The Leviathan Strain: A Bruce Wayne Story

by MaverickHunter1492

1947. Seven years have passed since the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne. A grief stricken, adolescent Bruce Wayne, unable to cope with the pain of his parents absence has since traveled off to Europe in search of a new life, one where his family name means nothing to anyone. But a tragic, global changing event suddenly thrusts him into a dangerous underworld of conspiracy...

Based upon characters appearing in the DC comic book, Batman.

Batman, created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger.

Prologue: Just Business

A City Vanished! It was in all the papers, headline news when it happened, and those responsible were praised for the immense destruction and countless loss of life. But, Harris knew the truth behind the lies, and that his life would now be in danger.

The first bullet wound to the ankle was enough to slow Harris down as two others peppered his feet. But, not nearly enough to keep him from running. This was the second attempt on his life. They wanted him dead, and they weren't going to stop until the job was done.

Hobbling along, Harris favored his right side, leaning on the alleyway walls, trying to outrun his assailants. There were two of them. The first time, they sent one to do the job, Harris got the better of that man. Tonight, he didn't feel like he'd be so lucky, which is why he took precautions before hand. His contingency plan was already in place, they'd get nothing out of him.

Two more shots ricocheted off the brick foundation, mere feet from his head. It made his ear ring with vibration. His left boot began to moisten with the blood that dripped from his ankle.

With a grimace, he forced his body to keep going. He had to keep them occupied for as long as possible.

The footsteps were closing in, it wouldn't be much longer. Harris had his sidearm on him, maybe four rounds left. If he was to use them, he was going to have to make them count.

The car was just across the next block in the parking garage. There'd be a chance if he could make it that far.

The late hour of the night proved to be in Harris' favor, no cars to contend with as he crossed the street. The taste of freedom, so near, but yet, so far. Even if he did make a getaway, they'd be back. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day, but they'd be back.

The flashing city billboard lights blinded, crossing the road to the parking garage. And that's when he felt it. Piercing him right between the shoulder blades, nearly throwing him off his feet. Harris was a tough son of a bitch, he didn't go down.

When he finally made it to his Dodge Sedan, he knew, he had taken this as far as he humanly could, the rest, was up to whoever would pick up the pieces. Slumping his torso across the black hood, Harris slid and tried to shuffle his way to the driver side door, managing to open it. Clutching tight to the steering wheel, he pulled with any strength he had left, before collapsing up against the marble white, leather interior, that became stained with a deep red.

The footsteps were there again, slower. Checkmate.

Barely a breath left in his lungs, and a dwindling sense of vision, Harris looked up at a 45. aimed right at him.

"Sorry old boy. It's nothing personal. Just business."

Chapter 1: Small Time Job

Abandoned Subway Tunnel. Border of Southern France and Andorra. January 22nd. 1947. 11:43pm.

"Hey! New guy."

I'm rudely awakened from a peaceful snooze just before we pull in. With the blurriness still in my pupils, there's Charles, with that dumb smile again, hovering right over me.

"You ready? Our stops comin' up."

The friction off the tracks prevented any sort of semblance, showing just how ancient those old rail lines were. Making sleep challenged, at best.

The new guy; that was one of the many names they referred to him as, in addition to the foreigner and the homé blanc; the Catalan phrase for white man. Some of the other names, weren't so kind.

Less than enthused, I staggered up to my feet as best as I could. The other three fellas were there too. I never did get their names.

Nor did the young American care enough to. The other fellas, as he referred to them by, were all interchangeable as far as he was concerned. One at the wheel, and two standing, he caught their eyes looking in his direction with a scornful, pretentious gaze.

Tonight was going to be routine. It was just another small time job, like all the other ones I've done before it. None of it would matter afterwards.

Screeching, the tracks took the subway car down a sharp turn. It was close. Everyone's fidgeting became more prevalent, as did the sensation of clammy palms and heavier breaths.

The others were scared about the night, it was written all across their face, as much as they tried to put up a front. Truth be told, so was the American, he just did a much better job at concealing it, like most things about himself.

Charles and his crew were all scraggly in appearance, clothing torn, dirt stains on their faces, greasy hair. Each had a smell that presented a lack of personal hygiene. It wasn't their preference to be that way, it was just the way it was. Charles was the oldest of the bunch, and the ring leader. The other fellas were about the same age as the American; kids. The foreigner, however, had a way about him that made him seem older. What he had been through in his short life took its toll, making it feel like he lived decades more than he had.

I leaned out over the graffiti ridden benches and walls to get a look outside through the window. Darkness was all I saw, and my own scruffy appearance looking back at me. Damn. I could've really used a shower too.

With a dissipating black eye and a fat lip, the new guy checked himself over. His reflection sure as hell wasn't the kid he remembered staring back at him.

I wonder now if I should have said yes when Charles wanted to recruit me for this little assignment. Charles happened upon me on the aftermath of a fresh bruising. My third this month. And the worst. I rustled the wrong feathers, again, while on a pretty bad bender, again. Another job was the last thing on my mind, but I was short on scratch, so, I could really use the extra pocket change.

Charles, pieces of grime in his unkept beard, joined the American. "During the war, Andorra was a neutral territory. This tunnel served as an important smuggling route for Germany and the French Resistance. So, don't be surprised if you find some interesting relics down here. Who knows, they might even be worth some doe up on the surface."

The American nodded along, rather apathetically.

"Ever since those kraut bastards left, The Black Hand has been using it to bring all sorts of shit in and out of the country. And tonight." He smirked before finishing. "We're gonna blow it all to hell."

A crooked smile ran across all the other fellas faces, they had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Charles laughed with pride. "I can't wait to see the look on their faces. You're gonna be a part of something big tonight, kid."

"Look." The American said with condescension, speaking for the first time on that ride. "I'm not here to get fetched up in some kind of turf war. When this job's done, I'm collecting my cut and then I'm out of here. No questions."

Charles and the others stared at me like I was the biggest prick in the world for saying that. I wasn't trying to be rude, just honest. I had my own agenda. I couldn't get wrapped up in theirs.

Charles was bewildered. "You don't care what happens to the people out here, being exploited, forced to live in shambles?"

The American returned Charles' stare with a dispassionate look of his own that showed just how indifferent he was. "I'm not getting paid to care."

Peeling himself away from the window and Charles, the young American took a seat away from the rest of the group. He had enough conversation for one train ride. Charles looked at the others, who shook their heads. They didn't trust the foreigner to do what needed to be done.

Since arriving in Europe, several months prior the American never stayed in one place for very long. He would bounce around from town to town, village to village, latching on to several small gangs or factions, doing odd jobs in exchange for food, money, or shelter for a night or two. Never allowing himself to get bogged down in other people's problems. He had done so many little jobs, he lost count of the places and the names he had come across. Who he was, didn't matter anymore. That past life, he no longer identified with.

"Here we go. This is it." Charles let everyone know.

The subway car slowed, easing up on the acceleration, and steadily started to come to a halt halfway between two underground stations. The others stood, ready to make their move, grabbing bags and satchels of gear. Anticipating the stop, they lined up by the door.

The brakes kicked in, bringing the subway car to a fast stop, throwing everyone slightly off balance.

The doors slid open.

I let the others go on through first ahead of me. If I learned anything from doing these jobs, it's to never be the first man out.

One by one they all funneled on through.

"Hey!" Charles grabbed the new guys arm. "I never got your name."

With the slightest moment of internal thought, he pondered.

"Dixon. Frank Dixon."

"Alright. Dixon. Let's see what you can do."

He almost slipped.

Frank Dixon, that was one of the many aliases the young American used when he arrived in Europe, and was forced to interact with people. Others included Thomas Quigley, Lester Krutz, and Matches Malone; that was his favorite. It always sounded like a guy John Dillinger ran with or something. He was extremely careful when it came to answering questions about himself and his background. He never dare told anyone his real name; Bruce Wayne; privileged youth, heir to Wayne Enterprises, the boy billionaire from Gotham City.

Flashlights were dispersed to each man and then clicked on. Beams of light gently illuminated the dark, smutty tunnel. Wide, dingy, and filled with debris, it smelled like an old attic. Dim lights overheard made a buzz each time they flickered on and off. Cracked shards of glass crunched with each step upon the gravelly ground and buried tracks. An L-shaped staircase to the left reached up to the access levels above, and to the right, the tunnel forked into two other connecting tunnels.

Sharing the silence, they inspected the surrounding area. Wooden crates and boxes were spread throughout, as were some unknown items, covered by drop cloths.

"Looks like they left some of their merchandise behind."

Bruce affixed his beam on a few stacked boxes, up against a corner wall that caught his attention. Charles noticed too, though Bruce tried to play it off.

"Wanna have a look?"

Bruce shrugged.

Without any sort of hesitation, Charles approached, while Bruce followed nonchalantly.

Using a crowbar from his pack, Charles separated the top from the body of the crate.

"Hold the light."

The light shined on a pile of burlap sacks, stacked neatly atop each other. Bruce relaxed his facial muscles. He had no interest.

Charles removed a pocket knife from his pants. The knife reminded Bruce of his own, a gift from years ago, an ivory and pearl handled one that stood the test of time. It was one of two items he actually took with him when he left the states.

With a stab, Charles penetrated one of the sacks. His knife easily slid in, all the way to the hilt. When he removed it, there was a thick, honey colored liquid covering the blade.

Removing some of the sludge from the edge with his index and thumb finger, Charles gave it a whiff, before tasting it.

"Raw opium. Son of a bitch. So, this is where all that smack on the streets is coming from."

Bruce had heard of the substance before. There were plenty of drugs to go around on the streets of his hometown. Heroin had always been the more popular choice.

Aggravated, Charles wiped the drug from his fingers to his pants as if the substance made him dirty.

"After tonight, they won't be bringing anything through these tunnels." Charles looked away from the crates. "C'mon, lets do this. We only have a small window."

Charles set his bag of supplies down in the middle of the tunnel, opening it up. He pulled out a wooden detonator box and proceeded to screw on the t-shaped handle, that once pushed down, would ignite the fuse.

A light smirk ran across Bruce's face.

"Alright. Dixon. You and I will handle the two tunnels to the east. You boys take care of that stairwell. Cut off any route they may have access to. We wanna make sure no one will be able to get down here for years."

Bruce and Charles headed straight for the two adjacent, connecting tunnels. Charles tossed him a bag on the run that was full of dynamite sticks, some cord, and a roll of electrical tape.

"Make sure you set them deep. We want to take out as much space as we can."

Understanding his job description, Bruce disappeared into one of the connecting tunnels.

Venturing deep into such confined spaces of nothingness was enough to cause claustrophobia. Difficult to cast nervousness aside, the narrow tunnel felt so much tighter than it actually was. The old tracks beneath, and the poor lighting made walking awkward and wobbly, having to watch every step. Bruce's bones shivered, despite being down in such a musty, sweaty place. He had been involved in committing some petty crimes in the past, some theft here and there, but nothing like this. This was big time. If it would all be worth the trouble in the end was still up for debate.

When the air became razor thin, Bruce stopped.

Looks like as good a spot as any.

Undoing the satchels knot, Bruce removed everything, separating it out. The glisten on his palms made it difficult to get a good grip on his gear. He had to take a knee. Removing his black flat cap, he wiped some sweat from his forehead, pushing his dark scattered hair off his brow.

After a few long breaths, Bruce moved. Taking a few dozen sticks of dynamite, he used the electrical tape to make three bundles, doing so with haste and efficiency. He always had a forte for building and putting things together, a trait passed on. He placed one bundle, walked down the tracks about thirty feet placing the second. Another thirty feet ahead, he placed the final bundle. With a nod, he was sure those would take out plenty of space.

As Bruce was finishing, a mine cart up ahead on the tracks subtly caught his light. Bizarre, a stray cart so deep, he couldn't help, but wonder. He did have a few minutes to spare, so he figured, what the hell.

Inspecting, there wasn't just one, but several more lined up on the rails, as far as his light would allow him to spot. All had cloths draped over the top of them.

Bruce removed the tarp from two of the carts. Any piece of crud that had been resting atop flew up and everywhere, making him cough as he swatted away the flakes from his face. When his vision cleared, Bruce's eyes dilated a whole centimeter. It was like finding buried treasure. Within the first two carts; tons of loot; bronze candlesticks, precious stones, jewelry, chrome plated dinnerware, even a few bars of gold. Bruce blew away some of the dust that had collected on the items of value. A few of them even bore Nazi Germany's swastika marking.

These would certainly fetch a fancy price somewhere. It'd be a shame to let it all go to waste.

No one was around, and no one had to know.

Bruce took what he could carry in his satchel without weighing him down, as quietly as he could. He had no intention of sharing his new found wealth with the others.

Greed on his mind, and his own self interest, Bruce examined the next, on the hunt for more treasure. Removing another tarp, Bruce squinted. No treasure within. Instead, several cylinder shaped steel canisters laid up in a pile, all opened. And unfortunately, there was nothing of value. All of them, empty.

Bruce lifted one out, shining his flashlight over it. Its chrome surface was still shiny, not much dust had collected on it. He glanced over each side, nothing unusual stood out about it, it was just like something seen in a medical lab, used to store chemicals. Approximately 3x6 inches long, a rectangular glass window sat at the long side. Aside from being empty, there was, however, some strange left over residue caked onto the inside walls that glistened with a greenish hue when the light hit it.

Bruce's whole face contorted inward, catching a whiff of a fowl odor inside. It was enough to make him put the canister down immediately and cover the cart back up.

Jesus!

Backing away, Bruce rubbed his nose to regain his proper sense of smell. The stench alone was enough of an indication for him to move on and put an end to his short lived treasure hunt.

"How's it going over there?!" Charles' loud voice echoed from the other side of the tunnel walls.

Bruce re-shifted focus. "Just about done!" He shouted back.

There was one more piece to take care of; setting the fuse line. Unravelling the rolled cord, Bruce secured each bundle to one another, making sure not to leave any gaps. There was no need to double check his work. He knew what he was doing. The rest would take care of itself.

Satisfied, and impressed, he nodded.

"All good here!" He shouted back.

With a light sprint, Bruce rolled out the detonating cord, back through the tunnel to meet up with Charles, who was there waiting for him at the fork. He handed the cord off for the old timer to finish up.

Charles messed around with the loose cord while Bruce stood by his side.

"Damn it!" Charles said in a frustrated tone.

"What's wrong?"

"Problem with the line. There must be a gap somewhere." He held up a disconnected end. "It's alright, I can find it."

Bruce watched Charles put his engineering mind to work, sifting through the winding cord. Suddenly, some indistinct noises from above came into the airways; another train.

"Merda!" Charles brought his voice down a bit. "We gotta move. I thought we'd have more time before they'd come to collect. Go get the others and head back to the train car. I'll meet you guys there."

In an unconcerned hurry, Bruce did just that, while Charles hung back.

Lots of shouting went on as Bruce followed the tracks back, the noises above had also gotten the rest of the crew's attention. They were already ahead of him, moving quickly, about to board the subway car and get it moving when he arrived back at the main tunnel.

The pulsations overhead increased. Bruce had to stop, looking toward the ceiling, the newer rail lines above made the foundation it was built upon start to shake. The Black Hand would be arriving soon. One problem that desperately needed to be averted.

Looking back over his shoulder, Charles' flashlight beam bounced erratically in the dark as he came running through in a panic.

"C'mon! Go! Go! Go!"

Realizing the time constraint they were now under, Bruce hauled it back to the train as fast as he could. The engine kicked on and the train started slowly moving along the tracks. He picked up the pace, afraid now, afraid that the train would soon out run his own strides. They were all scared now.

Charles, still lagging behind, now began fumbling around with the connectors to the detonator box. Nothing was going as planned.

"C'mon! Let's go! Hurry Up!" The other crew members shouted, extending their arms out from the rear door, trying to hurry Bruce along.

"What about Charles?!"

"He'll make it! He'll make it!"

Hesitation set in. He would've very easily made it back to the train car, but something was a miss, Charles was taking too long.

Grunting, Bruce dropped his bag of spoils, shifted direction and ran back toward Charles. The others screamed at him to get on the train. Charles did the same when he saw Bruce headed back his way.

"What the hell are you doing!? What's the hold up?!" Bruce had to scream to be heard over the racket above closing in.

"Get back to the train! Everything's fine!"

"Charles! There's no time!"

Still, Charles fumbled with the detonator. "There's something wrong with box! The wick's not catching!"

Grinding and screeching above made both Bruce and Charles look up.

"C'mon you son of a bitch! Work!" Impatient, Charles began hitting the detonator box, pressing harder down on the handle.

Slowly peddling away, the lost voices of the others tried to no avail to get the attention of Bruce.

"Charles!?" Bruce was right next to the old timer now, trying to inch him along, but was ignored. "Charles! C'mon!" More aggressive now, Bruce tried to pull Charles by his arm.

"No!" After several more failed attempts, the detonator finally ignited a spark. The fuse was lit.

Without any exchange of words, they shared a quick glance, then, ran.

Deep panting accompanied the shuffling of gravel and the wretched sounds above. The chase toward the fading circular lights became a race against time. Bruce had never felt the air escape his lungs faster. His youthful, long strides made an aging Charles run harder just to keep up. The anticipation of becoming a piece of burnt toast, too close for comfort.

The train car slowly emerged, becoming brighter in the darkness.

"Come on! Come on!" The others shouted, trying to get them to move faster.

For a split second, hearts stopped, and all the commotion went silent. The tunnel behind them lit up in an enormous fiery explosion. Flames of red and yellow engulfed everything. Bruce's backside singed, his body thrusted forward, lifting him up off his feet. The train itself, almost came right off the tracks as it and its passengers were jolted backwards. Smoke covered Bruce's sight as debris and stone flew all around.

Clouds of dust everywhere, vision was distorted.

Coughing, Bruce and Charles emerged from the smog, faces black with soot, barely able to see, charging toward the train while rocks fell around them. The tunnel was collapsing.

Escaping the oven that burned, Bruce scrambled, trying to control his body through the earthquake, dodging a rainfall of jagged rocks. He was the first to reach the train car and to be quickly scooped up. Charles followed, grabbing both Bruce and the other men as he was frantically pulled in, flat to his stomach.

A second explosion detonated, rumbling the train again, making the interior a furnace.

"We're in! Go!"

Full speed ahead, the subway car kicked into high gear, hauling it out and away from the tunnel of flames.

Bruce and Charles laid up on the floor. Charles smiled that same grin again, and chuckled.

"Not bad for your first day eh, kid?!"

Chapter 2: Homecoming

Southern France. January 23rd, 1947. 12:56am.

What a night.

Sleeping wasn't a problem now, as it felt like my whole body had just been put through the ringer. I was pissed I left the tunnel job empty handed, with nothing to show for outrunning a damn explosion, except for some ashy clothes. But, I guess I should've been thankful I walked out with my life.

Long story short; the job was a success. I did my part. All that was left now was for me to get my cut and get the hell out of here. And the sooner, the better.

We took the rail line back, as far as it would allow, all the way to its final stop in the heart of the city's East End; The Projects. Where Charles and the others called home.

That same broken down train car, riddled with graffiti, pulled into a station that was equally as horrible and rundown, full of trash, spray paint, wayward newspaper sheets, and drunk lower class citizens.

They exited through a side door, to the stench of chemicals. There were tons of industrial plants around, and all its potency flew into the atmosphere after it sprinkled the station.

The air was hazy, and not from humidity or moisture, but from the various pollutants that had piled on over the years. It made a sheet of mist that slapped everyone right in the face the second they crossed the threshold from the train to the station platform, making it difficult to see what lied ahead; the rest of the city, and unfortunately, it wasn't much of a sight.

Bruce made sure to walk behind everyone else, keeping a distance as they traversed the streets of the projects. East End was one of the poorest sections of the city, ever since the mid 1800's, having been made worse by Germanys bombardment and occupation of France. The section of the city used to be industrial, it was predominately rural now, impoverished and underdeveloped. However, a short walk back in the opposite direction, the city was built up, rich with life; a thriving metropolis. Once the underpass of Henrietta Bridge was crossed though, there was nothing. It was funny, yet sad, the dichotomy of the city; how it could go from one extreme to the other within a matter of miles. But, that was Mariette; a broken city.

The narrow, cobblestone streets were barren, void of anything except for the dope heads that hung around on building stoops, strung out as hell, grilling everyone that attempted to make eye contact with them. Many of the buildings were grouped close together, cropped off at the roof, jagged and dismembered, with doors boarded up from having been broken into on more than one occasion. Many of Mariette's citizens couldn't even afford to live in those areas.

Past the underpass of the bridge lied a hill, into an open field of grass; the slums; home. The open field of nothing used to serve as a park before Germany arrived. Following the war, much of the countries' economy took a nose dive. Since things went south, the former park became a sectioned off area, away from the municipality, exclusive to the minorities that couldn't afford to live in the city and had no choice, but to leave. There were too many living in poverty and not enough room to put them anywhere. The shantytown was built out of that desperation.

Homes that looked more like shacks or out houses were built out of stray pieces of wood and couldn't have occupied more than four-hundred square feet. Weak from water damage, none of the wood matched, nailed together to take on the appearance of a small home. It wasn't much, but it was better than living on the streets.

Many groups of destitute men, women, and children huddled by trash cans burning with a fire to keep warm from the cold, harsh winter night. In January, temperatures could dip as low as 5 degrees Fahrenheit in the higher altitudes of the city. Only so many could live within the decrepit shacks that were spread out through the tiny land. Sometimes two, or even more families lived together under one roof. Bruce had heard about places like this existing, but he had never seen any of them up close. In America, there were places like Hooverville; a town built in an open area by the unemployed and the poor during The Great Depression. An area that was now called Battery Park in New York.

Every person Bruce's eyes came across were that of an individual who was barely clothed and covered in filth from their feet to the tips of their hair. Their torn, baggy garments hid the hungry, sickly state of their bodies. Gaunt in their facial bones, any one of them could've been minutes away from taking their last breath.

