Part VII. II – "Retribution"

Smoke and acidic burn in the air was heavy even the western parts of the city where Homeland Security's headquarter stationed. The Homicide Chief wasn't in sight. Bruce surveyed the area from his vintage point, but only spotted Burke and Isley as they hurriedly walked away from the intimidating building. It was a monstrous structure of metal and hard concrete, protected with many eyes and guards with heavy arms. The situation in the city center made everyone alert, more than so, and given that what had happened earlier in the night, Bruce wasn't surprised. He regarded his chances but the odds weren't with Batman tonight. Although the whole city's attention was fixed at the City Hall, DHS's operation center wasn't somewhere Batman would infiltrate without a plan at hand. It was partly what was wrong with it; Batman was a creature of good planning and careful assessments, but since the moment Valerie had gone MIA, Bruce could only go along. He could always improvise, but there were too much things at risks now.

A surge of worry threatened to enter through his mind barriers, but relentlessly he pressed it down. She was good, she was safe… He touched the cowl's tip and opened up the wireless line. "Alfred," he called in, "can you locate Bullock's position?" he inquired. The phones he had donned to the force were the ones that they still used. He should be able to follow every cop in the city but Caldwell wasn't someone who would do such a rookie mistake at this stage. The former DHS agent had been planning this for a long time, Bruce was sure now; this was his game. Bruce wouldn't admit being a mere player.

"Negative, sir," his former guardian replied, "I can't read his signal."

Bruce nodded, his last thought proving right. "How's Valerie?" he asked then.

It wasn't Alfred who had answered this time, but her father. "Like you left her," came his blunt voice, a trace of accusing in undertone, "Still unconscious."

Bruce grimaced at the curt words but didn't comment. Jason was still angry with him. He didn't blame the older man. He was a father, and the former guerilla had always made sure how he felt with their relationship since the time they had sex in Belfast. I don't care who you're, you can't fuck with my daughter, do you hear me? He steeled his mind and shut out the voices. No. He shouldn't think of this, not now. She was safe and he had a sociopath to catch before it was too late. Valerie knew what she had signed up for when she'd decided to return months ago and come down with him in the cave. She never should have operated alone, either, shouldn't have silenced her phone, shouldn't have gone to that alley—

His inner turmoil stopped dead. The alley at the corner of Park Row and Broadway, where his parents had died a few blocks away—where another child lost a part of himself at the same night Bruce had lost it. It was where it'd all started for Elliot Caldwell, and it was where it should end, too. Bruce knew it, because he knew Elliot Caldwell. Elliot Caldwell was a dark mirror image of him, a person Bruce Wayne would have been if things had been different.

He climbed on the Batpod. He roared up the motor, and dived in the dark.

Blinking drowsily, Valerie woke up from a pitch black to a clear blank white that had her head spin around. Her limbs were lifeless, her sensations dull. It took great effort to move her neck slightest to escape from the assaulting light. Everything felt like a mess, even though she couldn't recall the reason, but she recognized the sure signs, then it all jumped back on her, a sequence of rapid images firing in her abused mind, toppling one another, turning the spinning of her head into a bitter maelstrom.

She remembered the sting in her skin as Bruce pushed the syringe through her neck, holding her tightly in his arms, murmuring "I'm here"s into her ear. She wanted to laugh manically but she couldn't find energy to part her lips. For a moment or so, she wondered what she had done to deserve this, but she chased the thought away, not wanting to hear the answer. She shouldn't be asking that. She knew what Bruce Wayne was, she knew his priorities, damn it, how long she had been telling him it was okay. How many times she'd told him she didn't expect anything from him other than to be with him? This time a small raw sniff-laughter escape from her sore throat. They weren't together now. She wasn't with him. She was alone.

