg over your hips.

“I would stop suggesting I let you go before I fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

That shuts you up.

He wouldn’t…

But even as you think it, your mind fills quickly with all the reasons he would. Our bed . You are home. I’m all you have .

You had felt his length against your ass earlier and now it’s against your stomach as he lays on top of you. Unmistakably hard.

“Good girl.” He praises, patting back your hair again. “Which is surprising considering how naughty you were when I was gone, huh? That glass you were trying to break is glass-clad polycarbonate. An AK-47 can’t penetrate that. Nothing short of an RPG could.”

“Why would you need that?” You can’t help but ask at the sheer ridiculousness of that entire wall.

“I have a lot of enemies.”

“No kidding.” And again, it spills from your lips before you can think better of it, “Stalking and kidnapping doesn’t make you any friends, huh? MMM!”

John shoves three fingers in your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

“Much better. You got a pretty mouth, Helen, but I think I prefer it when it’s otherwise occupied.” He presses down on her tongue, lightly, “Now be a good girl, and suck.”

When she resists, he pushes down harder, making her gag.

“You’re treading on thin ice, baby girl. Do you have to be asleep to suck on my fingers like the needy little girl you are?”

You freeze at the words, eyes widening.

Oh god, the dreams… the dreams you’d had all week, where you’d been sucking a nameless, faceless man off as he whispers to you how good a girl you are for him. Waking up and feeling an odd taste in your mouth, something dry on your face…

It wasn’t drool.

And it wasn’t a dream.

“Come on, now,” John coaxes, pistoning his fingers in and out of her mouth, “Be a good girl for me.”

He wants you to suck on his fingers. Apparently, you already had.

And you had woken up utterly soaked, often with your own hand down your underwear. You’d gotten yourself off, imagining sucking him off. Albeit, you didn’t know it was him.

Christ, had he seen you? Pleasuring yourself after waking up wet?

“I’ve been very patient with you,” John tells her and that edge is back in his voice, “And I’m not going to tell you again. Suck. My. Fingers.”

She stutters a breath around them but she sucks. She flattens her tongue against his long digits and she tightens her lips.

John is looking down at her, a small smile appearing on his face as he watches. That edge in his expression is gone, she notes, curling her tongue around a finger. He looks almost relaxed, save for his dark eyes.

He watches, still moving his fingers in and out of her mouth.

He grinds his hips into hers and her eyes widen in a moment of brief terror.

John hums softly, “Such a perfect little body.” He tells her, curling his fingers in her mouth and tilting her head to the side. He licks a stripe up her neck. “It was one of the first things I noticed about you that day on the train.”

The train? You think. Fuck, was he on your commute? Was that how he found you, chose you?

You hadn’t seen him before, of that you were certain. You would have remembered seeing John. But he sure as hell had seen you.

You whimper around his fingers and John presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Good girl.” He says and drags his fingers from your mouth, leaving a trail of spit down your chin.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bottle of iron pills. He knocks the cover and taps two out into his palm before closing it and tossing it to the side.. Without leaving your body, he reaches over to the bedside table and grabs the water.

“Here.”

He brings the pills past your outstretched hand and to your mouth.

Fuck. So this is how it's going to be.

You open your mouth and he smiles as he sets the pills on your tongue. He lifts your head, gently, in his hand and brings the water to your lips.

You swallow down the pills and John kisses your forehead.

Shivering, you close your eyes. You need to think of a way out. And fast.

[maxwell-grant]

On The Shadow’s “new” backstory

Poke around any discussion of The Shadow and the movie in particular and you’re gonna find a lot of contention regarding the movie’s biggest shift from the source material, that was inventing a whole new backstory for the character where, prior to being The Shadow, he used to be a murderous warlord on Tibet who was kidnapped by monks and forced to undergo redemption and put his skills to fight evil. 

It was not a popular decision at the time, to put it mildly. It didn’t do anything to improve the film (that text crawl really shoots the entire film in the foot), it soured a lot of fan opinions on the whole thing, and yet it’s become such a fixture of every story told with the character since then, that odds are most people think this is just what he always like, that this lip-service about redemption and being a former bastard turned hero was always what the character “was about”. 