"Welcome home." Bruce almost didn't hear Charles, too busy being hit with a grim sense of reality. One of the harshest he's experienced since being in Europe. Quite the homecoming. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

A drink? I could most definitely do with one of those.

Charles and the others walked toward one of the larger constructs on the farthest end of the shantytown, one that had loosely been built into an inn and a bar. A place where people could wet their whistle and congregate.

They climbed up a few wooden steps, to a wrap around porch, leading inside. The rickety front door opened up to the funk of whiskey and stale beer. Aside from the stench, It felt good to be out of the cold.

Charles was greeted by a raggedy looking female from behind the bar. "Hey, Dad!"

"Cassie, five beers please."

"You've got an extra." Referring to Bruce. It was hard to miss the young American. He stood out like a sore thumb, especially from the company he was with. Simply because his ripped pair of dungarees and his scuffed up pea coat actually fit his body type. Even his flat cap and boots matched the worn out black color of his double breasted pea coat. His garments were nothing to brag about, but next to the other four, he might as well have been Humphrey Bogart. The others were dressed in tethered clothing that either hung from them, or came up short at the wrist and ankles. Another reason Bruce was looked at with such disdain.

The bar, grungy, had all the usual amenities, just scaled down; worn out leather in the stools, tables that barely stood on all fours, and flooring that clung to the feet of patrons. The bar top, fashioned out of some tree stumps and more stray wood, was chipped at every corner and discolored from spillage. It had four beer taps, but only one worked. Peanut shells laid everywhere and many of the floor boards were actually missing. One could look straight down to the plumbing and grass.

All, with the exception of Bruce, took a seat at one of the empty tables near the back wall, disrobing their gloves and scarfs, while their beers were poured into stein glasses. The beer didn't look refreshing or clean.

"You gonna at least stay and have a drink?" Charles asked of Bruce.

"I kind of need to get going, so." It was a subtle push to move things along.

Charles chuckled a bit at Bruce's behavior. "Right. All business. Okay. Let's go upstairs."

As much as I wanted a cold one, and I was long overdue for one, my desire to get paid and skip town was far heavier.

Bruce followed Charles as he and Cassie caught each others eyes. He couldn't tell if she was staring with intrigue or disappointment. He assumed the latter, but didn't care.

Up a flight of stairs, toward the portion of the shanty home that was used as an inn, Bruce walked closely by. He felt everyones eyes glued to him.

Each step splintered when weight was applied, nearly snapping it in half. The upstairs consisted of two rooms opposite one another, and a third straight ahead that was closed. The door to the right had been left open. A rather small room, with three twin beds, lined up close to one another. All were occupied by at least two individuals. The one in the center was being shared by three small children. There were even some sleeping on sheets and pillows across the floor. Cramped, to say the least.

Charles led Bruce to the room opposite.

"Come on in." Charles lit a candle. The lavender of it almost took away the stale beer smell. There were two unoccupied beds, some toys scattered about, a small dining table, and a stove. "You'll have to excuse the mess." Charles reached under one of the beds, removing the floor board. He took out a small cigarette box, packed with some cash savings.

Bruce looked on with a small sense of guilt, but it wasn't enough not to accept. He did a job and he was entitled to receive compensation.

A door creaked open in the background.

"Daddy?" The soft voice of a small child called out from the hall. Both Bruce and Charles turned to a young boy in tethered pajamas, who couldn't have been any older than five or six. He was accompanied by a woman in a bonnet and a torn sleep gown.

"He wanted to wait up for you." The woman said to Charles with a smile.

"Hey buddy! How's it going?" Charles knelt down, his son ran past Bruce, hugging his dad. Charles lifted his son up into his arms, the little boy, ecstatic. Charles walked past Bruce into the hall and kissed the woman on the forehead. "Dixon. This is my wife, Clara."

Bruce removed his flat cap. "Ma'am."

"And this is my boy, Sam. He's our youngest. Cassie, you just met. Our other two are already in bed. Where this guy should be." Charles joked, making his son giggle. The little boy's innocent laughter even made the glum Bruce Wayne crack a small smile.

"Are you coming to bed?" Clara asked.

"Soon. I just have a few more things to take care of."

Charles' wife and son peeled themselves away from the husband and father of four, before going back to bed.

Lingering with a stare, Bruce almost remembered, even if for a brief second, what it was like to have a family.

Charles counted out some francs. "You sure I can't convince you stay on? We have a few more jobs lined up. The fellas and I could use a guy like you."

"Sorry." Bruce collected his cut.

"There's some good money to be made from it." Charles tried again.

"No. I can't stay. It's nothing personal. I just." Bruce shrugged. "I can't."

Bruce felt like he was being pressured, something he wasn't very keen on. Charles could sense the discomfort and pressed it no further.

"Okay. So, where will you be heading?"

"That's my business."

Charles smiled at the bluntness. "Well. I'm sure you'll land on your feet." He said, extending an open palm.

They shook hands. Bruce gestured with the cash. "Thanks," and headed back downstairs, so that he could be on his way.

There were those eyes again. Although Cassie's were the only ones he paid attention to.

Taking the money and running, again. Something he had become very accustomed to doing for the better part of a year.

Through the rickety bar door, a teenage boy came barreling in, dirt on his hands and face, shivering and gasping for air. "They've suspended all transportation because of the explosion. The entire area is on lockdown."

You've gotta be kidding me.

Cheers came from the table as the fellas clinked their stein glasses together, praising one another for a job well done. Biting his lip, Bruce did not share their enthusiasm.

"Well. Looks like we've got you for at least another night, kid." Charles said from about halfway up the stairs. "How bout that drink?"

Chapter 3: A Familiar Place

East End Slums. 1:52am.

I was offered food and refuge for the night while the area was in lockdown, which I hoped would only last until the morning. It was just what I needed-to stay in a place I was already in a hurry to get away from. I had plans, and this wasn't part of it.

I ate by myself, outside and away from everyone on the rear porch. I didn't really care about being cold. The meal; a sliver of ham and a measly portion of potatoes was less than filling, but I hadn't eaten since yesterday, so, it was enough.

The shantytown dinner was hardly satiating for a growing teenager, but for a village of people living in extreme poverty, it might as well have been a feast.

Bruce brooded the whole time he ate, frustrated with the current situation he was in, stagnate, unable to go anywhere. Bruce always considered himself a loner, preferring his own company rather than anyone else's. And he had been that way for as long as he could remember. Being amongst a crowd of peers was not something he entertained, at least not voluntarily. Even his friends back at grade school thought of him more as an acquaintance than the former. He wasn't sure if he was like that when he was much younger. Then again, those days were much harder to piece together and recollect.

Following dinner, Bruce chose to stay awake, stood up against an old, unused utility post, with his arms crossed, gazing out on the shanty homes that stretched for a mile over the land. The mere sight of it, a familiar place, it made him think about how, in a way, Gotham City wasn't much different. Areas like these had popped up all over the city after the stock market crash in 1929. He was just a little boy when the depression struck, luckily his parents didn't feel the stress of those times as others did. He could remember all the radio chatter talking about it, how folks had been left with almost nothing.

"Hey, new guy."

Bruce turned around to that same, hairy smiling face, belonging to Charles.

"Taking in the view?"

Bruce responded with light a groan.

"It's not much I suppose."

Charles did his best, but trying to engage Bruce in friendly banter was like pulling teeth. And not just for Charles, but for anyone who was brave enough to try. Alfred, Bruce's old butler, and one of his oldest friends, Dawn Golden, would pull the same routine with him in the years past, it didn't work then either. Eventually, it got to a point to where both stopped trying. Though Dawn was always a little more vigilant.

"You know, you don't have to stand out here. For the same price you can sit inside where it's warm. Maybe get some rest."

"I'm good." Bruce reassured. "As soon as they get the trains back up and running, I'll be going."

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you so anxious to get out of here?" Charles questioned. "Running from something? Someone?"

Annoyed, Bruce shifted only his eyes at Charles. "I don't like staying in one place for too long. And I've already been here a lot longer than I should've been."

"You sound like a man with a secret."

Bruce grimaced, ignoring yet another one of Charles' prodding statements. Bruce knew he could convey a lot more with a look or a glance when people asked him questions he didn't feel like acknowledging. That was a skill he learned to acquire many years back. It was a healthier alternative to using his fists, which also proved to be quite useful to him too.

Charles took a stand on the opposite side of the utility post to share in Bruce's view. The two stared together at the slums and the few people still hanging around, many of which were drunk. They stayed silent for awhile, both to their own thoughts, Bruce, a bit more uncomfortable than Charles was.

A few more moments passed before Bruce felt forced to break the silence.

"How long have you been living this?"

"Oh, almost two years now." Charles answered. "We used to live up in the city, until I lost my job at the refinery."

"The refinery?"

"The oil refinery on the edge of town, down south."

Bruce gave a general stare in the general direction. "What did you do there?"

"I was the operations manager. Nearly twenty years." Charles let out a reminiscent sigh. "Never felt like it was that long though. Because of the war, there were a lot cutbacks. When I couldn't make our payments, my family and I were forced to move out here, along with a lot of other folks. And I was already too old for the service."

"How do you manage to get by?" Bruce pondered, figuring out how to politely make him aware that he had many extra mouths to feed. "I mean, with four kids and all?"

"Odd jobs here and there."

"Like blowing up subway tunnels?" A small attempt at being funny, which for Bruce, was a lot.

Charles smirked, appreciating the attempted humor. "I suppose you could say that."

"And these guys?" Bruce gestured with his head toward the bar.

"What about em?"

"How did you end up becoming their, big cheese?"

Charles smirked again. "Honestly. I have no idea. I guess." He thought. "Sometimes, when people are down and out, they look to anyone for answers. And for some odd reason or another, I was that person."

Nodding, Bruce understood perfectly. Where he came from, people were looking for answers everyday, except, no one was ever there to offer a reply.

"Well, what about you?"

"What about me?" Bruce crooked his eyebrow.

"How does a young American kid like you end up in a place like this?"

With a deep inhale, Bruce looked out over the shanties, breathing in the cool air. He considered answering the question, but not enough to seriously commit to it.

"You're obviously not out here because you have no where else to go." Charles remarked. "Hell. Why would anyone choose to come to a place like this?"

Bruce began to open his mouth to say something, but held it back. It wasn't worth the effort, and the other questions that would come from it. The answers to those, he didn't even know.

Without a reply, Charles left it alone and changed the subject.

"Anyways. We might have another job going off in a couple of days. Depending on how long this lockdown lasts. If you're interested? And willing to hang around?"

"Thanks, but I'll pass. Hopefully they'll get this lockdown straightened out before then."

Charles nodded. "Right. Well, I'm turning in. If you get tired, feel free to use one of the spare beds upstairs."

"I'm ok."

"It's been a long night, Dixon. Try and get some sleep. You might need it."

Chapter 4: Payout

Old Ventura Line. January 26th, 1947. 9:22pm.

My fears came to when days had passed and this ridiculous lockdown had yet to be lifted. I was stuck. Exactly what I didn't want. And now, there I was, doing another job.

Chugging along the rails, Bruce's head bobbed as he sat in his isolated booth, eyes closed.

I tried to nap. But, with Charles and the others chattering in the background, it was near impossible. We rode on one of the first lines ever built in the city during the last century. A line that wasn't being monitored, because, no one ever used them anymore.

Charles knew a guy who owed him a favor, that was able to sneak us into the train yard after hours. The train we found and managed to get running after an hour of tinkering came from an old rail yard that was abandoned years ago. The yard itself had become a stock pile of reject train cars that were replaced by newer, faster ones.

Uncrossing his arms, Bruce stood. His lack of enthusiasm was clear. He didn't want to be there doing another job, in fact, it was the last thing he wanted to do. The region had been in lockdown for almost five days, following his, Charles, and the others handiwork days before.

The small rebel group Bruce had now unwillingly found himself associated with unofficially called themselves, The Talaies; the Catalan word for Watchmen. Catchy, and in a way, inspiring to the poor rural community they came from.

Charles' little band of miscreants had a knack for acting outside the restrictions of the law, more often than not, taking it into their own hands, which is why I said yes when Charles approached me for the tunnel job. I was never really keen on rules and the law either.

Charles practically twisted my arm to get me to go along for a second job. My stay with this group and this region was already overdue. But, it wasn't like I could go anywhere. And since I had no choice in the matter, I figured I might as well make some more doe out of it. Plus, Charles promised me the payout from this job would be well worth it.

It was new territory for Bruce Wayne. He never stayed on to take a second job with the same group of people, it was always one and done, and then on to the next.

Regrettably, he watched from the window, all the vast empty land they passed by. There was nothing, but open land for miles. Unlike Gotham City. Every corner of his former home town had been built upon with endless buildings and skyscrapers. Many of which his father helped contract.

Abruptly, the train car stopped within a very dismembered, deserted station in the southern outskirts of the city. They could've pulled up further, if it weren't for all the iron rods protruding up through the loose tracks ahead. And not to mention, there was another train car lying on its side, horizontally across the tracks. Half of that train was in the station, and the other half was through a wall, covered in rubble.

"Alright!" Charles got everyones attention. "We walk from here."

The car doors opened and everyone strolled out, bags and empty gas jugs in hand.

"So, where are we going?" Bruce asked.

"Thought you didn't care?" Charles said with a sarcastic grin, handing Bruce a bag and a jug of his own.

Bruce scoffed at the comment, curling his lips at the objects handed to him, and followed Charles out onto the tracks.

The station they occupied hadn't been operable in decades. The platform on either side was all but gone, crumbled to pieces of large and small cement blocks as if a disaster had hit it. Recesses in the walls led out into the cold wilderness, letting anything and everything inside. Even trees and grass had grown up though the foundation. A giant hole was bored out in the ceiling the size of a wrecking ball.

They were at the farthest end of the city, at the edge of an uninhabited part, before it turned into nothing, but marshlands, grass, and empty fields.

Dark and gloomy as far as the eye could see, only the silvery complexion of the moon provided a source of light. If it hadn't been such a clear night, it would've been pitch black.

"There's nothing here." Bruce added. "Where are we supposed to be going?"

"Watch your step."

Ugh. Perfect.

Bruce and the others trekked over the rest of the tracks, squeezing between a small space made by the fallen train and the platform. Exiting through one of the recesses in the wall, the exterior of the land became squishy and extremely muddy as the lot of them lumbered through the open fields. Bruce remained quietly pissy. Before him; an endless walkthrough of what looked and reeked like a pig pen. He stayed the course the rest of the way, resisting the urge to complain. Simply along for the ride, he kept a heathy distance between himself and everyone else up ahead.

This was not how I thought I'd be spending my final days in this shit hole. There was no possible way this could've gotten any worse.

Muddy water compressed and splashed, saturating everyones footwear and pant legs through to the skin.

After about a two and a half mile walk through the unpleasantness of high grass and slosh, which reached as high as their knees at one point, light poles began to creep up over the horizon. Since nothing else was in sight, Bruce could only assume that whatever was there, was their destination.

Inching closer, the light poles climbed higher into the skyline. As did a waft of oil and the sight of smoke stacks, spouting out residue. The unpleasant smell of mud and muck was soon mixed with that of old oil. A slight improvement, but not much.

Simultaneously, and yet unintentionally, everyones pace slowed, coming to a complete stop once the entire structure came into view; a tremendous factory for refining oil. With tank tubes lined and stacked all around, there were towers upon towers, walkways connecting each of them. Spaced all throughout the lower grounds; pump stations and complexes used for distilling or manufacturing crude oil, plus depots of very large, cylinder shaped storage tanks. It was one massive, intricate, interconnected plant.

Bruce gazed up at the facility, as did the others, mesmerized.

"Is this where you used to work?" Bruce asked of Charles, who nodded without looking at him.

"Seems like forever ago now." Charles took a second. "C'mon."

Walking again, Charles began to explain the job and its significance.

"This refinery is where a lot of us in the slums used to work. Remember I told you about the cutbacks? Well, an outside company came in to take it over when the war broke out, a German company. As a result, a lot of us were laid off. And ever since, production output of this place has severely dropped. Oil, and all oil based byproducts, its become very scarce in this region. A big reason why everything else has gone to shit. About a year ago, we found out that the factory wasn't being used to refine oil anymore."

"What was it being used for?"

Charles raised his eyebrows. "That's what we're gonna find out."

"The Black Hand?" Bruce inquevtivley replied.

"That's the rumor. Three months ago, the refinery was supposedly shut down, permanently. As was any access points around it. One of our boys went snooping around and discovered that there was a ton of activity going on within the refinery. More than had been when it was open for business. Especially between the hours of 12am and 3am. Days later, our boy turned up dead."

With a crinkle in his eyebrow, Bruce suddenly became interested. "You think he saw something he wasn't supposed to?"

"Bingo. We've been trying to set up this operation for weeks, but could never find the right time or manpower."

Bruce and the others came upon a stopping point when a caged fence with barbed wire surrounding the entirety of the refinery halted their entrance.

Charles clicked on a flashlight, scoping out a specific section of the fence.

"Should be here somewhere."

It sure as hell didn't look like the refinery was operational, recently, or in the past couple of years. Everything in and around it looked like it had been left for dead.

"Here it is." Charles found a small cutout in the caged fence. He peeled it back just enough so everyone could fit through.

Once Bruce and the others all squeezed through to the other side, they held still, gauging the facility. If there was a game plan, Bruce sure as hell didn't know what it was.

"Looks pretty quiet right now." Charles remarked, approaching the nearest stack of tanks, tapping gently on it with his knuckles. "Empty." Evident, Charles was slightly confused. "Let's take a quick look around, I don't wanna be here any longer than we have to. Find out what you can. If any of the tanks have oil in them, take it. We may not be able to find much again anytime soon."

Each man split up in different directions, treading very carefully. The structure was much too large and vast for the five of them to cover everything.

"Dixon. You're with me."

Of course.

Obliging, Bruce followed Charles toward the fuel depot to the eastern perimeter, while the others climbed up the walkways, laughing, racing each other like children toward the towers.

Hmpf. It's just one more job.

Bruce had to keep repeating, to assure himself that after tonight he'd be gone and rid of Mariette. Distracting myself with anything, other than the many places I could potentially be, I gazed out, over my surroundings, at the land beyond the fence, of which there wasn't much, except for one very peculiar looking set of objects, way off in the distance that kept averting my eyes. I didn't know what it was, nor could I conjure up an idea of what it might have been.

Bemused, Bruce looked out over the wide open field that extended for miles beyond the oil refinery at several rounded objects, slightly raised off the surface, and a few taller, barrel shaped towers, extending toward the sky. Almost like a small town or village, something seen in an old Western.

"Hey." Bruce grabbed Charles' attention. "What's all that?," gesturing with a subtle nod toward the mystery.

"Oh. That." There was a hint of laughter in the way Charles answered. "Another leftover present. From our German friends." There was mockery in Charles' tone.

"Huh?"

"There's a few of these scattered all over the border. They popped up during the occupation." Charles shook his head. "Intended to be some kind of Nazi base of operations or something."

"Base of operations? For what?"

"No one really ever knew for sure. By the time it was up off the ground, the Allies hit Normandy and the war began to shift. The French Resistance actually got as far as a plan to take it out. It just never happened."

"What do you think it is?"

"A military base maybe. Used to build weapons. I don't know."

Pondering the implications, Bruce wondered. "Seems like a strange place to put a military base. Why all the way out here?"

Charles shrugged. "Who knows. Some of the resistance even thought it was a test site."

"Test site? For?"

"What everyone seems to be after nowadays." Charles raised both eyebrows.

Bruce knew exactly what that was.

Atomic Power. It's all anyone talks about these days. The United States had a site all the way out in New Mexico. They even fired off a few tests. That must've been almost two years ago now. It was all over the radio; The Manhattan Project, I think they called it. Mr. Oppenheimer's baby. I remember when he crossed the bay to Gotham, the whole city was elated, he even recruited some of the city's brightest minds for his research; Amadeus Arkham, Simon Hurt, Achilles Milo. There were a few others, I think, can't seem to remember their names now. Folks said the creation of the bomb is what really ended the war.

"I suppose it would make sense." Charles broke Bruce's thoughts. "The Germans would need as much open space as possible. And out here, well, there's plenty of it to go around. Why make a mess of things in your own backyard if you don't have to, right? It's much easier to do it in a place no one cares about."

Bruce, taken aback, it was the first time Charles' outlook on things was less than optimistic. It took him for a loop.

"You really believe that? That no one cares about this place?" Bruce had to ask.

Charles shrugged. "The future of this country is filled with uncertainty. We're struggling to put the pieces back together since the war. We don't have enough to to be on our own yet without assistance. Sooner or later, someone's going to push their influence on us."

In that moment, Charles' spirit vanished. For Bruce, it was Charles coming to grips with reality, as glum as it sounded.

Bruce continued to gaze out at the unusual site.

"One day we'll get around to it. Bound to be something out there of value. If The Black Hand hasn't already gotten to it. You could stick around. Check it out with us?"

Bruce gave a crooked smirk, again, conveying words with a single stare.

Charles smiled. "Worth a shot."

Nice try.

Bruce appreciated the effort, even though it annoyed him, just a little bit.

"Alright." Charles intervened, putting an end to the conversation, as a segway into the job at hand. "Start with the boiler house. See what you can find. I'm gonna check out some of the storage tanks. I'll meet you back here."

Bruce huffed, sneering at Charles' backside with the corner of his mouth.

This is gonna be a waste of time.

Unamused, Bruce walked over toward the complex that housed the boilers, used to vaporize impurities out of oil. The front door entrance had been snapped at the frame, from when someone broke it in.

Dark and drafty, the interior was dank like an old cellar. Bruce quickly found a switch on the side. Pressing it made the lights overhead stutter and flash hesitantly, before providing light. Many of the lights were burnt out, but the few that remained were enough to inspect the room thoroughly.