She craned her neck aside, and saw the hazy shadows at the other side of the make-shift infirmary. Take that back! She wasn't alone, she was far from it. She picked up Jason and Alfred's figure over the other side of the white screen-curtain, hunched over the computer hub, and the obscure silhouette crawled in the corner. Her face became stone, her blood running cold as her eyes bore a hole through the curtains. She knew what it was. It was the reason why she was in this bed, lying semi-conscious, feeling like dead, alone. Her vision darkening, she threw the thin blanket off her and tumbled down over the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold tiles, her head turning. She blindly reached out, grabbing the curtains, and pulled them away. The light came at her again after a second, and she spotted the shadowy figure in the corner.

"You—" she hissed, her nostrils flared in righteous anger, voice like venom, staggering toward him. Despite the heat inside her, her face still felt like a marble, cold and unfeeling, like no life had left in her. He'd taken it away. He'd taken all life away from her. He'd tortured her, broken her, made her betray the man she loved, the man she wanted to stay forever in his arms, the man she wanted to have a—normal life—a child—With a screeching cry, she launched at him, and caught his throat. "You did this to me!" she cried out at his face, her fingers vice-like, "You did—"

She heard her name yelled from behind, hands trying to pull her away from the monster in front of her, but she fought. She shrugged them off, kicked her father away, elbowed Alfred at his side, and grabbed the man's throat again. He started laughing, big, loud laughter coming out of his depths. "Come on," the monster mocked her, "Do it. Finish me." He looked at her eyes. "You know I deserve it."

Yes, echoed in her mind. You deserve it.

Her fingers tightened, then another sting burned her in her neck, and everything went black.

Bowing his head to hide his mouth under the side of his long coat's collar, Gordon tried to breath in through the acid scented air. He should have wear a gas mask or at least tied a soaked handkerchief over his nose like protesters did, but it'd send the wrong message. So instead he covered his mouth with his coat, and surveyed the area. His mind was still occupied with Batman had given him, but he couldn't let his mind wander. Bullock—Bullock was a friend and he trusted the man, but he'd heard the talks about him, the way he acted, the way he drunk—as if to bury something deep down. Each man had his own ghosts that haunted them, Gordon knew it better than anyone but if he was involved with that raid long ago that had resulted with Caldwell's parents' deaths—he didn't know. Bullock was a good man, but sometimes that meant so little. Harvey Dent had been a good man, too, before this all started. His eyebrows tightened more, and he pushed back the thought. He was the Commissioner. His duty was with his people. On his left, there was a stir among the ranks. Quickly he gestured, and called an officer close by.

"What's happening there?" Gordon questioned, his voice rising over the outcries and shouts. Things had quickly escalated after the meeting with the Council didn't open up the police barricades. They started first burning cars and buses, and bus stations, the thick poles of their banners turning into cudgels, and soon looting also started. Broken windows scattered over the roads, cobblestones prickled and hurled at them. The anger and hatred the lower parts of Gotham had pent up for a long time finally finding a target to aim. Gordon knew it was long coming. He wished there had been something he could do to prevent it, but it was just good wishing.

The young officer shook his head. "They've started pushing again—" he yelled, pointing toward where the frenzied crowd decisively advanced, bracing themselves against the long shields of the riot police. "If they keep this up, Mayor will need to ask for National Guards again," the younger officer added, a frightened cry in his voice.

A stern look appeared over Gordon's face. He could understand why that prospect frightened his man. They had to find a comprise, sit over a table and talk, but really talk, not like with those clowns in the City Hall. They need to listen to these people, really listen to them and hear what they were saying. His eyes caught the banners; "Our voice will be heard". How a thing could be that simple and that difficult at the same time. Peace…making peace wasn't easy, simple perhaps, but never easy.

"Commissioner!" a loud shout came behind him, "Commissioner Gordon-!" He turned around and saw a dark haired man in his late twenties running toward him down on the marble steps of the City Hall. Gordon frowned. He looked oddly familiar but he couldn't place the man. "Sir, Tim Drake—" the man greeted himself with a faint accent he couldn't exactly place, either, then continued, "I'm Detective West's assistant—" then Gordon recognized him, "We have a mutual friend."

