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XXXIV - Desolation
Basement of the abandoned Stock Exchange, Central Business District, Gotham City
Many of the prisoners in the basement of the Stock Exchange were beyond solace. They wept or cursed or retreated into their own minds, hugging themselves as they rocked catatonically in the corners. The dungeon reeked of fear and desperation.
Philip Stryver – Daggett's functionary – were pacing impatiently, keeping apart from the other prisoners. His bespoke suit was rumpled and dirty. He needed a shave and shower – badly. His waxen features were drawn and haggard. His breath was sour.
Suddenly mercenaries came down into the chamber and pulled out him, who started yelling.
"I want to see Bane! There's been a mistake! Take me to Bane!"
They dragged him upstairs while a stunned audience kept watching in silence.
Moments later, Stryver was brought into some kind of kangaroo court anddragged before a jeering crowd.
"There's been a mistake! Where's Bane?!" he kept saying.
"There's been no mistake, ," the 'judge' said.
Stryver turned to look at the 'judge' and saw Dr. Jonathan Crane, former psychiatrist from Arkham Asylum.
"You are Philip Stryver, executive vice-president of Daggett Industries?" he asked and Stryver nodded cautiously.
"The same Philip Stryver who for years lived like a prince off the blood and sweat of people less powerful?" Crane continued
"Call Bane! I'm one of you!" the executive shouted out. He didn't like the way this was going.
Then he spotted a masked figure watching silently from the gallery. Bane showed no evidence of intending to intervene. Stryver's shoulders sagged in defeat as his last hope evaporated.
"Bane has no authority here. This is merely a sentencing hearing. The choice is yours, death or exile," Crane declared and waved his gavel airily.
Stryver looked around, terrified, as the crowd started to shout 'Death'.
"Exile," he said, choosing the lesser of two evils. Something told him it wouldn't be that easy, however.
"Sold!" Crane smashed his gavel against the podium. "To the man in the cold sweat."
Mercenaries yanked Stryver from the dock, actually protecting him from the maddened crowd. Then they led him, with other wealthy Gothamites, down to a frozen Gotham River.
A former Blackgate inmate undid his handcuffs and whispered:
"Follow the tick ice," he instructed. "Try to swim, you're dead in minutes."
Stryver looked at the man with dawning horror. He shuddered, and not just from the cold.
"Has anyone made it?"
The Blackgate inmate did not bother to respond and turned away.
Stryver was forced onto the ice. He shuffles forward, listening to the creaking. Suddenly, when he already was a hundred yards out, the river swallowed him.
Abandoned Office Building, Central Business District, Gotham City
The empty office building had become a command center. A map of the city was spread out atop a desk. The shutters were drawn to keep in the light – and keep out prying eyes.
Gordon examined the map, surrounded by a handful of officers who had managed to avoid being trapped underground. Many had been retirees, green cadets, inactive, or assigned to desk duty. The commissioner valued their grit and loyalty, but wished there were more of them.
Despite what had happened to the Special Forces men, everyone there kept their commitment to protecting the city and were hopeful that they could recover the nuke in time and, with Lucius Fox's expertise, prevent it to be detonated.
"How much time we still have?" Detective Allen asked.
"The bomb goes off in two days or so," Gordon said. "We've got about less than forty-eight hours to do something."
"To do what?" Allen pressed.
"We mark that truck, get a GPS on it," Gordon said. "Then we can start thinking about how to take it down." It wasn't much of a plan, he had to admit, but it was a start. If nothing else, it beat sitting around waiting for that damn bomb to go off.
There was a rap at the entrance. Everybody tensed up, and reached for their weapons, until a rookie peered through a peephole and gave the thumbs up. He unlocked the door and let the newcomers in. Damian entered the command center, followed by ten or so people. The majority was still very young – teenagers.
"I hear you're looking for men, commissioner," he said. "How about us?" he volunteered.
"Thank you, son. But there's no need of..." his voice trailed off as he saw the young faces staring at him. He remembered his own children.
"Please, sir. We've already proved that we are valuable," the young man insisted.
So he nodded. Lord knows he was in no position to be picky about his allies. He could use all the help he could get, especially where that nuke was concerned.
"Mr. Fox is waiting for your signal when the right time comes," Damian announced.
Since the bank incident, Fox was living in the Monarch Theater under Damian's protection and the two quickly formed a kind of friendship. Both were interested in engineering, computer and applied sciences and were considering even the possibility of a partnership in the future, if they could get out of that situation alive.
"Let's go," Gordon urged.
Through Gotham City Streets
First we ID the truck, Gordon reminded himself. Then we figure out what to do next.
He and Crispus Allen strolled down a snowy street as the others kept a safe distance. Nobody seemed to be watching them, but he kept his head down and his coat collar up.