Five boilers lined the back wall. Oval shaped tanks, connected to gears, valves, and various mechanisms, extended all the way up to an exhaust stack that protruded out through the ceiling. The mechanics behind them and how it worked made some sense to Bruce's engineering intellect.

Alright, lets have a look.

Just as Charles did, Bruce gently knocked on the tanks. The first three were completely hollow, dry of any oil. But the fourth, wasn't quite. Bruce knocked again to be certain.

Hmmm.

Curiosity piqued, Bruce decided he should try and crack it open. Studying the tank and how each part flowed into the other, enabled him to locate a release valve and spout toward the bottom.

Spinning off the top to the gas jug, Bruce positioned the open end right underneath the spout. The spigot was stiff, but eventually his strong grip released it. It took a few seconds, but slowly, some thick, sludgy oil began to dispense.

Jackpot.

Painfully slow, there was enough left in the tank to fill the jug to the brim. Positioning the valve back to its closed position didn't seal the spout right away, causing some spill over onto the floor.

"Damn it."

Replacing the cap, Bruce noticed something off about the excess that spilled over. Running upon the floor, the ground wasn't level, but that wasn't the strange part. The oil had disappeared through an indentation in the ground.

Following the path of the vanishing oil toward the slits in the floor, a faint light shined through.

There's something else here, underneath the flooring.

On his hands and knees, Bruce used his fingertips to trace the indentations further. They oddly stopped at a certain point near the fifth boiler. Back to his feet, he searched for more cracks in the ground, and other areas of the boiler house, hoping to spot a door or a set of stairs that led down. There was nothing.

Without warning, Bruce took another step that was cut short when the ground beneath him gave way, dropping him below the surface. Unable to brace himself in time, his feet hit the bottom cement flooring hard, buckling his knees, before he lost control. He let go off the jug of oil so he could land on his shoulder to dampen the blow.

On his stomach, pale with dust, some spider webbing stuck to his cap and face, Bruce slowly rose up to a seated position. Rubbing his knees, he clenched his facial muscles in slight agony, groaning.

"Ughh. Son of a bitch."

Adjusting his eyelids, Bruce crinked his stiff head up at the hole he had fallen through. It was a decent drop. He wasn't getting back up that way.

"Mmmm. Better have been worth it."

Clinging his face, he removed the sticky, annoying webbing, then spat just to make sure none was caught in his mouth.

The bottom was further down than he had originally expected. The after effects of the hard impact on his knees and ankles, still pulsing.

Shifting focus, back to his current predicament, Bruce found himself where he wanted to be, below the boiler room, just not exactly how he intended to get there.

Up to his feet, Bruce reacquired his gas jug of oil, which thankfully stayed closed. He had more than enough room to stand tall, but the tight space, couldn't have been any larger than a Mariette slum house.

Scanning the cramped room, Bruce spotted a lit oil lantern in the corner; the source of the light shining through from up above.

Someone forgot to close up.

The room was completely void of anything except dust and insects that made a home out of it. There was, however, something off about the dust that had collected on the ground.

That's strange. There's two square shaped outlines in the floor. The cement here, has kept its original color. It hasn't been altered by any dust accumulation. Something large was moved from here, and recently.

Bruce crouched.

Footprints. Hmmm.

He looked over each one very carefully.

They're different. One is much larger than the other. There must've been at least two fellas moving whatever was down here. Wonder what the hell it was? Looks like there are some drag marks, which means it was too heavy to lift.

Another of Bruce's skills; the art of deduction; the ability to narrow down scenarios based on observation. Seeing through the bullshit. He could thank Dick Tracy for that one.

Face nearly to the ground, Bruce traced the path of the drag marks and the footprints, following both further into what he could only gather to be a storage room. The path led him to a wall, a wall where a pair of hinges and a sliding lock laid. Attached, a small door, clearly built not to look like one, but whoever placed it there didn't do a very good job of keeping it discrete. It led somewhere.

Someone wanted to keep this place hidden.

Bruce shook his head, frustrated with himself.

Whatever. It ain't my problem to be concerned with. Don't get involved. Remember?

Unhooking the latch, Bruce had to pull forcefully to get the door to open, which kept getting hung up on the cement flooring. He was able to open it just enough so that he could get out.

Exiting the lower storage area, Bruce climbed a few steps before he found himself back outside on the surface.

"Hold it!"

In a crouched stance, Bruce stopped, dead in his tracks. The voice, was not Charles.

Cold metal gently pressed up against the back of his head.

"Stand up. Slowly." Bruce complied, rising very cautiously before spreading his arms out in surrender.

"Now. Turn around." The man's accent, bizarre, was definitely not local.

Very slowly, closing and opening his eyes, he turned. The hammer cocked. Bruce tensed, about face with the gunman, though all he could focus on was the barrel of a 9mm, inches from his nose. Petrified to death, he tried his damnedest not to show it. He only had a gun pointed at him once in his lifetime. He froze then, as he was now.

"What are you doing here?" Silently, Bruce hyperventilated. Nothing came to.

"Over here!" Shouting from afar distracted the gunman. Bruce lunged forward with the jug of oil, knocking the man down along with his gun.

He ran.

Searchlights went on almost simultaneously throughout the whole refinery. Yelling and sporadic gunfire soon followed.

Bruce and The Watchmen were now being chased out of the refinery by groups of armed men. Everyone was sent sprawling across walkways, down staircases, around storage tanks to get away as fast as they could. Gas jugs bounced in each of their hands, desperate to escape.

Leaping over piping rails, Bruce ran through clouds of steam, hauling it back toward the chain link fence. He was the first to squeeze himself through, holding it open for the others to follow.

Two of the other fellas came through, Charles and the third of the young boys were the last to approach. The young boy was clipped in the ankle by a stray bullet, falling to the ground, dropping one of his container jugs. Without breaking stride, Charles picked up the young boy, putting one arm over his shoulder.

"Hurry Up! Hurry Up!."

Shots buzzed off the fence, providing a shielded barrier.

Limping, the young boy and Charles pushed through the fence. And back into the muddy marshlands they all went.

Chapter 5: No Good Deed

East End Slums. January 26th, 1947. 11:34pm.

Laughter and cheering filled the entire Shantytown, both indoors and out. People danced around trash cans, tossing in what they could to keep the fire and the celebration going. Never had such a poverty stricken area expressed so much joy, and for so little.

The jugs of oil Bruce and The Talaies brought back were a sight for sore eyes. Those few gallons of oil meant life could be made just a little bit easier. It meant stoves could be turned on, food could be prepared, heat could be used to keep warm, the lighting could stay on after hours. It may not have been much for someone like Bruce Wayne, who used to view those type of things as everyday commodities, but for those that had no such luxuries, it was like winning the lottery.

For the night, Bruce and The Talaies were viewed as heroes. For once, there was a little glimmer of hope. And even better news for Bruce, the lockdown preventing him from leaving had finally been lifted.

Beers were chugged all through the evening, eventually leading into a somber, inebriated sleep. Many of whom found that somber inside the bar.

When everything started to settle down and it looked the night was coming to a close, I decided it was time for me go. With everyone occupied or asleep, I could disappear without anyone noticing, and be on my way. The plan; to head north.

Goodbyes and long drawn out farewells were not a part of Bruce Wayne's character. What he did when he arrived in Europe was his personal business, as was where he wanted to go and how he chose to do so. It was his way of keeping a low profile and avoiding a trail, as well as relationships. No one had ever come looking for him, and that was just the way he wanted to keep it. He had been to so many places and in so many towns, names and faces went like the days changed. What was presently important, was that he got his cash and that he could go.

Bruce again, isolated himself from Charles, the others, and anyone else who was still left inside. On the back porch, he packed and sorted his earnings from the other day and the refinery job into a backpack before he could make his escape on the down low.

"I guess you'll be leaving soon then."

Bruce frowned upon hearing Charles' voice creep up from behind him, yet again.

So much for a quiet getaway.

"Thought you'd at least stay till the morning."

"No." Bruce turned around. "They've open the trains back up to the public, so, I'll be on my way."

"Right. Taking the money and running." Charles commented, disappointed.

"That's right. I got what I came here for."

"You know." Charles began, inching closer. "You did a good thing here tonight."

Bruce knew what was coming.

"I'm not one of your Watchmen, Charles."

"You could be."

Bruce offered no reply, continuing to pack.

Charles shook his head. "And helping these people? Doesn't that mean nothing?"

"For you it does, Charles. Not for me."

Charles scoffed. "You know. I don't know if it's me you're lying to, or if it's yourself."

Bruce exhaled. "I really don't have time for this."

"Look around you. This is what matters. These people need us. Can't you see that?"

Bruce turned, excessively angry, pointing his finger at Charles. "Look! I didn't do this job or the last one cause I wanted to help. I did it because I needed the cash and I had no where else to go. And now, I can finally get the hell out of here."

Bruce's tone was short and rude. Helping others was not what he intended to do. That is not what he was about and he didn't want anyone to think otherwise. Tonights good fortune, it was just a happy accident. Helping people was what his parents did, not him, he was in the business of helping himself now.

Charles let out a disgruntled breath. "I guess you've got it all figured out then."

"Yup. I do." Bruce faced his back to Charles and carried on getting his things together.

He could feel Charles hovering behind him. "Make sure you say goodbye to everyone. Good luck. Wherever you end up." Charles waited a moment, letting out another, louder, aggravated breath, before going back inside.

Sighing, Bruce hunched the strap of his back pack over his shoulder. Immediately, he felt remorse. It appeared no good dead could go unpunished.

"Damn it."

Charles was a genuine man, Bruce could certainly see and understand that. But, once again, he acted out before thinking. It wasn't how he wanted to leave things.

Back around, Bruce opened his mouth, and started to say something before he was interrupted by a resounding siren in the distance, halting him. It wasn't loud, or close enough to stop someone's heart, but it was enough to be out of the ordinary and make him look over. It echoed through the slums, capturing the attention of Charles as well, who came back outside. Neither of them turned toward one another, nor said a word, they just stared, and wondered.

Lingering without end, other homeowners began exiting, looking toward the skies, across the bridge, and over the city, in search of the odd disturbances cause.

Suddenly, a gentle boom erupted off in the distance. Soon proceeded by a rapturous gust of wind that came sweeping through the entire slum and onwards, thrusting everyone back, almost off their feet. Homes rattled from a current so strong, it flung Bruce's cap right off his head, rocking himself and Charles off kilter. The bar, nearly came crumbling down over them. Gasps of fright escaped from those outside as others fell to the ground.

In a flash, the wind had come and gone, as did the siren.

It was quiet again. Serenity returned. Bruce and Charles held, watching, waiting.

Soundlessly, at the very far edge of the city, a dense cloud of smoke rose up, ascending higher into the sky, molding itself into a mushroom. The siren roared again. Clamorous screams and shrieks of horror soon superseded. It was now that Bruce's heart came to a stop.

Charles was first, up to his feet, running past Bruce and off the porch. Bruce followed, dropping his bag. Both ran, as hard as they could through the slums. Terrified men, woman, and children scurried for their lives in the opposite direction, abandoning their homes as Bruce and Charles tried to dodge them. The screams became louder and louder on the approach toward the city. The atmosphere, thicker, denser, and cloudier, the fog from the unknown spread over everything. Charles sprinted farther ahead of Bruce, who could barely see through the blanket continuing to pile up. His eyes began to burn, Bruce couldn't hear anything over the yells, calling out to Charles, unable to see. Others unknowingly bumped into him, trying to escape the cloud he was running toward. And then, unexpectedly, a second, much louder, much closer bang, erupted.

Chapter 6: Epicenter

Unknown Location. Unknown Time.

Everything. Utterly, and absolutely everything was convoluted, blurry, and distorted. A terrible commotion of yelling and screaming all around accompanied that same loud siren blaring continuously in the background. Nothing was grounded or centered. All of it, spinning completely out of control.

A sonorous ringing, constant and perpetual, filled Bruce's ear drum when he finally came to. He had no idea where he was, what was going on, or what had just happened. The last thing he could remember; running. Aches in his head, his eyes were on fire. Blinking repeatedly, all he could make out was the faint shimmer of three overhead lights fixed above him.

Vision, horribly skewed, he tried to trace his surroundings. A residue coming from his eyes moistened his cheekbones each time he tried to open and close them. Rubbing them furiously, he couldn't relieve the itch or bring them back to normalcy.

"Sir! Sir!" A woman's voice yelled to Bruce from an unseen location, making him jump. "Please. Don't rub your eyes. You'll make it worse."

Bruce stifled, bewildered, barely conscious.

"What happened!? Where am I?!" His tone was loud, louder than he could actually hear himself speaking.

"Sir, please. You're disorientated. You sustained injuries during the attack." The woman matched Bruce's frantic tone, trying to get control of the teenager who began fidgeting to get up and out of the bed he was in. "Sir! You're at the hospital, please try to be calm."

"My eyes! I can't see!"

"It's radiation from the blast."

"Blast?! What are you talking about?"

"You have flash blindness. It'll only be temporary."

Bruce tried to look around and pinpoint his vicinity as best as he could. He was encompassed in close proximity by several other gurneys. The screams he was hearing were coming from the occupants of those gurneys, who had also sustained injuries. And from the sounds of it, much worse than his own. Bruce didn't need to see their faces to understand the pure agony and pain they were suffering from, each haunting emotion piercing him.

"Charles? Where's Charles?"

Bruce continued to stagger. Deliriously terrified, looking over his body to make sure nothing else had happened to him. For the moment, just his eyes seemed to have taken the damage. Although he couldn't see very well, he was adamant about getting to his feet.

"Charles!" He called out. "Charles!" He grabbed for the nurse. "I was with someone before I got here. Do you know where he is?"

"Sir. Please rest. I need to tend to the others."

The nurse had no choice, but to leave Bruce's side and turn her attention to the other badly stricken patients. With the hospital staff slim, there wasn't enough nurses or doctors to go around and offer optimal patient care, especially with the amount of injured inside and the many more that were coming in.

Every inch of the hospital was a buzz, flooded with patients. Bedding quickly became sparse for those that needed it. Some had to be rested on the floors, up against walls, on cafeteria tables, kitchen units, even on vacant office desks. Any space that could be used, became an area to bring the injured in.

Bruce's breaths, short, heavy, and fast, he couldn't catch it among the hysteria. "I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here."

Deep down, Bruce knew he wasn't one-hundred percent himself, perhaps not even fifty, but he tried to convince himself, believing that the other patients around him were in much more need of assistance.

Amidst all the madness that encircled the hospital, Bruce, motor patterns compromised, struggled to lift himself up and out of bed while the nursing staff and doctors focused on treating others.

The halls overflowed with hospital employees running back and forth in a panic, tripping over patients and each other, helpless to attend to as many as they possibly could.

Blinking his eyes with haste, as if they would somehow snap back into focus, Bruce's boots hit the slick surface of the hospital floor, covered with blood splatter, stains, and drags. Struggling to get sure footing, he felt around for objects to hold onto for guidance, wobbly trolling, walking into and knocking over trays of medical equipment and supplies along the way. The screams, unbearable, hit Bruce from every direction. He wished his ears were the part of his body that were damaged. It was gut wrenching, hearing so many in deep torment. Some weren't breathing at all, and from the looks of it, had passed a while ago, only no one had noticed yet. The dead were already marked deceased by a thin white sheet covering their bodies, which, unfortunately, was the majority.

Bruce gave his eyes a rub, another effort to remove the sludge and blurriness. It didn't help, but he kept at it. Over all the shouting, the faint sounds of a fuzzy radio broadcast could be heard. Attempting to follow it, the same words rang over the airways; Explosion. Explosion.

Using the one sense he could rely on, Bruce focused in and tried to separate the chaos and confusion, so he could locate that radio and find out what the hell had happened.

Gliding upon the walls for navigation, he wandered, tripping and colliding into people and more objects until he staggered into another victims quarters. Within that area, a man laid on a bed, out cold from the morphine drip being supplied. A Montgomery Ward radio sat next to the bed, on a small table that shared its space with keeled over vase of flowers.

Bruce felt around with both hands, getting a handle for the radio, adjusting the volume knob, making it louder.

Over the static air, the newsman spoke.

"Efforts are still being put forth as the death toll and the number of injured continue to rise from the devastated areas. From what we can gather, an attack of epic proportions has occurred, leveling anything in its path in and around the southern border of France and its cities. We don't yet know from where the epicenter of the attack came from, or how it was carried out."

There was more.

"This attack represents a new form of warfare, although, radiation seems to be minimal, the proximity of the explosion has far exceeded the radius of any man made attack before it. Having hit almost the entire city of Mariette, leaving hundreds dead."

Bruce grunted. The effects of a splitting headache coming to the front of his forehead, residual from being off his feet for too long. He increased the volume, and cleaned up the fuzz a bit more.

"Early reports from around the globe have sparked a magnitude of questions. Number one being; who is behind this atrocious act? And whether or not it was an accident, or, if it was indeed intentional, as a display of power. And lastly, perhaps the most important question of all; could this be the beginning of another, much more terrifying, world conflict? Stay tuned for more information as it becomes available."

The broadcast shifted into straight static.

Ughhh. None of this makes any sense. What the hell is going on?

Straining with puffy, red eyes, Bruce glanced outside the window at the hordes of civilians being shuttled into the hospital entrance. It was just as hectic outside as it was indoors, if not more. The wounded were rolled in on gurneys as doctors and nurses tried to stop bleeds or seal burns, while others on foot, clung to life, assisted by friends and family. And there were some, that were just alone, pleading and begging for anyone to help.

Ash fell from the night sky, layering a thick, grayish smog in the air, darkening everything. There were barely any visible structures beyond the exterior of the hospital.

Bruce squinted.

I need to get out of here.

Hurting, Bruce rolled up the window. His whole body ached, climbing out with heavy grunts, ready to get himself far and away from the horrid scene.

Though the leap outside to the exterior ground was short, and barely anything, every inch of Bruce felt distressed upon landing. Limping along, he had to hold onto his ribs to help subside the aches and pains.

Once he hit the ground, ready to run, Bruce only made it a few feet before a conflict grew inside of him. The scenery, the screams, the cries for help, it encompassed him like a tornado of guilt.

He was mere seconds away from making the decision to hightail it. Charles' words entered his mind. Leaned up against the outside walls, listening, he couldn't do it. All those people, he couldn't just run away from it.

In a change of his own character, Bruce forced his injured body toward the endless flood of people.

The nurse aiding Bruce, her garments covered in blood, saw him arrive at the entrance.

"Sir! What are you doing out here? You need to be in bed. You need, you need to, you need..." She stammered in her frazzled state, just as distraught by the scene as everyone else.

"I'm ok." Bruce tried to calm her down with comforting hands on her shoulders. "What can I do?"

Chapter 7: A Present in the Past

Two Miles North of Mariette. January 27th, 1947. 4:03am.

I tried. I tried to help as many as I could, but it wasn't enough. Not even close. I didn't know if half the people I helped would live long enough to even remember it. Hundreds had died, and judging by the condition of those in critical care, it looked like many more wouldn't make it through the night.

I soon forgot about the pain in my eyes and body among all the madness. It wasn't even a second thought.

So far, almost five-hundred had been counted dead, not including those who hadn't found their way to the hospital. The explosion, as they called it on the radio, knocked out nearly everything north of the border, from where it originated. The radius of the blast was beyond anything previously dropped or detonated during the war, and its destruction, unparalleled. The implications that a bomb of such destructive capabilitiesnow existed sent shockwaves of all over the world.

I was ordered to stay at the hospital overnight for evaluation, but so many others needed the attention of the doctors more than me. I couldn't stay. I counted myself lucky the injuries I sustained were only to my eyes and nothing else. I still had no idea how I ended there in the first place. Charles, his family, and the other fellas weren't among the people I saw come and go. It was a good sign, and one that hopefully meant they had survived. I knew Charles-he would have been in the thick of things, trying to help where he could.

I left in the middle of the night when everything started to calm. I wanted like hell to leave the city like I had planned the day before, more than ever now, but I couldn't do that without seeing Charles first.

I knew the slums were going to be a disaster, but nothing could've prepared me for what I was about to witness.

When the air became so thick with haze that it fought the sunrise trying to shine through, Bruce knew he was close. The grey blanket of smog made finding direction difficult. Not one breath could be taken without tasting burnt wood and ash. There was so much vapor it needed to be swatted away, so that somewhat of a path could be made.

The burning sensation in my eyes hadslowly begun dissipating, though the discharge and irritation was still there, it was a far cry from how bad it originally was. My vision wasn't great, but not useless. Shaky,it was like looking through someone else's eyeglasses. For the time being, it would suffice.

The northernmost section of the city, where the hospital was, remained unscathed, for the most part. It wasn't until Bruce hit Henrietta Bridge did things begin to rapidly change.

Dumbstruck, unable to move his body, it was far worse than anything Bruce could have pictured in his mind. Debris and rubble were the landscape to climb over. The architecture of the former tenement housing projects was now the foundation under his feet. All gone.

It was as if the end of days had swallowed the city. Anything that may have had color was just a pale grey now, left for dead. Chunks of pavement, flattened lamp posts, and craters became the streets. Parked cars laid on their sides, upside down, crushed like they had gone through a compactor. Store fronts were smashed, windows shattered, sidewalks demolished. Any building left standing, hung by a tread, ready to collapse at any second.

Bruce's hike, up, over, and around obstacles in the haze nearly got him lost as he carefully made it back to the hillside beyond the bridge.

Cries and moans were the first to come into the atmosphere. People shouted, calling out to others in panic, asking for assistance.

With a hand in front of him to shield his eyes, squinting, faint silhouettes formed, taking shape that he couldn't quite make out clearly.