Gordon curtly nodded. He didn't know how the younger man could get inside the barricades, but if he was a friend of their mutual friend—then the question wasn't needed to be answered. "How can I help you, Mr. Drake?" he asked as civilly as he could manage at the moment.

"I need to find a—friend," he said, "But this doesn't help." He held up his phone.

"We have jammers to block cell phones," Gordon asserted.

"I know, but it's no use. They don't use any sort of transmitters to communicate with each other. The old way. They call it Homeless Network. They pass messages through lips to lips, and dustbins to dustbins. Garbage." Gordon let out a sigh. He should have guessed this. Drake pointed at his radio with his head. "Can your men find our informant?" he asked.

Gordon took his radio. "It's a long shot but let's try." He brought the radio over his lips. "Give me his picture."

The assistant supplied quickly. "A young man in his sixteen, Afro-American, has black pants over lower his waits, and chains with a skull at the end. Wears a red cap askew, walks with a swagger."

Gordon repeated over the radio at his team simultaneously. "What's so important about this guy?" he asked when he was finished.

Drake half-shrugged. "Not sure. Our mutual friend wants to hear what he's got. Bottlecup was tailing a few person of interests. He called a few hours ago, but you know what happened. Bruce sent me instead."

Wordlessly, Gordon nodded. At their left, the fore-groups divided the front lines of their ranks and started marching toward the City Hall. A sudden clamor erupted around them. The riot place counteracted firing tear gas, and protesters first momentarily disbanded, but then regrouped quickly and started pushing again. Everything was under a heavy mist of smoke bombs and tear gas, gnawing at the throats. From the backlines, fires shot in the sky, rocks and bottles accompanying them, hitting behind the lines, covering the sky under a red pattern. They sung marches, feverish and frantic, suitable to the ambience. Gordon couldn't pick up the words but he didn't need to. The songs were universal, even though the words unfamiliar.

When the Molotov cocktails started firing again, they fell back inside the City Hall. In front of the grand entrance, they watched the city burn itself to the ground. The younger man had a peculiar expression over his face, something between awe and sadness. Gordon glanced at him. He caught it. "I grew up in Belfast," Drake slowly said as if to explain, shoving his hands into his pockets, "Used to be at the other side." He paused for a second, "Life is odd."

Gordon returned his gaze to the crowd; marching, shouting, singing in the midst of fire and smoke. Their voice was heard now. "It's indeed," he agreed, and asked, "How did you meet with him?"

Drake gave out a small smile, and asked in return. "Isn't that story same for everyone? He saved me out of a bad spot."

Yes, yes it was. An officer approached them, a teenage boy following him close. Drake returned and assessed the boy. "Bottlecup."

The slum kid fidgeted on his feet. "Who are you, man?"

"We have a mutual friend," Drake answered, giving him the same answer, then demanded, "What have you got for him?"

Bottlecup's eyes drew between him and other police officers for a second, before going back to Drake. "I saw Bubble Gum before they left the house," he said, "He—he—" his voice hesitated, his eyes trailing between them again, "He was wearing a suicide vest."

The darkness was like the first time Bruce had seen the alley; dark and strained. Batman stood at the edge of it, a darker shadow, shoulders hunched, head bowed, motionless like an ever watchful gargoyle. Down below at the black street white thick lines of chalk were drawn into bodies, and next to them, crouched bulk of mass was Bullock, and in front of all the scene was the judge; Elliot Caldwell. Bruce understood it at the first glance. Caldwell had recited the crime scene, and enacted his own court and there he would be the judge.

As if the man had read his mind, he started his display. "Come forth, Batman," he called out, his voice clear and deep, "Be our witness."

Wordlessly, Bruce jumped down from the rooftop he had been standing in a crouch then pulled upright, his cape pooling over his shoulders. "Let him go, Caldwell," Bruce answered in deep rasp, "I will give him to the commissioner and he will be punished." He paused for a second. "It's done. You won."