Glancing around just to be safe, he discreetly slipped the other man the Geiger counter. Getting hold of the device had been a challenge in itself. He just hoped it paid off.
"Stay further up the block." He nodded at a pair of undercover cops loitering at a street corner up ahead. "They're gonna cross the street and try and slow the truck down. As it approaches, hit this button. If the needle hits two hundred, give me the signal and I mark the truck. Okay?"
Allen nodded and tucked the Geiger counter under his coat.
"Head's up," Damian's voice squawked from Gordon's radio. The teenager was playing lookout from atop a nearby building. The commissioner hoped he had good eyes.
"Copy that." He moved to take his position at the other end of the block, leaving Allen partway between him and the men on the corner.
Moments later, an ominous black truck rumbled into view, right on schedule. It honked its horn angrily, barely slowing down, as the two cops stepped out in front of the truck as if they were crossing the street.
Gordon held his breath as Allen covertly scanned the vehicle with the Geiger counter. Then he gave him a thumbs-up.
Bingo, he thought. Now we just need to keep track of that truck.
He flung a magnetic GPS locator at the vehicle as it lumbered past him, throwing up a spray of wet snow. The locator flew through the air before sticking to the bottom of the truck, where, with any luck, it would go unobserved by Bane or his accomplices.
The truck disappeared around a corner, taking the bomb with it. Gordon regrouped with his two men at the corner. He removed a GPS tracking device from his pocket and checked to make sure they still had the locator's signal. A flashing red dot tracked the truck – and the bomb – along its route.
"Got it," he said with a touch of elation. Mission accomplished, he thought. They knew where the bomb was now. The tricky part was going to be getting it away from Bane and neutralizing it in time. Gordon wished he had a better idea of how exactly they were going to pull that off.
He was still worrying when they rounded the corner, and found themselves confronted by a squad of armed mercenaries. Dozens of Bane's soldiers emerged from doorways and alleys, training their weapons on Gordon and the others.
The cops didn't even have a chance to draw their side arms.
"Commissioner James Gordon," a gunman barked. "You're under arrest."
Gordon bristled.
"On whose authority?"
"The people of Gotham," the terrorist said smugly. He gestured to his men and they surrounded Gordon and the others, stripping them of their weapons, then leading them away toward the stock exchange.
The commissioner resisted the temptation to glance up at the rooftop where he knew Damian and his friends had to be watching. He hoped the lad would be smart enough to keep his head down and not try something stupid.
Watch yourself, son, he thought. It might be all up to you now.
He hoped Foley and the others were luckier.
Monarch Theater, Park Row District, Gotham City
They were trapped again. Damian began to cogitate the possibility that there was a mole among them. He came to believe that his own mother might be involved, but she was imprisoned in the stock exchange during the second incident. Although the truck with the bomb had been targeted, the GPS with its location had been on Gordon's possession and he had no idea what to do now. His thoughts were interrupted by an startled Stephanie.
"Colin is nowhere to be found."
"What?" he asked, rising from his chair and starting to rummage through all the corners of the theater. He asked for Colin to everyone but no one seemed to have seen him. Moments later, everybody was looking for Colin. It should not be so hard to find a boy in a wheelchair.
Then, one of the boys called him and pointed to the TV screen, which was showing another public execution undertaken by Bane. Nearby boys gathered in front of the TV set and watched in horror as Bane put a disable boy to death by suspension by his neck in some kind of gallows. The boy was sobbing and frightened.
"You probably thought you were helping your friends when you snitched them," the masked man stated, "in exchange for saving their lives and yours."
Damian gasped. He saw Colin in the hands of the enemy. Ready to be killed.
"And that's what we do with traitors," Bane proclaimed triumphantly in front of the cameras after removing the scaffold and letting the boy to die in agony.
"Traitors of our revolution won't be accepted," he warned. "Innocence cannot be corrupted."
A general commotion filled the room. Many voices were shouting at the same time, people were crying and Damian stood in shock, not believing what his eyes were seeing. He looked at Stephanie who was sobbing convulsively.
He left the room and sought refuge away from the eyes of everyone. Colin was like a brother to him. None of that was fair.
Why? he thought while was trying to control his own tears. A fierce rage took over him – a desire to kill Bane and his bunch of mercenaries.
They killed Colin. They were going to pay.
On an impulse he got down to the basement without speaking or looking at anyone. Fox watched him in silence. Reaching the training room, he got his stealth suit and other equipments and started to get ready.
"DJ," a male voice called him but he didn't bother to answer and kept going what he was doing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the older man asked him, calmly but firmly.
"I'm going to kill him. Kill them all," he replied without stopping what he was doing.
"You can't be serious," Fox said, concerned.