A gentle breeze swept by, creating a separation in the air, making the slums, or what was left, finally visible. Every home had been destroyed. Not one, left standing. Wooden rubble was all, sporadically piled up in mounds across the entire land. Steams of smoke escaped from each as the remnant pieces of peoples homes slowly singed into charcoal. The already poor community that had nothing, now had even less. Dark clouds above, showered the once green landscape with gray flakes of cinder. Cinder that was either fallout from the blast, or the ashes of those that had been burnt alive.

Bruce cautiously entered, trekking over piles of downed homes as fellow survivors wandered around, fatigue and hopelessness across their faces. The hand full of residents who were lucky enough to be spared, wishing they hadn't, as they mourned the loss of their loved ones and their homes. Dozens had perished, and dozens more were still missing, feared dead. Frightfully, those alive tried helping where they could, lifting rubble aside. The injured and the dead were still being pulled from the underneath all the damage.

A small, wide open section of the slums, separated from the mounds of debris became an area to bring the bodies of the dead over. Tears were everywhere as residents of the town identified their fallen kin. The bodies of men, women, and children laid out all over, too many to count. Bruce locked up, he had never seen anything so horrific in his entire existence. So many laid there, lifeless. The living stood by, paying their final respects. Something they never expected to do when their day began. Some of the deceased were given the courtesy of a blanket to cover them, while others laid exposed for anyone to look at.

Bruce looked on with an emotion he hadn't felt in a long while; sorrow. Severely out of place when he first arrived in Mariette, he could never truly identify with the people that lived on the streets, try as he may. Those people; they were beneath him. His upbringing was not what one might call, real. And though he had seen his fair of crappy towns, in Mariette, he saw first hand what it was truly like to be the bottom of the barrel. At the time, he didn't care, he had no attachment to warrant such empathy. But, after what had just occurred, he began to reassess. The people of the Mariette slums had been through so much already, there was no room for more, much less a massacre.

Aimlessly, Bruce struggled, searching around for a face, or faces he knew. Everything was so unrecognizable.

Through a clearing Bruce saw Charles' wife, his daughter, Cassie, and their other three children.

Thank God. They're ok.

Quickly he weaved around people, over piles, and headed toward them.

Charles' family followed a man, who slowly brought them over to the mass grave of bodies. The man lifted a drape, covering one of the fallen. Bruce stopped twenty feet away when he realized what was going on.

No. No.

Clara covered her mouth and fell to her knees, Cassie, comforted her mother as the other three children began to sob.

Bruce ran over, but again, stopped short, just before reaching them. He didn't want it to be true. His mind went empty, un-comprehensively blank of anything and everything.

Neither Clara or any of her children could say a word. They were speechless, and destroyed.

A wave of heartache washed over Bruce. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he stepped forward. He needed to see it for himself. When he finally made it over, there Charles was, dead on the ground, with his entire family grieving over him. Bruce was defeated, mournful, hating himself, regretting the last words he had said to the husband and father.

Removing his cap to pay his respects, Cassie didn't notice him, but Charles' young son, Sam, did, and met Bruce with his eyes. Sam's face, it was a look too close to home, as if the entire world had just came crumbling in. Bruce's mind flashed back. He remembered all too well the last time a young boy stood over his father in tears. His head jolted. A single gunshot went off, followed by the screams, then boom, the second gunshot, pearls gently hitting the pavement. That awful memory, the one he had tried to suppress for the longest time, and until now, he had.

No. Not again.

Nearly faltering to the ground, Bruce grabbed his forehead, forcibly trying to coerce the past out. Stifling in his attempt to do so, he dropped to a knee. It was difficult, his whole face clenched. Internally, he felt every emotion again as he did when he was just a boy. All the terrible memories from that fateful night long ago, instantaneously rehashed.

No one noticed Bruce's distraught state of being with all that was happening. He didn't take his prescribed pills with him when he left the states. He didn't think he'd need to. He'd have to to figure it out on his own. It'd been years since he had to. Painfully, it required a couple of minutes, some slow, calming breaths, but eventually, he was able to regain control and jar himself back to reality.

A full twenty-four hours went by, and still, Bruce had yet to close his eyes. He was free to go, but he couldn't bring himself to leave, unable to shut his mind off. Later, Bruce learned that the other fellas in Charles crew had perished too. Their names; Warwick, Jensen, and Biggs.

I walked through every inch of the slums and the city, watching people, their despair, their aggravation as they tried to pick up the pieces. It was unlike anything I had ever seen in my life. There were no words to describe just how empty everything and everyone was.

Afterwards, I just wanted to be alone, to find a hole somewhere and hide in it.

Walking for miles on end, Bruce wandered alone through the dark and the cold, through the fallen stone structures of the city that used to be buildings. The devastation, the loss of life, it could only make him think, ponder about the time spent since leaving Gotham. About a year now.

Everything was desolate, stark quiet. He stopped when he found a dead end alleyway between two collapsed buildings. There was a strange comfort in it as he leaned up against the destroyed foundation.

Hands inside his coat pockets, thoughts of his own father came to mind. A man whom he had all, but forgotten when he arrived in Europe. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Bruce removed his father's old pearl and ivory handled pocketknife. Glancing at it in his palm, remembering, he reached inside the other, and removed an old, crumpled up envelope, still sealed, a present in the past. This was the second, only other item he took with him when he left Gotham, something he couldn't leave behind. His name, 'Bruce Wayne,' was written out across the center of it in cursive lettering. The envelope showed its age, having been held onto and unopened for years, save for the the little peeled section at the top right. Inside, a note, or a letter from Bruce's father, he wasn't sure, he could never actually bring himself to open it and see for himself. He did try. Once.

Chapter 8: The Hell It'd Become

Gotham Mercy General Hospital. Burnley District. Gotham City. September 26th, 1945. 3:46pm.

It had been almost one month since the second World War had officially drawn to a close across all of Europe, with the Allied forces reigning victorious over Germany's Third Reich. A large part of that victory due to Roosevelt's American boys. The end of the war marked the end of oppression and an evil that threatened to cast a dark shadow over the entire world. Loved ones fighting for that freedom across the pond were greeted to a warm welcome home with the hope and promise of a better world. In most places, it was a time for celebration and a return to normalcy, but not in Gotham City.

The Depression of 1929 coupled with the increase in gang violence brought on from Prohibition hit cities like Gotham harder than most. And though other cities like Chicago or New York, who endured a similar fault, were in a state of recovery, Gotham City was still lagging behind. The countries expenditures on the war effort led to a collapse of the economy, setting the city back further to a place where transgression and poverty ran ramped. But, the struggle was there long before the war.

The Gotham City skyline, at a distance, was gorgeous, with tall, beautiful well lit buildings that brightened the airways of a once thriving populous. But, that was the city from afar, until one got close, to see the hell it'd become.

The famous Wayne Enterprises building that had stood for decades, sat proudly in the Gotham twilight. Bright lights illuminated the prominent 'W' logo. However, its once great recognition and ideology diminished over the years as the dismembered city succumbed to evil. Since the depression, the city slowly wilted, struggling to bring itself back to greatness. Crime and ruthlessness engulfed the city from every back alley, while its few great citizens remained unable to stand up to the corruption and tyranny. The rich and powerful continued to use their leverage over those less fortunate, ruling the streets in fear. Bloodshed and mob activity had become the new barometer for normal. And the bright light that was Gotham City, had all, but burnt out. Most of Gotham's law enforcement had been paid off by mobsters like the Falcone's and the Moxon's, while others were just too scared to take on the powerful. Without opposition, the dominant continued to exercise their ugly reign over the city.

Through the back roads of the Theatre District, lied a dark, shadowy street, known only by its nickname; Crime Alley. Located in the Park Row section of the city, Crime Alley was the setting of a heinous incident years ago, when Gotham lost two of its greatest members, just outside the Monarch Theater; Thomas and Martha Wayne. The incident was dubbed as "The Park Row Tragedy" by the papers. The beautiful couple were out enjoying a film with their son when a down and out mugger by the name of Joe Chill selfishly took their lives, orphaning their only child, Bruce Wayne. That night marked many things. It was the unofficial beginning of Gotham's downward demise, but more than that, for Bruce Wayne, it was the night that had now defined him.

It had been exactly five years to the day, since the lives of Thomas and Martha were taken, but for Bruce, it felt like it happened yesterday. He could remember every detail, every smell, all the screams, and all the terror.

Three days ago, with the war done and over, it was announced that in the Spring, the city would hold a special celebration, in commemoration of Thomas and Martha Wayne, to coincide with the five year anniversary of their passing. To add more difficulty, the commemoration ceremony was to be held on the grounds of the Wayne Estate in Bristol, New Jersey.

Bruce, needless to say, unhappy with the announcement, already had anxiety just thinking about it, even though it was half a year away. He didn't need a party to remember what happened, it was there with him everyday. What he needed was for their memory to be left alone, not trampled with.

The young billionaire, approaching the ladder part of his teenage years, was slowly growing into a man. Tall, blue eyed, with layered dark brown hair, Bruce had acquired the same broad shouldered, muscular frame his father and grandfather possessed. The girls were always eyeballing him at school, but none would ever approach because of his nonchalant appearance for a rich kid, and the fact that he was always brooding.

In a small, secluded office, filled with plants and comfortable seating, Bruce sat on a leather love seat, tapping his foot anxiously. Barely an emotion on his face, he looked out a single window with his scattered dark brown hair that he never bothered to comb anymore. A constant five o'clock shadow on his face, Bruce rarely opted to shave until he really needed to, or was forced to. His face, pale from having consistently remained indoors, his eyes were always puffy and bloodshot. Sleep was a commodity he never got much of. Wearing old jeans and a worn black pea coat, he hardly looked like a child of wealth. Wishing in deep thought, he clutched on to a black flat cap, that he always insisted on wearing, despite it giving him hat hair. A thin white box sat closely next to him.

Bruce sat across from a woman, whom he referred to as The Old Hag; Dr. Leslie Thompkins. Dr. Thompkins had become something of a confidant for Bruce, in the wake of his parent's murder, though he wouldn't see it that way. As a social worker and a good friend to the Wayne's, she took it upon herself to try and help Bruce cope with the absence. Following his parents murder, Bruce became very unstable, developing what Dr. Thompkins referenced as a psychological disorder. They first met when Bruce was about seven, at a charity event hosted by his mother. Since his parents passing, he and Dr. Thompkins have tried to meet at least twice a month, despite Bruce's defiant apprehension, which started when he turned thirteen. He would skip out on Dr. Thompkins many times, either because he didn't care to go on a particular day or, because he was busy getting into trouble, which happened more often than not.

She asked Bruce to come in for a mandatory sit down. Aware of the recent announcement and the drain that it must've been having on the young boy, Dr. Tompkins felt that a talk, or perhaps more appropriate, an intervention, might be necessary, to hold him back from doing something rash.

As Bruce entered into his teenage years, the innocence he developed as a child was replaced with an animosity he sometimes couldn't control. His therapy sessions routinely conjured up feelings of rage, hatred, and an anger for the city that consumed his parents. A hatred that was once sadness. He became lost in his ways, with no direction or drive. He used to think the kind of principles his parents tried to raise him by; peace, understanding, giving back, and seeing the good in people were paramount. Today, for Bruce Wayne, those ideals were merely a fairytale, a fairytale that could never exist in a place as cruel as Gotham. Often, he'd go out of his way to start fights in the street and at school, when he attended. Most days, he played hooky. The shy, happy kid he once was, became the complete opposite. He trusted no one and hated everything, finding solace at the end of a bottle or at the end of his fists. Too frequently he was brought home by the police reeking of booze, sporting a black eye or a collection of bruises. But, no matter how many drinks he downed or how many fights he got into, none of it ever filled the emptiness that lived inside of him.

Dr. Thompkins sat quietly, as usual, waiting for Bruce, whose mind was constantly off somewhere else, never in the present.

"Bruce. How are you doing today?" There was no response from Bruce, who had yet to make eye contact. It was the same question she always started each session with. And for the last few years, Bruce would answer in the same exact way, with silence.

In her white turtle neck sweater, that closely matched the color of her pulled back hair, holding a file folder on her lap, she tried again, "It's been five years."

No shit, lady.

Without moving his head, Bruce slid his eyes, patronizingly at Dr. Thompkins wrinkly face, and then back to the window. The look was enough to condescend the seasoned doctor. Bruce, well aware of how long it had been, didn't need to be told.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Still, no reply.

She waited a moment, and before she could get another word out, Bruce cut her off.

"There's nothing to talk about." Bruce finally provided a cold, indifferent response. He just wanted her to shut up.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it doesn't change anything." In an aggravated tone, Bruce locked eyes with Dr. Thompkins. "No matter how many times we sit here in this damn room talking about it. My parents are gone. What else is there left to discuss?"

Bruce went back to his gaze through the window, overlooking an abandoned park that hadn't been cared for in years. The swing set rested there, all rusty and raggedy, as did the two basketball posts and backboards set into the cement court that had more crevices in it than the Pioneers Bridge.

Leslie took a breath. There was much more hostility in Bruce. "I've been sensing a lot anger the last few times we've spoken."

Bruce rolled his eyes, giving a very subtle shake of his head. "I just don't care anymore."

"You don't care?"

"No one in this city gives a damn. Why the hell should I?"

"Because your mother and father did."

"And look where they ended up."

Leslie Thompkins, taken aback by Bruce's impassive, emotionless attitude that day. It was different, as if he had given up.

"And after all this time all anyone can do about it is throw a party."

"It's a celebration, Bruce. Remembering who they were, and what they did for the city."

He shook his head again at a phrase he had heard all too often. How his parents were this, that, and the other thing. He was tired of it. And he knew, the announcement and celebration was sure to be tarnished by the media parade of Gotham City.

"Your parents." Dr. Thompkins started before she was very sharply cut off again.

"My parents gave everything they could for this god forsaken city, just to be left for dead in an alley. And week after week, dozens more are bumped off in the streets. And no one. No one. Not even the police, bat an eye."

A moment of tranquility followed.

"Unfortunately, you were exposed to the flaws and shortcomings of this city's politics at a very young age, shortcomings which your parents fought very hard to relinquish."

Bruce held still, digesting the point Leslie was trying to get across to him, but it wasn't sinking in.

"Your parents believed in the good of this city, Bruce. Even if others didn't. And it was their hope that you'd someday carry on that tradition."

"There is no good in this city. Why should I be any different?"

"You really believe that?"

Bruce simply shrugged, not feeling the need to justify the question with an actual response. All he had to do was walk the streets outside to get a glimpse at how 'good' Gotham City was. The last thing he wanted to do was to get into another heated debate with Dr. Thompkins about the economic state of Gotham City, so, he stayed quiet.

The Dr. removed her glasses, setting them down atop the folder. A folder that had increasingly gotten thicker with each year. She had to work off of her notes now.

Bruce could sense another annoying question coming.

"I know it's not for another six months, but, are you planning on attending?" Leslie finally asked the burning question. The question the entire session was predicated around. Following his parents murder, Bruce found ways to avoid any type of social gathering.

Bruce rolled his eyes again. "I don't know."

Leslie Thompkins took a moment, sensing Bruce's agitation growing.

"Let's talk about something else, shall we? You'll be graduating in two years. Now would be the time to start thinking about college. Have you given any thought as to what you might do after high school?"

He had, if he made it to graduation, but it wasn't anyones business. That was a plan for himself, that didn't involve anyone around him. Plus, his grades weren't exactly exemplary.

"You and I have discussed Gotham's politics in the past. Someone like you could make a difference, given the opportunity."

Bruce rolled his eyes yet again.

"In the justice department maybe?" Dr. Thompkins tried her best to engage Bruce in any sort of conversation. One that could hopefully make him think about a future.

Bruce chuckled at the mere idea. "And stand alongside those who spit on it every day? Justice and Gotham don't exactly go together." Bruce knew that first hand, belittling Dr. Thompkins with his sarcastic comment. "If it did, they would've locked up my parents killer by now." His face tightened, and his teeth clenched at the thought of his parent's murderer still roaming free.

He could see that bastards face, just as clearly as he saw Dr. Thompkins; Joe Chill.

"If I ever found him." Bruce made a fist so hard, his entire hand turned red.

The fury in his eyes made Dr. Thompkins nervous and uneasy. Like he could snap at any moment.

Taking a deep breath, she gave him a moment to collect himself and come back to senility. Bruce looked down at his fist, stretching out his stiff fingers, grimacing a bit.

Dr. Thompkins caught Bruce's discomfort, glancing at his knuckles, scraped up and bruised. Upon closer examination, she noticed a slight mark on Bruce's forehead, hard to see over the dark hair that swept over.

"Bruce, can you push your hair off your head please?" He looked at her with refusal. She returned with her own stare of strict encouragement.

Sweeping his hair off to the side, Bruce revealed a nice sized welt near his hairline. Dr. Thompkins gave him a disappointed look, one she had given him many times before.

"Bruce, how did you get that? And how did you get those bruises on your knuckles?" She asked, already knowing the answer, having asked the same question a million times before. "Bruce?!" She waited. "You got into another fight, didn't you?"

Standing up sharply, Bruce walked to the window. So sick of the old hag getting on his case about fighting.

"Bruce, how many times are you going to keep doing this? Help me understand why you go out looking for fights? Why? Why?"

"Because it makes me forget!" Bruce shouted, glaring down at Dr. Thompkins. "Something no one else in this God damn city ever lets me do!"

Dr. Thompkins had no intelligent or logical response to provide back. All she could do was look at him with sorrow and pity. A look Bruce was equally sick and tired of seeing stare back at him.

Frustrated, Bruce grabbed his cap and the box from the couch, storming away toward the exit. Showing himself out, he made sure to slam the door shut, rattling every plant and wall picture.

Chapter 9: The Strain of the Past

Crown Hill Cemetery. Bristol Township. Gotham. September 26th. 1945. 4:34pm.

It was hard to believe five years had passed since that fateful night. A lot of things changed, most of all, Bruce. When it first happened, Bruce would often visit his parents gravesite almost weekly, sometimes spending hours there. Four was his record, that was the day following the funeral proceedings. As time went on and Bruce matured, his visits became less and less frequent, until one day, he just stopped going.

A vast array of negative thoughts cluttering Bruce's head the last few days, he felt he needed to pay his respects once more. With the ceremonies recent announcement plans, he didn't how many more visits could be left. It had been nearly two years since he was last there.

Bruce approached the west end slope of Crown Hill Cemetery, removing two red roses from that thin white box, while his driver, Alfred, waited below, beside a black Rolls Royce.

Alfred J. Pennyworth, a tall, slender man, who was beginning to show the signs of aging, served as the Wayne Family's live in butler since 1924. His thinning dark hair was more silvery those days, slicked back and shiny from hair tonic. His thin, dark and grey pencil mustache still showed signs of youth, not quite overtaken by age. In a pair of perfectly pressed dress pants, a crisp, white wing tipped collared shirt, complimented by a black vest and tie, the entire outfit was all pulled together with a knee length black trench coat and bowler hat. Originally from Chesterfield, in the United Kingdom, the English gentleman exuded class and sophistication, waiting, as he had done on the same day in the years past, in the waining, hazy days of an Indian summer. With an umbrella in one hand to anticipate the coming rain, he held an envelope in the other with just the name, 'Bruce Wayne,' written on the center in cursive.

Alfred was surprised when Bruce asked for a ride to the cemetery that afternoon. Usually when Bruce saw Dr. Thompkins, he wanted nothing more than to go home and lock himself in his room. But, Alfred didn't question it.

A steady breeze that day, guided all the diverse colored leaves that had fallen early for the season in a pleasant twister of wind. Late September was always a very pretty time of year, despite the terrible memories that came with it. It seemed the most difficult part for Bruce, was never being face to face with his parents tombstones, but more, the anticipation from the walk over. The guilt, sorrow, and frustration remained constant throughout the years. Nothing ever changed that, and as more years past, Thomas and Martha Wayne became more and more of a relic, archived in the list of tragedies that was, Gotham City.

Bruce's throat locked up, his mouth ran dry, and his heart pounded, passing through the other headstones. It had been a long time and the cemetery seemed different. Adrenaline kicked in once the towering cement crosses of his parents gravesite became visible through the stark tree branches.

The cemetery was always vacant during the week in the late afternoon. Bruce preferred it that way when he used to come on the regular. Last thing he needed was to run into someone who knew his parents. Having heard enough of people's sorry's and condolences in the years past, so many, that he felt one more apologetic voice might throw him completely over the edge. He could only hear the same words reiterated to him so much. He knew everyone meant well, but no matter what people said, it couldn't undo what was.

Thomas and Martha Wayne's granite headstones were the most prominent of the graveyard, and the largest. A giant elm tree hovered over their gravestones, providing somewhat of a private audience for Bruce and his folks over the years visits, giving Bruce solitude.

Bruce stood before the towering pieces of granite, beginning to discolor with time. The names, 'Thomas Wayne' and 'Martha Wayne' were meticulously carved into the stone in thick, frosted outline lettering. Bruce, always careful not to stand too close, left space between himself and the ground they were buried beneath.

The autumn leaves speckled nearly every inch of the ground, vibrant in greens, reds, and oranges. Mounds of them piled up through the month, that made blades of grass barely visible.

In his old familiar spot, that felt smaller that day, Bruce struggled to find the words to say, words that wouldn't make him angry. It was impossible, and with each passing day it became that much more trying. A big reason why he stopped coming, nothing tangible ever came from his lips. The words, if he could ever articulate them, were always in his mind. He wondered what else there was to say to the people that were barely given a chance to raise him past boyhood. At times he felt like he never really knew who his parents were at all. All he had to go off of were stories.

Although he would never admit it to anyone, he could feel himself slowly forgetting them. Bruce would often have difficulty picturing their faces, or remembering certain life events, but never for lack of trying. Old photographs and family portraits were as good as it got. Like all things in life, time was winning the battle. He felt bad thinking it, but a big part of him wanted to forget them, and the pain they came with.

That afternoon was especially difficult, deep down, Bruce knew that it could very well be the last time he saw those headstones. He had to move forward. That feeling of something unresolved was always there, and he feared it always would be if he never did what needed to be done.