Caldwell looked at him, stern eyes having no mercy. "I won?" He shook his head. "No, Batman. This man…this man is no one, just a spoke of the wheel. Before the end of tonight he's going to die, but—"

He took a step forward, his body falling into defensive position, ready to strike. "He—"

Caldwell raised his hand. "Stop." Bruce did, his eyebrows tightening behind the cowl, "You're here to bear the witness, nothing more. This man's fate is no longer at your hands."

"And how are you going to stop me?" Batman rasped out deeply.

"Stop you?" Caldwell asked, a sincere interest, "Why would you want to intervene?" The man's eyes skipped the homicide chief's at the ground. "This man killed my parents. He deserves to die."

"Perhaps, but you can't be the judge and the executioner at the same time." They couldn't. That path never went anywhere. Rachel had taught him that. "Justice is more than revenge."

"I can, and I will," Caldwell insisted, a crazed light sharpening his stern eyes, "Killing them isn't the only felony they committed. They hid it for years. My parents were buried in a forgotten cemetery with only numbers marking their graves. I could never find them. Do your parents have their graves?" In silence, Bruce looked at the man. "Did you watch people lowering them into their graves? Did you stand over there and pray? I never did. I never found their graves, I never stood beside their graves, I never cried, I never prayed. There was only dead. Only missing."

For a moment, Bruce had no answer for the former agent. He didn't tell the man knowing his family's graves hadn't made a difference, he didn't tell he never visited their graves, never cried beside them, never prayed. In a way, yes, for him, too, there was only dead. A heavy tight silence sat between in the air between them as they looked at each other, growing tenser and tenser. Finally, Batman broke it with a deep grave voice, giving him the only thing he could. Truth. "Killing him won't make things better."

For that Caldwell only smiled a little, and said simply, "I know."

That moment Bruce knew the talking was done. He could never change Caldwell's mind. He stirred, flexing his muscles, but before he could charge at the man, Caldwell's voice stopped him again.

"You know when Control had leaked the list," Caldwell said suddenly, "I wanted to see what would happen. Perhaps I even hoped—there is still goodness. I didn't believe, but I wanted to see," he repeated. There was something in his voice now, something very akin to sadness, almost in resignation. "If they did, if they did come forward, if they didn't kill the investigation, didn't force Malkin to reassign I'd have even reconsidered my actions." It sounded true, like he had really hoped it, but Bruce knew it was. He had opportunity before to take revenge but instead he had waited.

"But who cares for a little guy's criminal dead parents?" Caldwell asked, giving out a bitter laugh. "Who cares about us? There is many of us at the end. What our life means next to the mightiness of their peace? We're expendable." He lifted his head and looked at the east, toward the city center. "Well, no more. No more."

A cold fear ran through Bruce's veins. Caldwell's attention turned to him again. "Look at the sky, Batman, and bear witness," he called out with a clear voice, no hesitation or sadness, but as strong as the foundation of earth, resolute. At the same moment a loud explosion shook the world, covering the eastern sky red with fire. "Before I was no one." Bruce heard the man saying through the ringing in his ears, "I had no name, I had no grave. It was a fire that took me, and with fire I have born again."

Bruce watched the dusted red sky with horror as the mushroom cloud sat over at the heart of the city. "Fire and smoke," Caldwell intoned, "and blood, thus I have become." A million of thoughts had passed through his mind simultaneously before Bruce realized Caldwell had started talking again. "Killing him won't make things better, yes, this—" He raised his arms again like a messiah, "This will make it better." He looked at him, shaking his head, "Do you really believe that I would stay here chatting with you the morality of murder where my enemies crush my people?" Caldwell asked, "You're predictable. You cast one life before the other, but cannot see what lay beneath."

Bullock started coughing, and soon blood started coming out of his nose. "That man was dead even before you came here. He was just a pawn like the others. I wanted the King. I wanted the few, I wanted the ones who always hide behind their protected walls and bet with our lives. I wanted to show them what many could do to the few. You know what's this…" Bullock coughed more intensely, blood pouring both of his nose and mouth, and Caldwell watched him die, cast off marble, "This's retribution," he announced, "Gotham's reckoning."