I have some complicated thoughts on it and how it’s affecte Shadow stories since then, most of whom are negative, but the thing is, I get where it’s coming from. I get why they felt the need to change his origin like that, and why it’s stuck around. 

In the pulps, The Shadow’s backstory was, to sum it up, that he was a spy who went to war, learned a lot of skills and did a lot of things, and then pivoted to fighting crime in the late thirties. That was the backstory of most 30s American pulp heroes, actually, give or take a couple of differences. And for a pulp hero, it works. But modern audiences have been taught to expect more.

The movie, in trying to repackage the character for a modern audience, in turning The Shadow into a superhero so he could survive in a 90s blockbuster landscape, needed an appropriately punchy superhero backstory. Superhero backstories tend to be, in general, all about a dramatic hook that simplifies their motivations, powerset or life stories into a one-sentence pitch. Batman lost his parents in a brutal mugging as a child and swore to stop that from happening to others. Spider-Man’s uncle died because of his irresponsibility. Ben Grimm gained superpowers from space rays like his friends, except he got turned into a deformed rock monster who can never look normal again. Bruce Banner got caught in an atomic blast that made him into an unkillable rage monster. A dramatic transgression happened, they must correct it by becoming dramatic figures themselves.

They’ve made 3 John Wick movies with little more motivation to the central character other than “they killed his dog in the first movie”. That’s not a dismissal, it’s just effective storytelling. We don’t need more motivation for John Wick, we don’t need Batman flashbacks in every film, we get a one-sentence hook for a tangible, grounded motivation that lets the characters hit the ground running. “Used to be a savage murderous warlord, now applies said savagery to killing criminals” is a simple, easily understood pitch that’s considerably more dramatic than his former backstory. It works as a superhero backstory, and you can argue it’s even somewhat thematically fitting, since “a villain who turns evil against evil” has been part of The Shadow’s concept from day one. 

So what’s the problem with it?

Well, for one, The Shadow is not a superhero. He doesn’t look like them, he doesn’t act like them, he doesn’t live in their world. They can try and turn him into one, and they have done that several times, but the character’s core traits, central appeal and identity are not only considerably older than the superhero, they run directly counter to what defines a superhero. The movie that tried turning him into a superhero was a box office and critical failure, and the Dynamite comics have largely just succeeded at keeping the character in the fringes of the public eye and nothing more. If turning The Shadow into a superhero was intended to revitalize his success to modern audiences, it clearly hasn’t worked in over two decades, despite superheroes being more popular than ever before. It’s kept him on little more than life support.

And two, one of the very problems of trying to turn The Shadow into a superhero, and give him an ultra-dramatic superhero backstory pitch, is because it runs counter to a cornerstone of The Shadow’s appeal: the mystery. Superheroes have to pull double duty in being both the impressive, great warriors and forces of change within a story, as well as being our relatable, POV protagonist whose struggles we relate to. The Shadow, in the pulps, split that balance, between himself, and the agents and protagonists of any given Shadow story. @oldschoolcrimefighters  has brilliant writings on The Shadow and his agents that inspired me to do this blog in the first place and you should all read, and I’m going to quote this one in particular: 

“..modern storytelling focuses more on characterization rather than plot. I think a lot of creators come at The Shadow with that in mind, and with a mindset built on other comics and properties: the titular character is the one to focus on. And the radio show, movie(s), and comics – the most readily available mediums for research – don’t do much to disabuse them of this idea.

So creators shine the spotlight on The Shadow. They try to humanize him, make him into someone we the readers will empathize with and relate to and root for and all that jazz. They give him motivations and backstories and banter, a token romantic interest (Margo) and sometimes sidekick (usually Moe) to bounce exposition off of and provide comic relief. 

The Shadow doesn’t take kindly to spotlights. And even if he did, let’s be real, he’s not the most relatable dude. He’s a power fantasy. (And there’s nothing wrong with that.)

Whether or not he should be humanized at all is a touchy subject – I personally think the pulps portray him as a far more empathetic, fallible, playful being than people give them credit for. The thing is, when the pulps humanize him, it’s in a particular context. It’s in his relationships with other characters – especially the supporting cast – that his humanity shines.”