A shift in the weather came on suddenly, clouds, piling in the sky. Droplets of rain randomly started to fall. A rumbling of thunder echoed out in the distance over the city.

Closing his eyes, Bruce held back from letting it all out, and in a quiet tone for only him to hear, he said it.

"Goodbye."

The thunder roared again in return. He took it as God answering him.

Bruce turned away and began his premature walk back to Alfred, who already had the umbrella opened and waiting for the young master.

Sometimes I think he forgets I'm not a child anymore. Other times, I think he'd prefer it if I still was.

As the years dragged on and it was just the two of them in that big, old lonely house in Bristol, the distance between Bruce and Alfred broadened. Maybe it was the age difference, or maybe it was the fact the they could no longer relate to one another anymore, but for whatever reason, they became separated, and conversation, more often than not, was forced. Under one roof, they couldn't avoid each other, but lord knows, Bruce tried to. Alfred, God bless him, did his best to have a relationship with the young teenager, but could never seem to make it work, despite his efforts. Bruce very rarely sought Alfred out for his company, most of the time, he wanted nothing to do with the old man. They were more like strangers that had no choice, but to live together and cope with the strain of the past.

Just as Alfred served for Thomas Wayne, so did Alfred's father, Jarvis Pennyworth, for Thomas's father, Patrick Wayne. In a way, the Wayne's and the Pennyworth's grew old together, even though they came from different livelihoods, one a master, and one a servant.

Alfred opened the backdoor to the black Rolls Royce Phantom I so Bruce could enter without overexerting. The young master climbed in without a word or a second look. Once Bruce was secured in the backseat, Alfred strolled around to the driver side and entered. Alfred gazed into the rear view mirror at Bruce, who simply stared emptily out the window, always somewhere else.

"Where to sir?" Alfred spoke in a chipper voice to shield the uncomfortableness of what became of their lives.

"Home, Alfred."

There's nothing else here for me.

In the backseat next to Bruce, the envelope Alfred had been holding onto, sealed tightly, and intended only for Bruce Wayne.

Chapter 10: A Prison of Memories

Wayne Manor. Bristol Township. Gotham. September 26th, 1945. 5:47pm.

Wayne Manor; The glorious estate that has sheltered four generations of the Wayne family since the mid 1800's, stood as the most acclaimed and most recognizable landmark in all of Bristol County. With its tall, castle like spires, it was one of the only sites that could be seen from the heart of the city. The beige, cement foundation laid across 150 acres of land, covered in ornately designed balconies and windows overlooking the Gotham River. The art-deco mansion included 12 bedrooms, 7 baths, a ballroom, two dining rooms, a library, a study, a solarium, a conservatory, and more amenities than one could keep track of. At a time, there was a use for all those luxuries. Now, the home felt more like a prison of memories for its only two inhabitants.

While Alfred was downstairs in the kitchen, Bruce sat in his bedroom, on the edge of his king size bed.

It was a quarter to 6pm, which meant Alfred would be in the midst of organizing dinner. Like clock work at 5:30pm on weekdays, Alfred started to cook. Alfred, more often than not, ate alone, despite the open invitation to Bruce, who usually said he wasn't hungry when it came time to eat. A plate was always set aside for him though. When Bruce did eat, it was later in the evening, long after Alfred went to sleep.

Window blinds closed, barring any sunlight, the lights were dimmed low, just enough to see without straining.

In his right hand, Bruce clutched onto the envelope that shared the backseat of the Rolls with him earlier. The envelope, wrinkled and so old, its once white surface had begun to yellow from years of exposure and handling. His name, 'Bruce Wayne,' was written clearly on the front side. The contents of the envelope; unknown. It was sealed tightly, just as it had been for the past five years. Alfred gave it to him the day after his parents funeral reception, under the instruction of Thomas Wayne, in the event of Thomas' passing. Bruce had kept it in his nightstand drawer since. He could never actually bring himself to open it up and see what was inside. Part of him didn't want to know, and another part of him, the larger part, was afraid to know.

With a deep, collective breath, Bruce held that envelope, reading his name over and over. His fingers slowly began to peel away the adhesive seal at the top right corner. He locked up, closing his eyes tightly. Breathing staggered. He couldn't do it.

With a tight fist and a firm grasp, Bruce crunched the envelope in his hands. He stood up violently. Yelling, he punched the closest wall, making an impression. The whole room shook. In a fit of anger, Bruce swiped every item off the top of his dresser; picture frames, a phonograph, and a vase of flowers were thrown to the floor and smashed. Still going, Bruce grabbed the lamp from his nightstand and threw it aggressively against another wall, smashing it to pieces.

Shaking with rage, the frustrated young orphan stared at one of the cracked picture frames on the ground that landed right side up. It cased a photograph of his mother and father.

"You said you'd always be there for me!" Placing his forehead on the wall, Bruce tried his hardest to calm himself. Tears trickled down his cheek. "But you're not," he said in a low, broken voice.

Envelope in both hands, it was difficult just to look at it, knowing his father wrote his name on the outside. He just wanted to forget. To suppress it all. He didn't want to see that envelope ever again.

Chapter 11: Unfinished

Former East End. Mariette. January 27th, 1947. 4:43am.

It had felt like another lifetime ago, those years in Gotham City, living the lap of luxury I did. I wasn't that person anymore. And I could never be again.

What happened changed Bruce Wayne, forever, there was no going back.

Letting out several deep breaths, trying to muster up the courage, Bruce stood in that alleyway, envelope in hand. Seven years, gone by like a flash, and that envelope had been in his possession ever since. Just like then, it was hard to believe it had been that long. The envelope showed its age, having been bent, folded, and crumbled up so many times, it was a deep shade of yellow now.

Slowly, Bruce's fingers began to retrace where he had left off, re-peeling away the adhesive seal in the top right corner once again. There was a moment of hesitation. Stopping himself, Bruce closed his eyes.

No.

He still couldn't do it. After all the time that had past, he still wasn't ready to resurrect that part of his life. It needed to stay buried, and remain in the past where he had left it. He needed to keep moving forward, not backwards. That, he was adamant about.

Bruce Wayne replaced the envelope back, deep inside his jacket pocket, for a day he could finally find the courage.

It was another one of those moments. The types he had been in many times before, that transition phase, when one job ended and it was time to leave. Normally he would just continue north, but recent events being what they were, held him back, a sense that something was being left unaccomplished.

Placing both hands in the side pockets of his pants, which were usually bare, were not so. Perplexed by the odd occurrence, Bruce removed what felt like a torn piece of thin paper.

What is this?

Folded in half, Bruce undid the crease, uncovering a small note. He read it to himself.

In case you change your mind. I found something. Old Town Fisherman's Wharf. Warehouse 23. Tuesday night, 9pm.

-Charles

The slightest crink in the corner of his mouth, Bruce let out a tiny, mournful smile. The note, small as it might have been, was pleasant to lay eyes on; Charles. Seemed like he wasn't quite ready to give up on Bruce.

This must've been their next job.

Bruce had already made up his mind to leave Mariette, but reading Charles' note again, he couldn't help, but be curious. If he left, that note would always be in the back of his mind, haunting him. In a way, he felt he owed a debt. If not to Charles himself, but to Charles' boy. He knew what it was like for a son to be kept wondering about his father's life, and what was left unfinished. If there was one thing Bruce Wayne understood about in the world, it was closure, and how difficult it was not to have any.

In deep thought, Bruce had a choice in front of him. Considering for a few moments, the choice was clear.

What's the worse that could happen?

Chapter 12: Deep Water

Old Town Fisherman's Wharf. Northern Mariette, France. January 29th, 1947. 8:46pm.

I made the decision to stay in the south of France for at least one more night to see what Charles' next job was all about. Whatever he found was important enough to leave me a note and include me. Who knows? It might even be worth it. And thankfully, it was on the other side of the city.

Following the attack, a government assigned agency was brought in to take control of the region and those that survived. The city and the slums became what they called a quarantine zone, treating the people like lepers. Men in containment suits, scrubbed everyone down from head to toe as if they were carrying a deadly virus. Caged fences were put in place, confining the worst of the devastated areas, terrified that those who were affected might spread their disease. It was Hiroshima and Nagasaki all over again. And it was one problem I sure as hell wanted nothing to do with.

Everyone was pointing the finger at the Soviet Union for the attack. Their Iron Curtain had already consumed most of Western Europe, and now everyone feared this was the start of its influence moving east. But, more than that, the fear of another world war.

Chirping seagulls and the glisten of a light, misty rain fell to the cobblestone pathways of the fisherman's wharf. Exceptionally muggy that evening, one could almost peel the humidity off the air; a fitting atmosphere, considering the events that preceded a few nights before.

Old Town Fisherman's Wharf; built in the late 1800's, it was originally used as a transport line between Spain and France for the trade of wheat and tea along the Gran Valira River. With its intricate cobblestone pathways and large stone structures, the architecture and setting of the wharf resembled more of the early Victorian era of London. If Bruce didn't know any better, he'd think he was in a scene more appropriate for Jack the Ripper.

From the quiet streets, Bruce entered through a double wooden archway door, with the sign, 'Old Town Fishermans Wharf' dangling in the wind from an iron construct above. The corners of the sign were chipped away and worn down, showing its age.

Work day over, much of the wharf remained quiet, save for the few sea men left roaming aimlessly outside, hacking up a lung or whizzing in a corner. Others had taken shelter in a nearby pub to catch an evening beer.

Taking a gander at the note left to him, Bruce took a breath and entered the intricate maze.

Old Town Fisherman's Wharf was divided into three sections; The bay, where all of the fishing boats departed and arrived. A nearby watering hole, that served as a spot to grab a quick drink or a place to catch a few z's after a long haul at sea. And lastly, the warehouse section-an area used for the storage and the safe keeping of fish, materials, tools, or anything else that needed to be safe guarded.

A guidepost in the ground, at the front of the wharf provided a destination for each location. Three attached directional arrows spouted off in opposing routes, with one arrow simply reading, 'Warehouse,' aimed in the loose heading of east.

By his lonesome, Bruce ventured down into the tangle, toward his section of interest.

It was an odd place to be pulling off a job. Way too exposed and out in the open. The previous two were done almost entirely under the radar. Why risk being seen? Especially now? Our little intrusion at the refinery certainly didn't go unnoticed. The region was small, between destroying the tunnel, and the refinery mix up, people had to have to been on the lookout. If I were The Black Hand, I'd be watching my back.

I couldn't help, but wonder what Charles found at the refinery that led him here. And what it had to do with anything.

After several turns and enough windy roads to make a man dizzy, Bruce reached the far corner of the wharf, where every warehouse laid staggered, side by side and across from each other.

Here we go.

The warehouse section wasn't as complex as the rest of the wharf. Organized neatly, a plethora of depots for storage, every warehouse had a corresponding number painted to the side of it in bright white. Each one Bruce passed had a roll up sliding steel door, sealed by a padlock at the bottom. Some houses big, some small, none looked accessible without a key. Bruce wagered every boat Captain must've had one depot assigned to them for their own gear and personal storage.

18, 19.

Wiping his face clean of the watery mist, Bruce turned, making a left down another narrow road of hangars lined up on his right hand side. About two thirds of the way, Bruce reached his end point.

23. Here it is.

Warehouse23; a decent sized storage house, one of the bigger depots of the section. Bruce, more than eager to give a look, he could only assume something of significance had to be within. The only question, what.

Coming forward, wiggling the roll down garage door revealed to Bruce that 23's door was locked tightly as well. Crouching, he yanked on the padlock.

Didn't think so.

Each warehouse he passed was locked, it would have been foolish to believe 23's would magically be free to enter. Arising, frustrated that it would require more effort, Bruce slammed the radial side of his fist on the door, letting out a light groan.

Alright. Guess I'll have to do this the old fashioned way.

Back stepping, Bruce looked upwards for another way in; a window to break, a loose section in the roofing. There wasn't much to offer. Not without the risk of breaking his neck.

A sort of strange rhythmic tap clicked on from the inside, subtly catching Bruce's ear. He could hear it if he paid attention and kept very quiet. Listening closely, he approached again, placing an ear up to the cold garage door. The constant resonation was almost like wheels turning, or a motor running.

Bruce scrunched his face.

Sounds like Dad's old Model-T.

He laughed to himself.

What a rust bucket that was.

His father was always under the hood of that car tinkering around, fixing the engine or replacing something. Seemed like every weekend there was something new going wrong with it.

Since the front of the warehouse left no options, Bruce decided to check the perimeter. More of nothing around the sides, but the rear did unveil an opportunity. Two windows, high above, and underneath, some stacked crates and boxes which could provide a surface to climb up on. Checking the whole of the perimeter, it looked like those two widows were the only other alternative to getting inside.

He rubbed his hands together, the climb was going to be nothing more than child's play for him.

Ascending up each wooden box one by one, with minimal effort, Bruce's agile young body easily made it to the top box, aligned just below one of the rear windows. And just like that, he was where he needed to be. He wiped away some of the mist with his coat sleeve that had accumulated on the window. Covering the glare with both hands around the sides of his eyes, he peeked in. Dark, he could make out a walkway just below the other side of the window. Below that, faint objects clouded in blackness could barely be made out. Anything else inside was hindered by darkness.

Hmm.

Bruce squinted, from what he could gather, there didn't appear to be any foreseeable danger.

To hell with it.

With a quick thrust of his elbow, Bruce shattered the glass. A very drafty breeze escaped just as the window broke into hundreds of tiny pieces. A rush of cool air fluttered over his face, chilling his cheekbones.

He reached his bare hand inside, quickly pulling it back.

Damn. It's freezing cold.

The strange noises he had heard from outside were much louder now, and much more irate. Along with the bizarre motoring sounds, a gentle squeaking penetrated Bruce's ear drum like nails on a chalkboard.

He knocked away any loose shards of glass that could've made his crawl inside any more treacherous.

Pushing one foot forward and in, Bruce's entire body felt the shift in temperature as his boot gingerly making contact with the steel walkway. Certain he had sure footing, he arched the rest of himself on through. Above the room, his whole body tightened and shivered from the abnormally cold atmosphere.

Buttoning up his pea coat all the way, Bruce proceeded, removing, then clicking on a flashlight; a leftover piece of equipment given to him by The Talaies. First aiming his light toward the irritating sounds above, revealed two pairs of cooling fans, one in each top corner of the unit.

Looks like the temperature's being regulated by those cooling fans. This temperature is even too cold for fish. It must be below zero in here. Why the hell would anyone want to keep it so damn cold?

From the walkway, now shining his light down below on those faint objects brought to view more scattered wooden crates and boxes, similar to the ones outside.

Each step upon the steel walkway clanked as Bruce trekked across, toward a staircase, leading down to the ground floor. Hands fast becoming numb, clouds escaping his mouth and nostrils, the rest of him shivered involuntary to keep warm.

Whatever I'm supposed to find here, I need to find it quick and then scram. I can't stay in this ice box for any extended period of time without risking frostbite. I just hope I didn't come all this way and through all this trouble for some crates full of freezer burnt trout.

Bruce went for the closet crate, situated his flashlight on another to keep the light steady and checked it out. Before beginning, he blew several warm breaths into his hands to get a little sensation. Bringing the box into the light presented black painted on letters that read, 'Fragile.'

Bruce, the tiniest bit apprehensive, thought about it.

I'll take my chances.

Alright Charles, let's see what you were after.

Bruce made an effort, trying to pry his freezing cold, bare fingers underneath the indentation to lift the top off. He could hardly attempt it for more than twenty seconds before he needed to slip his hands back into the warmth of his pockets.

Son of a bitch.

More hot breaths into his palms, he tried again. Nothing. It was a losing battle.

Damn it. It's no use. I'm gonna need a crowbar and at least fifty more degrees to pry any of these open.

Flashlight in hand, which he couldn't keep from shaking, which in turn made it difficult to focus on one area at a time, Bruce took what little time he could humanly stand within that freezer. Teeth chattering, nose dripping, searching the rest of the space for a crowbar or any kind of tool to assist him, Bruce's time there was fast dwindling.

Desperately trying to keep his light honed in, Bruce shined on some of the other nearby crates, whose tops were tightly sealed as well. Determined, he looked to the ceiling for an answer.

Maybe if I can shut off those cooling fans...

Bruce's thought process was abruptly thrown off when the exterior garage door shuffled about from the outside. Someone was fidgeting with the lock.

Shit!

Bruce darted off for the nearest corner, behind some of the larger stacked boxes, shielding him from whomever was trying to get in.

More squirming, steel scraping steel, the roll up garage door glided up, granting access.

Crouched low, Bruce killed his light and peeked through a separation in the boxes. At the entrance, three men, bundled head to toe in warm clothing; puffy jackets, gloves, and scarfs. They waltzed in, obviously prepared for the harsh environment. Behind them, a flat bed truck sat idling, its headlights angled inside to provide a clear view.

"Alright." One of the men spoke, tightening his coat. "Let's hop to it. All this shit's gotta be outta here by tonight."

In an orderly fashion, the trio moved in synch with one another. Starting with one of the bigger crates, they took it as a team, two on one end, one on another, hoisting the heavy container crate easily up off the ground.

"Careful boys! Any of this shit gets damaged, it's gonna be our ass!"

With short shuffle steps, the three men slowly carried the box out from the warehouse to the rear of the flat bed truck.

Bruce could only watch from his hiding spot, striving to stay quiet, and warm. Every muscle in his body vigorously contracted to fight the frigidness taking over. There was no way of escaping without being seen.

Bruce cursed himself silently for getting into such deep water.

I need to wait until they take one of the big ones again, then maybe I can sneak back upstairs without them noticing.

Crate by crate, the warehouse slowly emptied. They were efficient, that was for damn sure. Bruce patiently held still, biding his time.

The trio made for another one of the heavier crates, and Bruce readied himself to make a move. Grasping the crate, the men hoisted it up off the ground, shuffling for the exit. Just before reaching the exterior, the heavy crate bottomed out. Its contents broke and shattered, releasing a cloud of greenish mist into the atmosphere.

"Shit!"

Heavy coughing followed, all three of them couldn't help but breathe in the fast spreading vapor.

In a panic, Bruce quickly covered his face with the lapel of his coat, holding his breath. Running out from his disclosed spot, shifting some of the boxes, he darted back upstairs, unconcerned about being seen now.

Struggling and gasping for air, the three movers tried to break free of the warehouse, crawling on their hands and knees. The green fumes had already penetrated their lungs. It was too late. The damage was already underway.

Looking down from the top walkway, Bruce watched the trio take their final breaths, succumbing to the deadly vapor, falling flat to the ground. Scared for his own life, Bruce busted out of the rear window and got the hell out of there.

Flustered, overly anxious, Bruce nearly tripped and knocked over every crate from behind the warehouse on the descent back down to the ground.

Exorbitantly vigilant in his steps toward the front again, Bruce slowly turned the corner.

With his mouth still cloaked, through the now opened front gate, Bruce stared at three lifeless corpses, face down on the cold warehouse floor. Whatever they just absorbed into their lungs had evaporated out, but not before killing them.

Still breathing in the fuzz from his coat, Bruce crept inside, toward the fragmented crate and the dead bodies. Kneeling, he flipped one of the men over, looking away just as quickly. He had to shut his eyes and cover his mouth for a moment to hold back the gag reflex. When he finally settled and turned back, a pale gray, maligned face stared back at him, brutally scarred and wrinkled beyond recognition.

Jesus.

Bruce had to blink to make sure he was seeing what he was.

My God. He looks like he died a hundred years ago.

Painful, Bruce could no longer keep staring. Averting his attention, he took a glimpse at what was inside that crate, the contents of which killed the men in a matter of seconds.

What the hell?

A crooked gaze across his face, Bruce, taken aback, held silently astounded. Inside, was the last thing he expected to see.

It's those same canisters from the subway tunnel.

But these canisters were littered with fresh product, one having been cracked open and inhaled, now resting inside the lungs of the three men sprawled out dead. Seeing it for a second time on one of Charles' jobs couldn't be a mere coincidence.

In addition to the canisters, there were also a handful of vial sized samples, wrapped in a protective outer layer of stainless steel, which prevented their break. They all varied in size ranging from roughly six to fifty-five milliliters, and remained intact within a test tube rack.

Bruce removed one of the smallest, six millimeter sized vials, holding it between his index and thumb finger, analyzing the strange green fluid inside. It was just like a tube in any medical office used to take blood. But, never had Bruce seen one incased in steel and with no label or code to identify it.

Bruce shook his head. He didn't understand.

What the hell is going on here? What is this?

He gave another look at the dead men, then to the truck, still idling.

And where were you going?

Bruce pocketed the sample.

Pushing aside some of the hay the canisters and vial racks were packaged with, he searched more, wanting to be thorough and sure he didn't miss anything. At the bottom, the hay gave way to a slip of thick brown paper. Swiping away some of the smaller, collected silage, Bruce took the slip.

It's a packing memorandum.

The barking of dogs in the distant ambience caused Bruce to end his inspection. He pocketed the memo too.

I better get out of here.

Chapter 13: Crossroads

Toulouse National Library. France. January 30th, 1947. 12:37am.

Charles? What the hell were you up to?

Seeing three men suffer to their deaths tonight wasn't quite what I expected to find when I decided to follow up on the note Charles left me. I couldn't figure it. What was he after? The canisters? The men hauling it out of there? And what was The Black Hand's part in all this? If any? None of his jobs could be considered a coincidence now. He hand picked them for a reason. Maybe following up on that note may wasn't best idea, after all. I should've left this damn place two days ago when I had the chance. See, this is why you don't get involved in other people's shit.

The substance in that crate, whatever it my have been, was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I don't believe anyone else could've claimed to have seen anything like it before either. It acted extremely fast, killing those men in a manner of seconds. But where did it come from? And where was it going?

Either way, none of it mattered. All I had to go on are three dead bodies, a small sample, and a packing memo that's less than useless.