"I'm freaking dead serious," Damian spat as he glanced back to Fox.
"Killing them won't bring your friend back."
"But justice will be done," he declared and glared at Fox before walking away toward the stairs. He didn't get far before Fox managed to grab his arm.
"Son, stop. You can't do this." The boy's behavior made Lucius remember someone that he used to know.
"Let me go," Damian yelled and turned around to show Fox a face full of hatred. "Do you expect me to let those bastards live after what they did?"
"No, son," the older man said in a comfort voice and Damian just looked at him with tears in his eyes. "But revenge won't spare you from the pain. If you do it right now you'll put everything to lose and your friend's life wouldn't have been worth. There are people counting on you."
A sob tore from Damian's throat. Fox held him in his arms, pitiful.
If things were not going to work out, it was not good to imagine how all that would end.
Bludhaven Port, Bludhaven, Town nearby Gotham City
After walking for a few days under the blazing sun – during the day – and the unforgiving cold – at night – of the desert, Bruce had managed to reach a roadway. He had no idea where he had been but he had kept going towards where the sun set – west. Finally he had got a ride in an old truck. He had not been able to fully understand his interlocutor, but had managed to make himself understood by the man.
Bruce had experience traveling around the world with no resources. Many years ago he had left Gotham without money or ID.
He had just needed to get to a port. Just like in the past, he had stowed away aboard a cargo ship in Tangier, Morocco. The trip to Bludhaven had lasted about nine days.
Now he was in a worthless drinking establishment around Bludhaven port, getting ready for his next step - entering a besieged Gotham City.
During all his long journey back to his hometown, the only thing he had in mind were people he knew and with whom he cared about. He knew that Alfred was safe somewhere outside Gotham, but Miranda, Lucius, Gordon, Damian and others were in the middle of a city near to be blown up.
Damian.
When he had been aboard the ship an epiphany took him strongly fleeting images and snippets of memories giving way to something the teenager had said with great conviction.
"It's a family jewel."
He remembered Miranda's stunned face when she got back her necklace. Her hesitation, almost like she was hiding something.
An old memory stirred within him: a comment Alfred had made in the past about a visit she had made to Gotham, almost sixteen years ago. She had been very concerned – even sick – and had been in a frantic search for him.
On the boy's files – he had exhaustively studied – there was a statement that he had been adopted as a baby by the Blakes.
The impact of Damian's words hit Bruce as a sledgehammer. Could Damian be blood of his blood?
He had taken a deep breath and had forced himself to calm down, letting the detective inside him take over. His mind had been working on overdrive, trying to put the pieces together.
Since he had seen the whole jewel under Damian's possession, he had been taken for a nuisance regarding his relationship with Miranda. Ever since he had shown her the jewelry and had noticed her almost desperate reaction, he had grown suspicious. No wonder Miranda had been on thin ice with him. Looking at the dates it was possible to imagine that she was already pregnant when he had left. Either that, or she had engaged in a relationship with someone else as soon as he had gone.
After pondering Alfred's words, he had no more doubts. Their romance had produced serious consequences. He had impregnated her.
The boy's face was carved into his memory for all time. He did not know how he had not been able to notice the similarity of the boy's features with Miranda's and his own.
His son. A feeling like nothing he had ever experienced before seized hold of him. In that instant he realized that there was nothing in his life that he would not do for that kid, including tearing out his own heart and offering it to him on a plate. The sheer force of his love for him was like a tidal wave, a tsunami that swept everything else aside. He was his, of his family, of his blood, of his body.
He had a son he barely knew, who had inherited the name of another person and was growing as such. Miranda knew and did not tell him, but how could he blame her? She was the main victim in all this. She gave her innocence and her heart to him. She had been used, abandoned and hurt. All because of his obsession for avenger his parents murders.
He thought again of his own parents, and realised on another surge of emotion that there was nothing he would not do to give his son what he had had just for a brief time. And he would do anything for him, anything to protect him and save him from suffering.
He was anxious to get back to Gotham, to meet Miranda and Damian and learn more about the past. He was willing to make a commitment. He had given him life without knowing it, but now that he did know he would stop at nothing until he could father Damian and guide him as his sense of responsibility demanded that he should. He wanted to know better Damian and learn how to be a father to him.
While he was sitting at a table less conspicuous and all around more private – analyzing the chances and building a safe and effective strategy to infiltrate a city that was kept in lockdown by the United States military – he noticed that all those present turned their attention to the tv screen set on a wall on a side of the bar.
His heart sank to the pit of his stomach and bile rose to his throat as he witnessed scenes of barbarie. A boy was being hanged by Bane in front of the cameras. He could recognize him.
Colin. Colin Wilkes. Damian's friend.
Anger filled him. Bane's time was coming.