And that brings to the third problem: The Shadow doesn’t need a backstory that takes up so much screentime and focus. It has never factored into what made the character popular in his prime. In the pulps, we jumped right into his presence in the lives of others and his adventures, with only very sparse information about his past delivered every couple dozen books or so. It took over 131 novels for the name “Kent Allard” to even show up with a “proper” backstory, and even then, it consisted of little more than stuff we’d already been told prior about him (he was in the war, he used to be a spy, he traveled around the world with false names). And after a couple dozen stories, Kent Allard appeared less and less, about as often as the fake identity of Henry Arnaud, to the point the final Gibson stories omit him all together and even point to Lamont Cranston as the “true” identity of The Shadow. Kent Allard was just a name he went by a few times, and nothing more.

The most popular version of the character by far, the radio show, didn’t even have that. We knew nothing about the radio Shadow’s backstory other than some of his travels in the past he’d mention on certain episodes and what the opening narration told you. He was our POV protagonist in those episodes far more so in the pulps, and yet, clearly they must have been doing something right, if audiences never once missed the fact that they knew next to nothing about who he used to be before.

The very reason The Shadow became a character in the first place was because of popularity. It was because listeners tuning in to Detective Story Hour found themselves faced with the sibilant, cruel, snake-like whispery taunts of a narrator who talked and acted like no one they had heard announce other radio shows, who was easily the most interesting part of the shows he announced, and whose voice and personality held them in such fascination, even when he was literally nothing but a voice and a personality, that they started demanding to hear more of him, asking for stories starring this dark prince of radio that lived so vividly in their brains, that they didn’t notice, or care, that such stories about him didn’t exist yet. 

And when he was turned into a crimefighting character, his backstory was built in a way that allowed Gibson and any future writers to play around with and insert events and adventures as they saw fit. His adventures with the Tsar in Russia, his travels to India, Africa, Tibet, his war experiences, unrecorded adventures with allies and agents and villains of any kind, his post-war travels as Kent Allard, whatever happened in the years between his crash in the Yucatan and his arrival in America. Hell, if you want to have a period where he really loses it and does immoral things he isn’t proud of, there’s any number of periods you can insert mistakes and bad decisions that would define his actions years down the lane. It was a sandbox of any possibilities, grounded to a strong character who we could follow into any adventure because we’d be interested in learning more about him. 

A good backstory helps, and The Shadow’s motivation was grounded to it, but it was never a necessary component to his popularity. It was never something that needed much focus beyond the sparse information. When handled poorly, a backstory only really threatens to taint that appeal, and that’s what happened.

The “hook” that got audiences to pay attention to The Shadow was his sinister personality and charismatic cruelty. That was what they came for. What got them to stay, and read the stories and form lifelong devotions to the character and his adventures, was discovering that this personality belonged to a character who was, utterly, on the side of good, who used his skills and powers of great villainy to protect innocents, to help and uplift people just like the readers and listeners. That dual nature was a big part of why The Shadow was so enduring and popular in his prime, part of what set him apart from all of his contemporaries and imitators. 

It’s hardly much of a contrast, hardly much of a fascinating and layered character that we want to learn about or spend time with, if he was just always a horrible villain who is only marginally less horrible now, is it? A Shadow who used to be every bit the horrible villain he looks and acts like isn’t really that interesting, it’s just what you’d expect from him at first glance. What’s the point of caring about a man trying to regain his humanity, if we never get to see much of that humanity in the first place? What’s the point of even going into his past if we know all about it?

What’s the point of taking this backstory that was all about open possibilities for storytellers, all about covering the intricate life of a complex and strong character, to reduce it into a quick, punchy one-sentence summation that simply sets down a baseline for all future stories to repeat ad nauseum?

It’s not that I don’t think you can tell stories about The Shadow’s backstory, quite the opposite. It’s not that I don’t think the character having a strong “hook” for audiences is unneccessary (he already has). And it’s not that I don’t think he needs a motivation (he already has). But I have to ask:

What’s the point of shining a spotlight on a shadow, if not to eliminate it?