The packing memo left behind had been redacted, blacked out in certain areas of the sentencing, as to protect any imperative details from prying eyes; like Bruce's.

Unable to return to the slums and the housing projects of Mariette, those that survived the mishap were all relocated, or more appropriate, quarantined, to other surrounding areas of the country. Places of business opened up their doors to those without homes for the time being during the cold winter months. A hand full of those citizens were relocated to the nearest city of Toulouse, inside the Toulouse National Library. The library, an old manor house, was converted into a place of reference nearly twenty years ago with the aim of providing books to the lesser regions of the country. Following the blast, the floors of the two level library were used as a makeshift dormitory.

Sleeping bags, lantern lights, and the gentry of Mariette were scattered all about the library floors. Many were already asleep, while the few remaining awake, sat quietly, still shaken from the events of the other day.

Charles' family was there too, though Bruce tried to avoid them. Not out of disrespect, but because, he didn't know what he would say, figuring it'd be extremely awkward if he did have to converse with one of them. He had only met Clara and Sam. Cassie, he never formally met. The wounds from Charles' death, still fresh, Bruce felt that just the sight of his own face might be a painful reminder.

Bruce sat alone in a far corner, at a round working table. With a single lantern burning low, he slumped back in a wooden chair, elbow on the table, holding his chin up with a fist. The packing memo laid atop, next to his flat cap. He stared out a single window at his own distorted reflection as rain droplets pelted the glass. His breaths, loud and steady, the events of the last 72 hours had taken a toll. At the moment, it felt as if it was the first time he was able to take it easy.

Picking up the blacked out packing memo for what seemed like the hundredth time, Bruce gave it yet another aggravating look. As much as he wanted to stop such a ridiculous pursuit and leave the country, he couldn't. He had already gone too far in.

Someone went through the trouble to camouflage all the important pieces of information; the item detail, the return address, anything that could be useful.

The only legible parts, sporadically arranged on the page, were the words, 'Memorandum of Packing,' situated at the very top, the date, 'January 5th, 1947,' just below the title, and the wharfs address, down toward the bottom. Everything else had a solid black bar through it.

Covering their tracks. They were sloppy though, leaving this behind, but not sloppy enough. As garbled as it was, it was the only item of the two he had that was workable.

The obscure, headache provoking memo, written out with a typewriter, made Bruce's mind clutter. Rubbing his eyes and forehead, he started to feel the stress of staring at the same lines of nothing over and over again.

For a change in scenery, Bruce flipped over the memo and then back again.

This is useless.

The lack of sleep, he couldn't process anything. Pausing, with closed eyes, a deep collective breath, and the shake of his head, a thought sprung. Opening his eyes, he flipped the memo over once again. Something clicked, staring hard at the backside of the typewritten paper.

The indentations.

Bruce shot up, taking the lantern with him. Carefully sidestepping around sleepers, holding his lantern high, Bruce headed straight for the wrap around front desk by the entrance of the library. He pushed his body through the swinging door to the opposite side, intended just for employees.

Setting his lantern down, Bruce rummaged through the supply cubbies on the back wall, making a mess of things. Pencils, loose leaf, notebooks, and pads flew to the floor. His commotion woke some of the others.

Bingo.

Finding what he needed, Bruce, without even thinking about cleaning, grabbed his lantern, a stray pencil from the floor, and hurried back to his isolated table. His newly acquired item; a sheet of tracing paper.

We used to do this in grade school, during field trips to the war memorials. If it works, I might be able to see what was written underneath these blacked out lines.

Bruce lined the paper up with the backside of the packing memo, and quickly began to trace over the typewriter's indentations. Diligently, Bruce shaded with the side of the lead pencil was working. The dark shaded pencil marks started to create white spaces where the letter keys of the typewriter had struck, making those indents.

Moving faster, anxious to finish and discover what that memo had to say, Bruce was unable to make himself stop, fighting through the discomfort of his wrist tightening and cramping.

Once he had completed his rubbing impression, he held it up to the lantern, blowing away any stray pencil shavings.

The indentations from the shading were very small. Bruce turned over the opaque paper, so the letters and words could be read from left to right, the way they were intended.

Fast twitching, his eyes began deciphering. It took careful precision, double checking, and rereading until Bruce was convinced of the letters and the numbers that were there.

He smiled at his handiwork and intellectual thinking.

Guess that field trip in 2nd grade to Gettysburg wasn't such a waste of time after all.

Bruce read out the full, decrypted memo copy to himself.

Memorandum of Packing.

January 5th, 1947. Waterfront Shipping & Holdings Co.

Please advise. Recommend large transport vehicle to carry items of undisclosed material, considered extremely hazardous. Handle with high caution.

Addressed for pickup, Langstrom Laboratories. Riverside Square, Paris, France.

Addressed to Old Town Fishermans Wharf, Warehouse 23, Mariette, France.

Ready for shipment. To be received for scientific research and development, and stored in temperature controlled environment, below 32 degrees Fahrenheit.

Shipment to be made by freight.

Approved. Please Advise. Approved.

Shipped, January 5th, 1947.

With a wrinkle in his brow, Bruce pondered, pulling at the tiny facial hairs on his chin. Vague, at best, the memo left him more confused and with even more questions. Bruce shook his head, along with his mind.

Charles? Seriously? What'd you get yourself into?

Contemplating, Bruce searched his mind for an explanation. An explanation as to what exactly Charles interest in the warehouse and its contents was. Still, he had very little to go off, but the clue he had unraveled, it was big; a place of origin.

Langstrom Laboratories...Paris.

At a crossroads, glancing once again at the window into the dark at his own reflection staring back at him, he asked; pursue or ignore.

A knock upon one of the bookshelves behind Bruce caused him to stir a bit, putting the memo and his copy to the side.

He rotated.

"Hi." The low, soft voice of Charles' daughter, Cassie, greeted him. Steadily, she approached, waiting for Bruce to either accept or push back. He did neither, so Cassie took it as an invitation to join him. "I thought you'd be gone by now."

"I had something to take care of first." Bruce spoke low to match Cassie's solemn tone.

"So, you will be leaving?"

"Eventually, yes."

There was that disappointment again.

"I'm Cassie." She stammered a bit before continuing the formal introduction. "Charles' daughter."

"I know." He rationalized his next response. "I'm Frank." Hesitating just as she did.

"I know."

Bruce was right. It was awkward, offering no follow up reply, because he didn't have one.

"How are you feeling?" Cassie asked.

Me?

Bruce thought to himself, confused, which Cassie picked up on.

"You were in the hospital."

"How do you know that?"

Cassie frowned. "My father carried you there."

Bruce sunk, head down. He should've known. And that guilt returned.

"I have to ask you." Immediately, Bruce tensed at Cassie question. "What was my father up to? He seemed, very caught up the last couple of weeks."

Bruce didn't quite know what she meant, or how to properly respond. "I..I don't know."

"Those jobs you did. What were they for?"

That's what I'm trying to figure out.

"I really don't know, Cassie." Bruce wasn't sure if he was lying or not. "I wish I could give you more than that. But, I'm sure whatever he was up to, he was doing it to protect you and your family."

Cassie nodded, prepared to leave.

"Hey." Bruce stopped her, standing up as she turned. He began to speak, choking up for a moment. "I'm sorry."

Chapter 14: Fish Out of Water

15th Arrondissement. Paris, France. February 1st, 1947. 2:51pm.

The next day, against my better judgement, I collected myself and headed north, following the breadcrumbs left behind by Charles and that memo. Using the earnings I recently made, I secured a train ride into the city of Paris with one objective; finding Langstrom Laboratories. Something fishy was going on, and I needed to know the truth about that shipment. Whatever that was. I think Charles was on to something, something big, even if he didn't realize it. And I refused to believe that he died for nothing.

With a renewed sense of determination, Bruce was more than anxious to locate the strange shipments origin point hidden within that memo he was keenly able to decipher. The location of its inception was kept a mystery for a reason, and Bruce was intent on finding out why.

Paris; it wasn't quite the same city following the conclusion of Germanys occupation in 1944, three years ago. Since, much of the city's architecture had been left in dire decrepitude. France was one the first European countries to fall under Hitlers regime, and one of many that took the brunt of the war. Numerous battles took place on the grounds of the country, D-Day in particular, on the beaches of Normandy, effectively ruined the countryside. Destruction, devastation, bombings, France endured it. The scope of its demise spread not only to its land, but all the way up to the government as well. A sad time for the country, who, since 1945, had been trying to rebuild from scratch; its infrastructure, its economy, its society, and everything in between. Transportation became limited, inflation skyrocketed, and food was rationed. France was part of the United States Marshall Plan; a plan devised solely to give cash to Western European countries toward the goal of rebuilding them. The plan was also an effort to gain allies, as a way to ward off the spread of a new threat; communism.

Aboard a trolleybus, accompanied by blue collar type citizens, Bruce sat quietly along for the ride, crossing over the Siene River, by way of the beautiful Pont Mirabeau Bridge, into the 15th District of Paris. He could see the Eiffel Tower in the neighboring district peaking through the sky, off in the distance. Just about the only monument left still standing.

With bags under his eyes and a redness in his pupils, Bruce could hardly appreciate some of the beauty that still was Paris.

I hadn't slept in days and it showed. All my body was running on at this point was fumes. It took so much energy just to keep my eyelids from closing every time a shadow crossed my sight.

His head, unable to stay afloat, fell involuntarily into his neck numerous times along the ride. Other passengers could've easily mistaken him for a junkie. Even his own body was subconsciously telling his mind to shut down. He fought the temptation, blinking his eyes and shaking his head in a effort to fuel some sort of reserve energy.

Car horns blared, while the chaos of cluttered banter and the ringing of several trolleybuses on opposing tracks surrounded Bruce's entrance into the rural section of the city.

The 15th Arrondissement; one of the more commercial and less populous neighborhoods, and one of many that were in the crux of being built up since the end of the war. Much of the area was a hodgepodge of renovation and finished storefronts. Construction zones of scaffolding equipment and masonry workers could be seen on every corner. The scenic tour was filled with busy and vacant cafe tables, shops, art galleries, and bodegas, the majority, still in shambles. Home owners patted dust off carpets from the balconies above while local merchant vendors displayed their produce to passing customers.

The roads were unfinished, rundown, dirty, and in need of a fresh coat of cement. Cracks and pot holes in the pavement made the trek bumpy and uneasy, keeping Bruce from falling asleep. Every street corner that passed, laid with bundles of newspapers and newsboys shouting to sell them. Newspapers nearly everyone aboard the trolleybus were already reading. And though some of the publications differed, all were plastered with the same cover page; images and a caption surmising the incident in Mariette. Headline news for the small city, and the Soviet Union was being eyed as public enemy number one. It had been a full week since it happened, and an explanation for the incident had still yet to be determined.

Shadowed objects glided over Bruce's dreary, emotionless face on an overcast Paris afternoon as minutes flew by.

"Dernier arrêt!" The trolleybus driver called out, pulling the string overhead that rang the attached bells, causing Bruce to startle.

One by one, everyone around began folding their newspapers and stood.

Bruce followed suite, not quite certain where he was, but he assumed it was the last stop, and where he needed to be. According to the address on the memo, the laboratory should only be a short walk from the final stop.

The trolleybus pulled over to the side of a center roundabout. Smushed, front to back, Bruce, along with everyone else, filled the aisle, awaiting their turn to exit.

Outside, a light drizzle started to form as Bruce stepped off and onto the pavement, the humidity, palpable again. The young Gothamite was greeted by an atmosphere not so different from his former home; debris covered streets, shoddy lampposts, old store fronts, and car fumes. The architecture, however, was slightly better. Still, not the Paris he was expecting. Bruce had only seen Paris up on the silver screen, in a Clark Gable and Joan Crawford film, once or twice. Anything else he knew was through stories, that marveled at the beauty of the city. His parents had been, before he was born, and often times referenced a trip they took on the French Rivera. Smack dab in the middle of that run down street was hardly that, and barely seemed like the type of place a laboratory would be located.

Like a fish out of water, Bruce didn't have the slightest clue in which direction to turn first. Gotham was a big city, but Paris downright dwarfed the New Jersey metropolis. Spending time in the heart of Gotham City wasn't something Bruce was accustomed to doing very often, and never on his own. He wasn't exactly a city boy. When he did venture into the urban sprawl, he was always accompanied by his parents or Alfred, with them by his side, it never seemed that daunting.

Bruce studied a detailed map of Paris beforehand, asking around as best he could to get an idea of Riverside Square's location. He didn't get a ton of assistance, many of the citizens didn't take too kindly to the fact that he didn't speak the language. He was generally where he needed to be, so he had no other choice, but to start walking and figure it out.

With the rubbing he made in one hand, and a folded up map that had some loose directions drawn out in red pen on it in the other, Bruce walked along the street closest to the river, careful to read every street sign that past, on the lookout for anything that might correspond to the map.

"Supplémentaire! Supplémentaire! Lire tout de qui le concerne!" (Extra! Extra! Read all about it!) A newspaper boy shouted, trying to sell off his remaining bundles to the locals.

He passed the next corner where a local barbershop and shoeshine were housed. Two poor boys outside, polished the shoes of business men reading the paper.

Down two more blocks, something became familiar. He checked the map, making sure.

I think I need to turn down this avenue.

A cause for concern, the avenue had been roped off by a thin piece of police tape. Looking in, there wasn't much down the short boulevard of ripped up roading and deserted brick buildings on either side. Every window had been broken, and the foundation, charred, a terrible fire must have hit it. And judging by the singed state of the rest of the avenue, the fire most likely spread through its entirety, shutting down everything. Clearly an area that had not been touched since the war, hence why it had been roped off.

The flimsy piece of yellow tape didn't stop the roguish behavior of Bruce Wayne, who got a small thrill each time he did something he wasn't supposed to do as he slipped himself under.

The short walk, less than scenic, reached an end at a pier, overlooking the Siene and the other side of the city, a much prettier view.

To Bruce's left, one structure.

That must be it.

A riverside location, as its address indicated, situated on a squared off peninsula, jutting out over the Siene; an oblong shaped building, solely occupying a ten thousand square foot space, separated from the rest of the city. Rounded domes were the focal points atop the flat rooftop, connected to pipes, extending down along the sides of the brick building. Their purpose and use, Bruce could only speculate. A staircase just off to the side of the building, led from the ground all the way up to roof, while a connecting narrow walkway, trailed off and over the river. And like the other buildings along the avenue, every window had been boarded up from a recent fire.

Hmm. For a business that had just placed a shipment order last month, it didn't look like it was in any type of shape to produce anything worth being delivered.

Bruce approached the laboratory from the streets, down a steady decline in the pier, toward the grounds of the lab, where grass and weeds had grown up through the pavement. Its neglect, evident. No handles or knobs present on the front double door entrance, just a pair of two by fours nailed into it. That didn't hinder Bruce either, giving a childlike smirk. Stiffening his shoulder, it only took one sure thrust of his powerful arm to break it down.

The air, stale and stuffy, oxygen hadn't been present in a while. Scientists, researchers, if there were any, hadn't stepped foot inside in that place in a long while.

Bruce tried a light switch near the entrance door, it did nothing to the high hats above.

Hmm. No electricity either.

Bruce stood at the top of a stairwell, overlooking the lower floor. At the center, a silo shaped object that went through the ground below, and up through the roof above. The silo's metal door had been left ajar. Surrounding it, encompassing the rest of the room, empty lab tables, and tall operating computers, which lined the back walls. Sheets of facsimile paper were scattered about, while some still dangled from the computers they were being printed from.

Another hallway extended to the right of the ground floor, almost closed off by a pair of doors, if it weren't for the one that laid on the ground, broken from the hinges. The other, still attached, hung by a thread, ready to collapse.

The pat of a heavier rain coating pelted the dirty, atrium glass windows above. Through it, darker clouds, a storm was brewing.

Observing and taking in all he could before moving on, Bruce proceeded down the z-shaped staircase. Clear floor room was sparse, not much unoccupied by stray papers, knocked over tables, or chairs.

The center silo was the most interesting aspect of the lab, as well as the most bizarre. Bruce sized it up with trepidation. Its purpose, unclear. He opened the door slightly, and peaked only his head in at the hollowness that echoed.

Hmm.

Appetite satisfied, he finished up, heading for the next area of the laboratory; whatever lied beyond that hall.

Conscientiously, Bruce took his time entering. A short five steps and he was in the next room, which appeared to be a workstation office, devoted for one individual. Much like the main room, papers were plastered throughout; the floor, a desk, shelves, everywhere. A pull down projection screen, rips in the canvas, hung over the desk, topped with an empty reel to reel recorder, a full ash tray of cigarette residue, some pens, and empty beakers. A swivel chair laid on its side, keeled over, lying next to a projector and some slides. Two medical fridges had been left opened, trays about the floor, while a centrifuge was left broken in pieces.

The more time Bruce spent in that lab, the weirder each feature of it became.

Whatever happened here, took place in a hurry. Maybe forcibly. The whole place looks like its been ransacked and turned upside down, like someone was looking for something. Wonder if they found it.

Bruce squatted, inspecting some of the slides and stray papers, that meant little to nothing to him, most the papers, just gibberish, going on about microbiology. Way over his head. So far, there was nothing at the lab that could be linked to Mariette and the foreign chemical sample he retrieved. He hit a dead end. And a frustrating one. He didn't want to believe it, but he knew, he was forcing something to be there that wasn't. For all he knew, those that left the lab in such a mess were doing the same as him. Still, the strangeness of it all was undeniable. Someone was obviously trying to hide the location of the lab, so it would only seem fitting that someone would be doing the same at the lab itself. At least that was Bruce's theory.

Mulling it over, considering other plausible scenarios, Bruce racked his brain for an explanation.

Lost in deep thought, the main entrance to the lab squeaked open, making Bruce's heart skip a beat.

Shit.

Foot steps, casual, strolled inside.

Why am I constantly being interrupted?

Staying low, Bruce exited the small office into the hall, quiet as a church mouse. Using the one door left hanging for cover, Bruce peered with a tapered view, out through the separation created by the door and its frame. He eyeballed a man in a beige trench coat and black fedora, descending down the same set of stairs he did just a moment ago. And just as Bruce, the new presence scoped out the scenery. Stoic, the dire state of the lab didn't seem to be a surprise.

Methodically, the man in beige approached, slowly grazing his hand over the center silo, doing so with a gold pinky ring that clinked as its surface impacted the rigid texture of the cylinder shaped obelisk. He observed the large, obscure piece of metal for a few moments before reaching inside his jacket pocket, removing a cigarette from a silver case. There was even something systematic in the way he lit his cigarette, routine, like he had done it a thousand times before. His face, gravely from what looked like years of chain smoking, sucked in and took a deep inhale of nicotine. Licking his lips, he gave a satisfactory stroll around the rest of the main room almost in validation, taking a drag each time he stopped. After a few more moments of admiration, the man dropped his cigarette, squashing it with a wing tipped shoe. Blowing out his last puff of smoke, he immediately lit up another one, sauntering for the hall in the direction of the workstation and Bruce.

Forced to tuck himself smaller, Bruce pinned his back to the wall, watching the gravely faced mug walk right past without noticing him. He waited until the mug disappeared from sight within the workstation before carefully removing himself from behind the door frame, back into the main room.

Bruce found shelter inside the silo, securing himself behind the latched door. A safe spot to hide out.

Sticky, hot and uncomfortable, the tiny dome shaped enclosure smothered Bruce like a blanket, making him long for the coldness of that warehouse in Mariette. He hoped he wouldn't be cramped up inside for too long, wishing that chain smoking bastard would find what he needed and just take off.

Waiting it out, back against the inside wall, Bruce felt the faintest trickle hit his right shoulder. He swatted it away from his coat. The texture of it between his fingers lingered, a thicker consistency than that of water. He looked up at a black hole, the tiniest bit of light shining through a glass window, several feet above. Softly, more droplets fell, plopping at his feet.

What the hell.

Intrigued, Bruce peeked outside quickly. The ugly smoker was still occupied in the other room. A gentle click of his flashlight brightened the silo, and all over the walls, a greenish film laid, crusty and thick.

I knew it.

Footsteps again, yielded Bruce's discovery, forcing him to seal off his light.

Coming to the end of yet another cigarette, the gravely faced intruder discarded the new butt and traveled back up towards the exit.

Bruce, alone once more, and again, was left pondering. Everything was amiss; the situation, the ominous man who just wandered into the discarded laboratory, leaving just as quickly. Something smelled funny about the whole thing. Bruce couldn't ignore his gut feeling, a feeling that the mug knew exactly what was going on and was up to no good. Bruce could always tell the bad guys from the good, another attribute acquired from having seen so many of the same faces in and around Gotham. And that man, he was one of the bad guys.

With relief, he escaped from cover.

He couldn't have gotten far. Maybe I can get a beat on him.

Chapter 15: The Squeeze

3:17pm.

The rain outside had gotten heavier once Bruce stepped back onto the streets. The trail of smoke, easy to spot, as was the pale, beige colored coat along the empty avenue. Bruce kept a healthy distance, striding with a heedfully brisk walk, watching his mark turn the corner toward the busier streets and droves of people, many, similarly dressed. Easier to stay undetected, and harder to pursue.

Down three blocks, tightly and heavily occupied with people and noise, Bruce found it difficult to track his man. It wasn't until entering a market street did his vantage open, making his pursuit less strenuous. He still battled a flood of rain, and people moving to and away from him, but easily separable from the mug.

The impending storm, making a path, picked up with wind, causing street vendors to close up fruit and veggie stands.

Struggling to keep a beat and his target in the crosshairs, Bruce weaved through pedestrians in haste, physically moving some aside as his head bobbed over and around people.

Sure as hell ain't making this easy.

The day grew darker, windier, as the clouds swelled up within a grey sky.