The homicide chief fell on the ground lifeless. Caldwell turned to him. "My quarrel isn't still with you," he repeated what he had said earlier in the night, "Join me, or step aside."

And Bruce gave him the same answer before. "I'll stand where I belong. Between you and Gotham."

"Don't you understand?" the man sneered, "I AM Gotham!"

"So AM I!" Batman grunted out deeply before he charged.

Coming to herself groggily again, Valerie heard the sirens. It was a loud clamor, scratching in her ears, ripping the silence in the bunker. She blinked a few times until she understood they were coming outside. Which was odd. The bunker was a deserted part of the Eastern coast, a private, rusting place firmly secluded from the clutter of the city, yet her ears rung with the blazing sirens, honking horns, roaring motors. Something wasn't right. She quickly jumped down from the bed where they had lay her again after they had drugged her again and left the makeshift infirmary.

"What happened?" she asked to Alfred and her father, walking to them where they sat in front of the computer hub, looking at screens, then her eyes caught the screens too.

For a moment, her lungs stopped working, her chest feeling tight. She couldn't even breathe. "Explosion in the city center. Martial law has been declared," she read the GNN's breaking news tagline.

She held the workbench in front of her. "Bruce-?" she barely made it out, her voice a low scratch, "Bruce-?" she repeated louder, feeling hot tears inside her eyes, and fear gripping her insides. Her stomach felt like a stone. "Where is Bruce? Where is he?"

Jason grabbed her at her shoulders and held her tightly. "He's fine." She looked at the screens wildly, people running, sirens blaring, she couldn't even differ anymore from where they came— "Look at me," Jason told her, forcing her head to him with his hand, "Look at me," he repeated sternly, "He's fine. He's coming back to the bunker."

She gave out a shaking breath, closing her eyes, a murmur of a prayer on her lips, but she didn't know what she was saying. It had been so long since she had prayed, so long. Tears fell down over her cheeks. "Rory?" she managed after a few seconds. "Is he okay?"

Her father nodded. "Yes. We talked ten minutes ago. He's with Gordon. He found Bottlecup. He saw Bubble Gum tying a suicide vest before he left for the city center. They couldn't find him in time, but without him and the commissioner things would have been even uglier."

She looked at her father. "How many—how many died?" The City Center was a boiling hive, so jammed with people, so crowded.

"He detonated it at the City Hall. Thirty-two casualties so far but there are a lot of injured." Jason paused for a second. "His target was the Mayor. He died, too, along with the City Council."

Valerie collapsed on the stool. Everything was really a mess. A suicide bomb exploding, martial law had been enacted, Mayor was killed. She didn't feel sorry about the Mayor, the man got what he deserved… Her thoughts stopped dead, an image suddenly flashing in her mind… Her hands tight around Lawton's throat, squeezing, his face blue, but there was a smile on his lips.

You deserve it.

Her head snapped to left where Lawton was tied to the radiator, but it was empty. The DHS agent wasn't there. She jumped down from the stool. "Where is Lawton?" she asked frantically, "Where is he?"

Her father was again at her side. He caught her in his embrace, his arms too tight. No… she passed in her mind. No, please, no. "Fa—father?" she asked through tears.

He pushed her away in inch, and looked deeply at her eyes. "It's okay, do you hear me?" She shook her head wildly, a string of "no"s pouring out of her, "It's okay," her father repeated, "He deserved it."

She screamed, dissolving into tears, crumpling up in her father's arms. She had done it. She had killed him.

Okay, I finally did it, made Valerie kill someone, crossing the line that Bruce has been forcing himself not to sooo long. I don't know what else would get their relationship more completed than it's already. I'm not perfectly content with how I handled the showdown between Bruce and Caldwell, but I can't find time, energy, and stamina to do it "bigger" as of the moment. Hope it isn't disappointing, or worse, boring. But damn, don't I feel like Cersei, blowing the shit up! Haha.

Only one chapter to go, then finally epilogue. I plan to finish the book within this week. Hopefully.

Be seeing you.