Bruce kept on the man's tail for the next several blocks into the 7th arrondissement of Paris, one of the more touristy areas, filled with short, narrow side streets and avenues. The Eiffel Tower, right in the backdrop now, its apex hovered over the pre-war constructs and store front awnings.

Quickly, the rain came, escalating fast into a total downpour. Its torrential nature caused the gravely faced mug to pick up the pace, turning onto a main street sidewalk. Another mile up, shelter was acquired inside a luxury hotel. Shielding himself from the onslaught of precipitation, Bruce hopped to, following inside, through a set of gold revolving doors.

Bruce's sloppy boots made wet imprints into the diamond patterned red carpet of the hotel's foyer entrance as he stood there dripping from head to toe. The concierge stared from behind a rectangular mahogany desk, snarling. Bruce cleared his throat, a subtle apology, shuffling his boots uselessly of the wetness, only making the carpet worse.

Across from the angry concierge, Bruce's prey had nestled himself inside the third of six wooden phone booths. Shutting the clear sliding door, looking for privacy, the mug picked up the receiver, circling his fingers on the dial.

In an attempt to be inconspicuous, Bruce found a seat on a nearby maroon leather armchair in the lobby. Grabbing a newspaper that resided on a night stand, he opened it up to his face, pretending to read. Crinkling the rough pages of the black and white publication, Bruce peered with one eye from under his wet flat cap at a silent conversation taking place within the sealed booth door.

Through the glass, a frown ran across the crater filled face of the mug.

What's got him hot and bothered?

Reading lips wasn't a talent of Bruce's, but he tried anyways. Only problem, there wasn't much to be read, most of the brief conversation consisted of listening to whomever was on the receiving end.

Bruce covered his face back into the paper to continue his fake reading when his mark replaced the receiver back on its hook and prepared to exit. Upon exiting, he strolled over to the concierge desk, flapping away some rain water from his trench coat, asking for assistance. Peering from the corner of his eye, Bruce watched. Whatever was needed, was asked for in French, and incomprehensible. Bruce wished he had paid more attention in his junior high French classes. The only piece of the conversation that could be interpreted; the mug's tone, which came off as inquisitive.

Raising a finger, the concierge politely asked for a minute while he grabbed the guestbook. He flipped through a series of pages while the mug waited. Doing so, the mug spotted Bruce looking at him. Nerves on alert, Bruce was forced to turn away as calmly as possible and focus back on his newspaper.

Grabbing the attention of the mug, the concierge pointed to a specific point on a page of the guestbook, then pointed around the corner of the hallway, toward the elevators, uttering a few words.

Acknowledging the info and the directions, the mug took his leave for the hall.

Folding the newspaper he read nothing of, Bruce tucked it under his arms before disposing of it in a waste basket. He waited a moment, as not to seem too obvious, catching another sneer from the concierge as he passed.

Gone from sight, down the long corridor with equally as fancy carpeting and brighter lighting, Bruce's target entered one of two old fashioned iron pull gate elevators, headed to the upper floors.

Paying attention to the golden crusted floor indicator above, Bruce watched the ornately designed hand move from left to right until it made a stop on a highlighted number 4. Calling for the second elevator, already in the lobby, Bruce waited in patience. Settling in once the iron gates separated, Bruce hastily pushed the round number 4 button, closing him in. Steadily, he ascended.

These old iron pull gate elevators are elegant, and a conversation piece for sure, but they're slow as hell, compared to the newer ones with Mr. Otis's name on them.

The plodding climb up, torturously slow, made Bruce terribly impatient, tapping his fingers on the side wall.

C'mon. C'mon.

Before the elevator could reach the 3rd floor, three ear ringing gunshots jolted off on the floor above. Bruce's heart nearly pounded straight out of his chest. He clung to the back wall, clutching the railing, making himself small. Breathing unsteady, his whole body firmed as the screams of terrified patrons reverberated through the halls.

Bruce smashed the 4 button repeatedly with a stiff fist, trying to get up to the chaos as fast as he could.

When the elevator finally arrived, Bruce squeezed himself through the iron grates before they could open the whole way through. Guests yelled, hiding behind door frames, staring at a far corner room. Afraid, Bruce hurried over. The door had been broken clean off. Inside, two men in dark suits laid dead, staining the carpets in a pool of blood, pistols in hands. Neither of them, the gravely faced mug.

Rainfall and a hard breeze swept inside from a single opened window. A creaking sounded through. Bruce flew past the bodies, looking out, down over the fire escape. Lighting struck, followed closely by a roaring thunder. There he was, sprinting hard down the fire escape toward the streets. Without even thinking, Bruce hopped out and pursued.

Scaling down the slippery, squeaky grates of the fire escape, Bruce and the man in beige contorted their bodies, holding on to the rain soaked rails, trying to make it down quicker. The two were fully aware of one another now.

Bruce's man made it to the streets first before him, clinching on to his left shoulder.

Down two more flights, Bruce hit the pavement, right beside a dumpster, charging hard into the streets. Hauling it, rain pelted his body, dodging two lanes of traffic. Horns beeped, cars slid, desperate to avoid both him and his prey.

Past the gauntlet of automobiles, completely soaked, Bruce hit the sidewalk of the next block like a mad man, running behind. Pedestrians moved aside, frightened, just outside a theatre, underneath a flashing marquee.

Still clutching his shoulder, blood dripped down the arm of the mug, discoloring the bright colored sleeve of his coat as he looked back at Bruce, the gap between them shortening. He took the next left, down a narrow alleyway in an attempt to lose Bruce. Hot on his tail, Bruce took the sharp left, sliding and skidding. Avoiding trash and debris, Bruce ran through clouds of sewer steam, his man, climbing over a steel fence in anguish to the other side, heading for another road.

The younger, more limber, uninjured Bruce leapt and hopped the fence with ease and determination. He was close.

Just as the the mug hit the streets of the next block, a black sedan with white rimmed tires came barreling into him. His bones cracked on impact, throwing him halfway up the road.

Bruce froze.

The black sedan fishtailed erratically, tires screeched and spinning, creating smoke as it sped away from the scene, faster than it came in.

Bruce ran to the body that lied awkwardly disfigured, motionless, and sopping wet in the middle of the road. Up ahead, the back lights of the sedan peddled away in the pouring rain.

Unsure, Bruce knelt down and flipped the mug over, revealing a freshly mangled corpse, eyes, still open. It made him cringe. Another dead body.

"Damn it!" Bruce shouted.

Standing idle, Bruce contemplated his next move. He felt ill for what he was about to do. Quickly, he rifled through the dead man's coat and pants pockets. All were empty, not even a wallet, only thing he still had; his silver cigarette case. Anything else he may have had on him, he must've ditched somewhere between the hotel and his death bed. There was, however, something clenched within the firm grip of his pulled apart the fingers, already starting to stiffen as a collection of police sirens pulsated in the distance.

A matchbook. There's an address and something written on the inside.

The sirens were coming fast, the flat tops were closing in. Bruce pocketed the book of matches before he could read any of it.

I need to get out of here before the cops put the squeeze on me too.

Chapter 16: All That Jazz

8th Arrondissement. Paris, France. February 1st, 1947. 7:04pm.

A rainy chase, one stick up,and three murders were the extent of my first couple of hours in Paris, so far. What could possibly be next?

I managed to flee the scene of the crime before the fuzz arrived. And not a moment too soon. If they spotted me, they might have fingered me for the job.

Best I can come up with is that the mug I chased through the streets was meeting the other two bricks that are now lying face down in that hotel room. Smokey (John Doe) must've got the jump on the them before they could. Muscle job gone wrong? Maybe? Or someone dropped a dime on the other. Neither couldn't have been plugged for nothing.

The matchbook I snagged seems to come from some joint up town; 306 Devanture Street. Just beyond Paris's red light district. Not exactly in the best part of the city. There's an address and the words, 'Bar. 8pm' scribbled on the inside flap. Could be a meet up some kind for John Doe, whose probably half way to the coroners by now.

8pm. That's about an hour from now. It's a long shot, but worth checking out.

Bruce's scraped up young fingers traced every inch of the white matchbook from the inside of a street corner telephone booth. The relentless rain had yet to ease up, turning the bedraggled day into a slovenly night.

It'd be a hell of a hike to get all the way up town on foot, and at this hour, I'll never make it on time. While the notion of strolling through the rain up thirty plus blocks sounded appealing, I just called for a taxi.

Pushing himself out of the glass barricade and back into the showers, Bruce's cab arrived in the Paris night.

The crummy leather seats squeaked as Bruce slid his slick body into the back of the cab. The windshield wipers worked on over time to clear the obscured view. The cabby gave Bruce a nod in the rear view mirror. With no words, Bruce simply showed him the matchbooks address.

Giving him an over the shoulder look, the cabby sized Bruce up with a crooked smile through his yellow teeth. Bruce returned the patronizing gaze with a crooked look of his own before the cabby started the meter.

That kinda joint, huh?

To himself, Bruce sat, pulling out the shiny, silver cigarette case that belonged to John Doe. The only item acquired. Flipping it over and around, nothing in particular stood out about it. It had an etched, flowery design, and that was about it. He had seen hundreds of cases like these. Whenever his folks invited company over to the manor, all the men, when they'd retire to the solarium following dinner, would pull one cigarette out after another, in much fancier cases than Smokey Joe's.

Dad was never much of a smoker. Though he did enjoy a nice pipe filled with flavored tobacco from time to time. Something he inherited from his days in the service. Just about the only vice he had. Mom always gave him a hard time for it. He'd often have to sneak away and hide when he needed an indulgence.

Bruce spent the rest of the sloshy cab ride silent, reminiscing, watching the beads of rain slide past the rear window, catching his reflection from moment to moment. He never really noticed it before, but he looked a like his dad.

Bright, flashy lights were a plenty upon entering into the heart of Paris's red light district. Disgusting might have been more of a compliment to describe the scene outside the streets of the shady section. Prostitutes, alcohol, and drugs were on just about every corner. Exasperated more so by the repellent weather conditions.

Just shy of 7:30pm, parked across the street, outside the matchbooks address, Bruce observed from the cab a rectangular shaped brick building. With bright, flickering neon lights and an illuminated martini glass, a sign read, 'Dîner Club Laurent.' The roped off entrance to the interior was clouted in cigarette smoke. Under a red awning, scantily clad women hung about dressed in fur coats and french berets, contributing to the toxic air, sucking on their slender tube holders that cradled the thinnest of cigarettes, while the men chuckled about in their fancy wide lapeled dinner jackets. A red carpet had been rolled out as if it were an award show. A touch of elegance combined with an abundance of ignorance and feculence in the center of a crumbling borough.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say we were back in Gotham. Places like this are usually a haven for thugs and gangsters. Looks like a real sleaze dive. Better keep one eye open.

He checked out his own appearance.

Not exactly formal wear. I doubt they'll mind.

Exiting, Bruce checked the time on a street lamp post, stalling, counting the seconds. With a deep breath, he shoved the rim of his cap a little further down his head, placed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his pea coat and crossed the street.

Angst filled the short walk from one sidewalk to the other. He knew he couldn't just walk right in.

Just as he got to the entrance, Bruce caught the eye of a very intoxicated, older, flapper girl. The floozy quickly clutched onto him.

"Oooooh! Hey suga!" Her breath reeked of champagne and nicotine. Bruce had to back his face away and suspend his breathing. "How bout I let you buy me a drink?" Without giving Bruce a choice in the matter, the floozy hooked her arm into Bruce's and led him into the club.

That was easy.

The stench was no better indoors once Bruce crossed the threshold. Obnoxious laughter, indistinct conversations paired with faint music in the background were the first to pierce his ears, passing through the onslaught of inebriated upper class Paris socialites. He quickly lost his escort, who found another of interest through the smoke.

He shook his head.

Dames.

Through an endless cloud of ash, he emerged into one hell of a happening good time. Over the railing of the club's upper floor; a sea of rounded tables, grouped close together. A disco ball hung over a dance floor, reflecting on everyone cutting it up, jumping and jiving. All the patrons were wining and dining, dressed to the nines, listening to the ambience of a ten piece orchestra at the front, entertaining with some light swing, the saxophone and horn section, stealing the show. It was as if the pages of The Great Gatsby and all that jazz had come to life. Two spiraling staircases on either side led into the dining area, with the bar down toward the right corner.

Bruce didn't fit in, clearly, but the funny thing-everyone was either too drunk or too dumb to care. He shook his head again. It always seemed that those with money were always the ones with the smaller brain cells. As Bruce suspected, there were plenty of fishy looking fellas hanging about. The fine tailored suits they wore couldn't camouflage their true identities. Something Gotham City was almost exclusively notorious for; wolves dressed in sheep's clothing. Their demeanor, they way they stood, obviously connected with the mob or Paris's underworld.

Opting for the right hand staircase, Bruce gripped the railing tight, taking the steel steps down, trying not to get knocked over by the lavish guests obliviously dancing about.

Standing tall gave Bruce the rough appearance of an adult. That, coupled with the five o'clock shadow on his face made him passable for at least eighteen. Old enough to get in, but old enough to pose as a man waiting for an introduction was one question only time would answer, and time was getting short.

Out of his element, Bruce glided into an empty wooden stool at the very corner of the bar, removing his flat cap. He swept his boyish, long scattered dark brown follicles across his forehead, making himself just a touch neater and more presentable. He stunk of wet, damp rain, but again, no one paid any mind. He could've wandered inside in his skivvies and doubt anyone would've thought different.

There were a few patrons at the bar, collecting cocktails for themselves and their dates, but none stayed long enough to warrant any sort of attention, except for the drunken stupor they all seemed to be in.

The barkeep strolled up, opposite Bruce, on the other side of the bar top. With a red vest and bow tie to match, the barkeep placed a cocktail napkin to Bruce.

"Ce qui va être abatteuse?"

Huh?

Shifting his face a bit, the barkeep motioned toward the shelves behind him, stacked with booze.

"Mmm." Bruce took a good hard look at the bottles lined up beautifully upon the back bar. He bit his lip. "Ginger ale." Bruce said with unsure conviction.

The barkeep laughed it off and delivered Bruce's request in a rocks glass with ice.

The urge to order a real drink gnawed at Bruce like a fly that couldn't be swatted away. He hadn't had a stiff drink since before Charles and Andorra. He was way overdue in his mind. But, he refrained, mustering up the will power. He'd need a clear head. His dad, a traditionalist when it came to his liquor, his preference was always a scotch neat or a bourbon manhattan. His mother, a creature of habit, usually stuck with champagne, occasionally opting for a sloe gin fizz.

Over the next half hour, Bruce took tiny sips of his less than enjoyable kiddie cocktail, watching the room very closely; the band, the dancers, the diners, the brutes hanging about, hunting for anyone suspicious, and someone who might be doing the same; on the lookout for someone. And for that someone to be Bruce.

Almost 8pm.

Thus far, the fancy had come and gone to the bar simply to drink their weight, with no one outstanding nor paying attention to Bruce's presence.

Another fifteen minutes went by without an inkling or a hint.

Confusion and misjudgment began to clutter Bruce's head. Thinking more on it, he realized he had no idea what to look out for if something were to occur at 8pm. A meeting? Someone waiting for John Doe, or vice versa? A pick up? A drop off? It could've been any number of scenarios.

Maybe the note on the matchbook was for a night that had already taken place? Maybe that gravely faced fella was having an affair, or a late night rendezvous with some dame from the club? Or maybe, maybe none of this is related at all to that lab and that shipment down south.

The barkeep rolled up again. Removing the rocks glass containing nothing more than watered down cubes, he replaced Bruce's ginger ale with a fresh one.

"From the lady across the bar, sir."

Bruce gave a look, the same floozy who was all over him at the entrance. She gave him a wink in a crowd of her own gaggle of snobs. He nodded, giving her a speechless thank you, raising his drink to her.

Milking his second ginger ale, Bruce sat impatiently by his lonesome in the corner of the slowly dwindling clientele. 8:30pm had come and gone and so had the idea of a potential 8pm meeting.

Disparaged, Bruce curled his lip, checking the hour one last time.

This was nothing, but a wild goose chase.

He'd had enough. Waiting around for nothing to happen was like watching paint dry. Bruce replaced his flat cap, stood up and threw 5 francs on the bar.

"Merci." That phrase, he remembered.

To avoid anymore unwanted attention and the swarm of drunks, Bruce exited the dinner club through the back door, into the rear parking lot.

The rain had finally let up, leaving a bitter chill and a puddled mess in the pot holes of the choppy lot. Cars were cramped close together while two valets bantered with one another over a smoke.

Jesus. Does everyone smoke out here?

Bruce pinched the collar of his pea coat, keeping his neck covered from the cold, placed his hands in the comfort of his warm pockets and carried on through the lot.

He admired the collection of exotic looking cars organized very neatly within. It reminded him of his father's garage at Wayne Manor. Despite being a wealthy, high class citizen of Gotham, Thomas Wayne was at heart, a gear head, unafraid to get his hands dirty when he worked on his cars. On weekends when Thomas couldn't be found, he was usually in the shop, rotating tires, doing tune ups, oil changes, etc. Fortunately for Bruce, a lot of those practical skills rubbed off on him. His father always had him assist and watch. Both of them would often come back indoors smelling of grease and oil.

As Bruce passed by the cars, feeling nostalgic, a running black Talbot Lago, that looked vaguely familiar in the back corner, awaiting its turn to be moved, caught his eye. One of its rear doors and its trunk had been left open. No one was standing by it. But, what stood out, the terribly smashed in silver front bumper and grill.

I wonder.

Checking to see if he was out of sight from the valets before investigating, Bruce moved closer for a better look, weaving around the tightly parked cars. On one knee he inspected the dented front end. Pieces of beige cloth were wedged into the seams of the frame, confirming his suspicion.

It's the same heap from earlier tonight.

Abhorrent laughter and uncontrollable coughing approached. Stifling, Bruce went low, slide down the right quarter panel of the beat up Talbot and hunched behind the opened rear trunk. The spare tire attached to the trunk added some extra cover while the bulkiness of the 1935 automobile helped Bruce stay hidden.

Two drugstore cowboys puffing smoke from their lungs stopped at the front of the Talbot.

"Hell of a night, huh?" One of them said, throwing a suitcase into the back seat.

"Yeah. Hell of a night." The other replied.

Out and away from vision, Bruce stayed perched below the trunk, keeping a close ear.

"So, what's the skinny on this new job coming up?"

Bruce peered from the back, through the rear windshield at the back profile of the two men, both of whom were at the front of the car now.

"No details yet. Everyone's been pretty hush hush about it." The second man blew some hot air into his hands. "The word around town though; big job, big payday."

"Good. Tired of these blokes throwin' me scraps. Doin' their dirty work."

"That's all about to change. After tonight, there shouldn't be any more interruptions. Smooth sailin' from here on out."

The second thug looked up in to the sky with a slightly disturbed gaze on his brow.

"What is it?" His compatriot asked.

"Nuthin. C'mon ace. Hurry up and finish that smoke. We should get goin if we wanna be on time."

Upon hearing those words, Bruce stealthily slithered himself into the blackness of the trunk, back as far as he could, away from plain sight.

Foot steps glided from the front of the car toward the back. In seconds, the space between the light and the dark closed off, sealing Bruce into the confines of the car.

Chapter 17: In Shadows

Unknown Location. Unknown Time.

I'm starting to have a bad feeling about this.

Clouded blackness surrounded Bruce Wayne. Erratic, unpredictable bumps in the road sent him rolling around the truck of the grueling ride had thus far felt like an eternity; unpleasant, hot, painful, and nerve racking. Bruce did his best to keep quiet and calm. He was going to have a ton of bruises on his body, whenever he got out.

The driver and the passenger chatted the whole time, which from the trunk sounded more like ambiguous vibrations. Horns and other vehicles speeding past permeated the hood of the trunk, indicating that they were traveling on an open road, maybe a highway.

There's no doubt in my mind that these fellas are the one's who ran down Smokey Joe in the middle of the street tonight. And from what I can gather, they're not acting alone. These two gotta be low level thugs, hired to lean on and bump off the occasional inconvenience. Someone else is calling the shots, and I'm hoping they'll lead me right to em.

Bruce shifted. He hadn't been so contorted since childhood, when he used to purposely cramp himself inside the linen closets at the manor, in a game of hide and seek with his old friend, Dawn. Much smaller then, he could stay there for hours. Dawn could never find him, and it was usually Alfred who could while tidying the bedrooms. Bouncing around that Talbot was hardly as fun as that used to be.

Bruce felt the gears shift underneath him, speed subsiding, a turn was being made.

The traverse, in an instant became aggressively bumpier. Bruce had to tighten his body and brace himself on the ceiling of the trunk to avoid being thrown everywhere and from making any noise. He prayed the hectic car ride would come to an end sooner rather than later. He'd be in dire need of an aspirin afterwards, an absolutely throbbing migraine would be in his near future.

He finally got his wish granted when the Talbot came to a complete stop ten minutes later. A sigh of relief came over him when the engine shut down. Confirmation that the treacherous haul he had endured was hopefully at an end.

Thank God. This better not be a pit stop for fuel.

Doors opening and closing followed. It was calm now.

"You Ready?" One of the thugs spoke. "Let's go."

Crackled footsteps traveled away from the car before there was nothing, but crickets.

With patience, Bruce waited another minute, just to be on the safe side. Fishing out his father's old pocket knife from his pants, Bruce felt around in the dark for the sharp pointed tip. Without his sense of sight, he used his fingers to locate the lock hinge of the trunk, trying to line up the the tip of the knife with the lock's square impression, not without pricking himself a few times in the process. He had performed this act many times before in his youth also. In the days following his parents murder, there weren't many places to hide and be alone. Sometimes the trunk of a car in the Wayne Manor garage sufficed. It was Bruce's way to close the world, literally.

With careful focus, Bruce was able to slip the sharp metal end into the impression. In one turn, the exterior lever released, opening the truck, freeing his confinement.

Stiff in his joints, bones cracking, Bruce slowly peeled himself out, feet hitting a pebbly, crunchy surface. His eyes took a second to adjust to vision again.

Under a lamppost, the Talbot was parked diagonally opposite and alongside a half dozen other, similar black sedans just outside a stone house. The faded grey residence sat on a lake, overlooking the night skyline of Paris, which from where Bruce was looked like a dot; a long way from the city. Somber, dark, and isolated, the lake house's foundation was chipped at every corner, green moss and vines grew up and from within the narrow stone separations. Not very large, it could've easily be missed buried in the woods that surrounded it. There wasn't another house around for miles. Haunting, it gave Bruce a chill.

Pretty shifty.

At the rear of the lake house, encompassed to the right by forest trees and to the left by the water, a narrow dirt driveway traveled down from the parking lot, that Bruce hoped led back to a main road of some sort. A sealed, arched wooden door served as the entrance from the lot. Gaslights in a line lit a deck over the lake on the left hand side, that extended across the water to a small dock and boat. And to the right, aside from the trees, was anyones guess.

Considering his options, Bruce opted for the darker side of the house, away from the water. No lights meant less exposure and the risk of being spotted.

Close to the walls, Bruce cautiously tip toed around the corner, climbing through some shrubbery until he reached a patio. Ambivalent conversation slowly started to fill the air, not very loud to make out, but enough to be a presence. A double glass door leading inside to a long dinning room area from the patio showcased roughly a dozen hoods in fedora's, some standing, some seated, all situated around a long table engaged in chit chat; a meeting in shadows.

Around the perimeter wall of the vacant patio, just barely into the woods, Bruce crouched behind a short stone wall, directly opposite.

Scattered cracks and holes within the glass door allowed the sneaky teenager to keep a distance and hear the men chatting about. Too many conversations at one time prevented him from hearing what any of them were actually discussing. A faint bulb overhead subtly provided light, enough to see each of the men's rugged, hard faces. Bruce studied each of them, trying to absorb each small detail. The two thugs riding in the Talbot had taken a stand off to the far left of the table.

Without warning, conversation suddenly came to a blistering halt. Somebody entered the room from the right hand side. Everyone locked their lips, giving their full attention to a figure whom Bruce could not see. Every pair of eyes within that dining room stared at the new occupant. Waiting, they all remained completely still.

Bruce tried to get a better look, unable to achieve one from his vantage point without making too much noise in an area that was now dead silent. He had no choice, but to hold his position. Any slight movement would surely alert the men to his location.

The mystery figure at the head of the table sat, while the others became statues. Even the tender squeak of the new attendants chair lining itself with table could be heard. His left arm gently draped straight across the table, becoming the only visible attribute about him Bruce could see. The forearm section of the figure's pristine suit, perfectly tailored, showed just the right amount of white from his french cuffed sleeve and the shiny cufflink holding it together.

Although Bruce didn't completely have eyes on the mysterious new figure, the way everyone else reacted to his mere presence, a sort of silent trepidation about them in their body language, it was enough to a instill fear in Bruce too. He had everyone's attention without having to say a word.

A fair haired man approached from behind the mystery man and stood by his right side, hands behind his back, ready to abide.

Deafening muteness, no one moved a muscle, not even Bruce.

..."Please. Don't let me interrupt you." The mysterious figure spoke with an undertone of ease that was both assured, while passively threatening.

With the commotion settled, Bruce could hear every word spoken.

Bravely, someone at the table cleared their throat and began. "We were just discussing plans to move forward with the operation."

There was nothingness again. Soon followed up with an extremely palpable sense of anxiety, a nervous tension in the air, like a parent about to discipline a child.

"Has our little problem been dealt with?" The figure asked.

Almost nervously, the man at the table answered …"Yes."

As if taking a few moments to ponder the validity of it, the mysterious figure waited before answering back. "Very well. Then we may proceed."

A few of the men standing took a seat. Whomever was at the head of the table, he was in charge, commanding a very powerful aura.

The right hand, fair haired man, one of the few who remained standing, took the lead. "Tonight's minor inconvenience has unfortunately set back our timeline. Changes have been made to accommodate."

Even tempered, everyone awaited further details.

"With our success in Mariette, the world is already looking to The Soviet Union for the party responsible. The impact has far exceeded our original expectations. Now is the opportune moment to move forward with the project, uninterrupted."

Bruce's most fell agape, as a collective, yet silent praise of accomplishment was shared indoors, but with the seriousness all around, it was hardly noticeable.

The fair haired man continued. "A handful of our product was destroyed during its transfer to the city. And will need to be replaced. Further preparations will now take place three days from tonight, at DuBois Shipping Yard. Half past 22:00 hours, and will commence as originally foreseen."

Another moment of quiet acknowledgment past.

The right hand man leaned into the unseen presence, as something was whispered to only him.

"Are there any objections?" The right hand man stood straight back up and asked of the rest of the room.

No one replied.

"Very well."

Upon that closing statement, everyone anxiously began to move.

"One minute." The entire room stopped, stone cold when the voice of the mystery man spoke again. Patiently, he waited with superiority until he felt he had everyones undivided attention once more. "That just leaves one issue outstanding. That needs to be taken care of."

In great anticipation, unsure and rather concerned, each man, with respect, held on to the head of the table.

From the left side of the dining room, a slim, wiry man, with a sunken face and sharp cheekbones crept from behind the two thugs who bumped off Smokey Joe. Uncomfortably close, the well built brute kept his position, just enough for the pair to become aware. Savagely, he stabbed the passenger in the side with a knife. The driver jumped away as another thug pulled and held a silenced pistol on him.

Observing, Bruce's body tightened from head to toe.

The driver was forced to watch helplessly as his companion struggled, and slowly, yet brutally bled out, suffering, before having his neck twisted to finish him off.

"We need to know who we can trust." The mystery man announced, unmoved . "The Black Hand has served its purpose." With those words, a split second passed, and one shot was put into the drivers skull.

Bruce looked away to keep himself from gasping out loud. When he turned back, the bodies of the Talbot riders were being dragged out into another room, the rest, were now allowed to exit. In a hurry, Bruce did the same, running back to the lot, nearly tripping over himself.

Out over the dock, the elusive company of half a dozen men filed into the boat. A man of shorter stature, and a stocky build, led the way while the rest created a protective barrier around him.

The creaking of the arched wooden doors opening stirred a panic inside Bruce. Flustered, unsure of where to go, he hopped back into the trunk of the Talbot, where he came from, locking himself back in.

Heart racing, adrenaline on overdrive, Bruce had to cover his mouth to muffle the sounds of his own heavy breathing. Foot stomps and scuffles everywhere crunched the pebbled lot. Sweat ran down his brow. Suddenly, someone started fiddling with the trunk. Bruce scooted his body back as far as he could.

The latch flipped. He held still, sensing his end in terrible anticipation. He knew, in seconds he was going to be dragged out of the boot. Bruce braced, tightly shutting his eyes as the trunk opened.

More shuffles in the gravel, and then, another body was thrown into the trunk right alongside Bruce; one of the murdered men, just seconds ago. Tight lipped, Bruce tried to remain still, witnessing the hands of someone shimming the corpse inside next to him. As he watched in silent fear, a small pin unknowingly detached itself from the lapel of the man outside, landing upright atop the corpse. It revealed an obscure looking symbol in discolored red, engraved into the center. Containing two horizontal cross bars that flowed into an infinity symbol below, it resembled that of a Christian cross, but very different, scarier, and much more sinister.

Bruce invisibly snatched the pin from the dead man's person just before the trunk closed in on him. The tightly confined space was now even tighter. More movement from the outside, Bruce felt the Talbot being messed with. Another door opened, the weight of the car shifted again, becoming heavier. The engine kicked over. A gear shifted from underneath as a door was shut. Bruce could feel the car begin a steady roll, its wheels, now the object crunching the gravely surface of the land. At first slowly, then quickly picking up momentum.

Unknowingly, Bruce was thrusted into the wall of the backseat, the dead body smushed up against him as the Talbot tipped on an incline. It picked up hard speed, rolling faster downward. Bruce couldn't get a hold of himself. A hard splash, Bruce was violently thrown around, hitting the sides, the top, and the underside.

All at once, the car settled, swaying ever so gently.

Oh no!

Bruce panicked, realizing where he was. The Talbot was in the lake. In the darkness, he kicked and pushed. With another in the trunk crowding him, he couldn't reach the latch of the trunk to free himself.

Sinking, water gradually began creeping in. Fidgeting, Bruce painfully fought, trying to fish his father's old pocket knife from his coat. Grunting, groaning, and straining, he squirmed as if in a straight jacket, forcing his hand into his pocket. He got it. Boots moistening, the trunk was fast becoming packed with lake water, he had to move.

Unhooking the sharp blade, Bruce was unable to reach the latch this time. With no other alternative, he jammed his father's knife into the wall dividing the trunk and the backseat of the car. Slicing and slicing around the top crease, cutting through the upholstery and the leather, he desperately tried to weaken the structure. More water poured in. Bruce cut and cut, boring out a section in the top. Polyester foam floated everywhere. Thrusting his large framed body into the created indents, Bruce pushed, and pushed some more, slowly creating a space between the trunk and the backseat. Grunting with all his might, pressing himself with sheer ferocity into the backseats, using the dead body as leverage to push off of, Bruce screamed, calling upon any strength left. With a snap, the backseats and its springs broke and cracked forward, creating a hole.

Squirming, pushing, and crawling, Bruce willed his body through the small recess he made. The backseat was starting to take on water as well now. The Talbot, completely submerged, it wouldn't be long before it touched the lake's bottom. The dead body of driver lied in the front, slumped over the center console, having been tossed around as well.

Moving quickly, Bruce rolled down one of the rear windows. Water funneled in faster than he could take a full breath. Entirely under water, a hold of his flat cap, he jammed his thick body trough the window. Staggering for air, bubbles escaped his mouth and nose. He fluttered, swimming with all the strength he could muster, up toward the top, kicking and swimming, faster, harder, faster, and harder.

Gasping, Bruce's face broke the surface of the lake. Coughing, hyperventilating, fresh oxygen was finally able to be breathed in again.

In the distance, the lights of that same boat motored away, toward the city's backdrop.

On his backside, Bruce took a minute to catch his breath, happy to be breathing, happy to be alive, before swimming back towards dry land.

Chapter 18: Piece By Piece

Paris Outskirts, February 2nd, 1947. 2:04am.

My initial hunch about there being a connection between Charles' wayward shipment and John Doe had now turned out to be true. And with a startling revelation, that those men at the lake house were the ones responsible for the incident in Mariette. And it was one truth I hardly expected to uncover. In a instant, everything I knew, or thought I knew, just got turned upside down.

I wondered, how could such a small group of men be capable of unleashing such an attack? And right under the noses of everyone? Where were they from? And what was their angle? Those were the questions I kept asking myself over and over the whole time back into Paris.

Soaked, Bruce managed to drag himself back into the city's limits, hot-wiring one of the black cars left behind from the lake house, a trick he learned from Alfred. Bruce made it back with just enough gasoline.

I put myself up in a cheap motel on the outskirts of town the first night I arrived, paying day to day as I went, it was nothing fancy, and certainty nothing to brag about it either. It was a place to stay low, and a place to grab a shower and some shut eye, which tonight, I didn't feel like I'd get.

At an ungodly hour, a weary eyed, sleep deprived Bruce Wayne stumbled into his sleazy motel room, at the far end of a rear parking lot; the very corner of the two story, long structure. Flipping the light switch at the entrance generated a crackling buzz before a single overhead fixture provided dim light. The electricity in the whole room was spotty. Anytime Bruce clicked on the desk lamp, the overhead light flickered, struggling to stay on.

Bruce's drenched coat and cap were the first to be removed and tossed to the bed. His sloshy boots and socks were next.

The cramped space consisted of a single, rusty twin sized bed, a shabby wooden desk opposite, worn and scratched, peeled wallpaper that was so ashy you could scrape the cigarette stains off with a razor. The dingy green carpet had burn spots all over, matching the cracked tile in the bathroom. The amenities were a site the young billionaire had grown accustomed to since departing Gotham. The cushy home life he used to experience everyday at Wayne Manor, a distant memory now.

Bruce locked the stiff door behind him, grabbed his back pack from under the bed, before closing the shade to a single window overlooking the vacant parking lot. The bed springs squeaked every time there was a shift in its weight, making sleep an adventure, if it was even on the docket.

I was beyond tired, but I couldn't shut my brain off. Not with all that had happened. There were hundreds of thoughts running through my head. I needed to separate all of it.

I now knew the substance contained in that vial belonged to those men at the lake house. But, whatever it was and wherever it came from, I still didn't know. What I did know, was that something else was going on, something a hell of lot bigger than what had already been revealed.

Bruce pulled the map of Paris from his bag, along with the unknown chemical vial from Mariette. Dragging the crackly desk away from the wall, he cleared a space, tearing away a flowered picture from a hook. Unfolding the map, spreading it out, Bruce stuck it to the thin wall paneling using some of the chewing gum from his pack.

Grabbing a pen and a note pad from the bedside nightstand, Bruce began to jot down everything he knew and had learned of. He needed to get it all down on paper before it escaped his mind.

Piece by piece, I started from the beginning; Mariette, the subway tunnel, the refinery, the bombing. Charles' note, the wharf, the substance and the memo, from there, into Paris, to the lab, John Doe, the club, up to just a few hours ago at the lake house, and every person, place, or thing in between. And now, the newest location, the setting of an event yet to take place; DuBois Shipping Yard, 10:30pm.

Each individual thought, location, or name was written down on a single sheet, torn from the pad and then pressed onto the map.

Moving around as if in a trance, Bruce stamped each note in its appropriate place on the map. With his pen, he circled the locations of each landmark, drawing lines to and from all of them, tracing the timeline of the names and events all the way from Mariette.

In a sweat, Bruce stepped back, like a man obsessed, taking a good look at what he had in front of him. His eyes fixated on every part, analyzing each one to make sure he didn't miss anything. And now, he was a step ahead, for the first time he wouldn't be chasing. In three days he'd be waiting at that shipping yard.

Staring for moments on end, then reaching into his pocket, Bruce pulled out the final clue. With two steps forward, he took that object and stuck it smack dap into the middle of the map, the focal point, the last piece of the puzzle. He took those same two steps back, and with easy, long breaths, he gazed deep into it; the pin of the mysterious cross and infinity symbol marking. A representation, that somehow, in some strange way, pieced everything together; a deeper connection, intertwining every single event and person.

What are you?

Chapter 19: The Hunter

DuBois Shipping Yard. West End, Paris. February 5th, 1947. 9:56pm.

The stench of fish and salt water perpetually filled the evening air. A single breath couldn't be taken without catching the filthy aroma.

The night was chilly, much colder than it had been in the days before. The temperature dipped considerably in to the twenties. Bruce, dry, and in a fresh pair of dark dungarees, a black turtle neck sweater, layered with his dry pea coat and flat cap, that still smelled of lake water, peered between the holes of a chain link fence, his coat collar wrapped all the way up along his neck, the lapels scratching his facial scruff.

I scoped the yard out everyday since learning of its location three days ago. I wanted to know this place inside and out, every corner, every angle, everything. Just in case I needed to make a getaway. If the incident at the lake house taught me anything, it was that I needed a game plan, and a route of escape, if need be.

My objective for tonight was simple; acquire hard evidence of the men from the lake house in the act. What I needed was to catch these guys red handed. Obtain photographic proof to go along with their exploits before I could go to the authorities and put them all in the clink for good.

The next phase in 'The Project', as they referred to it, doesn't go off for another half hour. I figured getting here early would give me enough time to get my wits about me.

The Project? Gotta wonder what the hell that even is.

There were a few decent spots about the place where I could get a good vantage point and stay out of sight. My best bet was to set up camp someplace high.

Bruce stood outside the rusty gated entrance of the shipping yard, about a mile up the road along the water. He had a clear view of several shipping boats docked within the yard, extending as far his eye could see. Draped over his neck; a pair of binoculars and a mercury II half frame 35mm camera. Purchasing both the other day, Bruce figured they'd come in handy, looking through the scopes of his new binoculars. Office buildings, block shops, assembly shops, and various other shops surrounded the edges of the yard. Heavy duty moving equipment was speckled all throughout in the form of forklifts on the ground, and steel gantry cranes that hung high above. Telephone poles and their connecting wires brought each of the buildings together, making the yard one entity. Many of the buildings were dark. Some had a few lights still on, a reminder to those burning the midnight oil.

He checked his watch.

Two minutes. In two minutes the yard will close for the night. The tallest crane on the west side of the yard is where I'll be heading. From there I'll be able to see, everything.

Patiently, Bruce hung back while the remaining stragglers exited from their stations and said their goodnights to one another just outside the main entrance. The last man behind closed the gates, sealing it with chains and an iron padlock before bidding farewell.

When the coast cleared, Bruce climbed up and over the chain link fence onto the other side. He had every step planned out, he knew exactly where he would go and what route to take. Tonight, he was going to be ahead of the game.

Although no one was around, Bruce glided carefully and quietly through the yard, between crates and machinery, just in case. His destination; the tallest of three bright yellow gantry cranes that stood towering above. All the cranes were of varying heights. The one Bruce had his sights on was roughly a thousand feet high, he guesstimated two nights before.

Bruce reached the crane, stopping to looked straight up at it for a moment. He never actually did climb it.

Jesus, that's high.

Ascending up the zigzag shaped, metal staircase to the side of the crane, Bruce wasted no time. He tried his best not to look down, but he couldn't help it. Breathing heavy, he underestimated just how daunting getting to the top was. Luckily, he had youth on his side. Going back down was going to be a hell of a lot easier than going up.

When Bruce finally made it to the top of the structure, he had to take a second to catch his breath. The air, much cooler at such great heights, his nose started to run. Breathing in some cool air, he headed toward the edge, past a small building that housed the mechanics to operate the hook crane beneath, intended to pick up heavy objects below.

Over the railing; the Siene River, the whole yard, and a full moon shining down could be seen over the horizon. It was perfect. He wouldn't miss a thing.

Bruce affixed his eyes into the two rounded scopes of his binoculars and gave a scan of the entire yard. All clear thus far.

He got comfortable, bundling himself within his coat, taking a seat on the crane platform. Like he had foreseen, little sleep was had over the past few nights. In reality, he hadn't had much sleep since before Mariette. The need to shut his eyes was much needed, even if just for a few minutes. Twenty minutes to spare before anything went down, he figured, why not.

Within five minutes, Bruce fell out, gently snoring. And within the next five, a subtle beam of light gently illuminated on to his face, disrupting his short lived nap. Squinting, Bruce rubbed his eyes and mouth, sniffling the moistness back into his nose. Out over the water, the source of that gentle light, gliding closer to the yard.

Bruce grabbed for his binoculars, widening his eye cavity, forcing himself to stay awake.

A cargo ship?

He looked away from the zoomed in view in exchange for the panoramic.

I doubt the yard is expecting a shipment this late in the evening. This must be it.

In the distance, the chains binding the front gate rustled.

Bruce turned, and with haste sprinted over to the other end of the crane, honing in. Two big rig trucks parked themselves just outside the main gate, while a crew of men in black fedora's and flat caps sliced open the padlock with a bolt cutter. In seconds the fence swung open, allowing the big rigs to pass right on through.

Shouting followed as the rigs were waved inside. The others hopped on the sides of the large automobiles. The loud diesel engines roared, freewheeling it into yard, pulling alongside the edge of the platforms edge, next to a vacant basin.

Again, Bruce raced back to the other side. The cargo ship inched closer, becoming taller and wider within the rounded scopes with each passing second.

Two fog horns blared out, signaling the big rigs, who returned with two honks of their own. They were woking together for sure. It was a waiting game now.

Closer into focus the ship came, allowing more of its features to be seen. An elongated container vessel, of which Bruce had seen several similar types along the Gotham Pier, most which had the words, Maroni Shipping plastered onto them. Tonight's cargo; steel freight containers of blue, orange, and red, which laid all across the top. Bruce tried to count all of them, his best guess-about 40 to 45 aboard. What was inside, up for speculation, but Bruce was certain, more of that peculiar substance, and a hell of a lot it.

More diesel burned into the atmosphere mixing with the fish and salt.

The container vessels' approach slowed, nearing its docking zone in order to line itself up properly with the hollowed out spot in the platform. The men awaiting by the big rigs waved, signaling the vessel, giving the driver loose directions all the way into the basin.

No need for the binoculars now, Bruce stood by, keeping a close watch.

Cautiously and with precision, the vessel situated itself perfectly into the basin, just under one of the gantry cranes. The men in black fastened the ship to the dock with thick roping, holding it in place. It was in.

"Alright! Let's go!" One of them shouted from below. Everyone began moving with purpose, knowing their role and just what to do.

Say cheese, you sons of bitches.

Bruce switched over to his 35mm camera. Shutting one eye, he used the other to look through the lens. Zooming in, he snapped dozens of photos, one after the other.

A flat bed steel plank extended down from the container vessel. The gantry crane above it switched on. Everyone aboard and below went to work unloading each container to the dock while Bruce photographed the whole operation. A smile practically came to his face. Everything was going just as he had hoped. He had them. He had them all. His plan was in perfection motion.

All at once, the loud, constant pump of a car horn circulated throughout the yard. It got everyones attention. Bruce, the men below, all looked toward the entrance of the yard, just as surprised. It was a third big rig, larger, and coming in hot, its headlights on high, bright and blinding.

Another truck?

Gunfire erupted from the new rig, mowing down everyone in its path both on the ground and atop the cargo ship. Taken off guard, many of the men were shot up instantly while others jumped frantically for cover.

Jesus Christ!

Caught by surprise, the men on the ground tried to scatter, pulling guns from their coats, returning fire. Those left atop the container vessel ran for safety and started to fire back with fully armed Thompson guns.

Bruce laid down on his belly, trying to capture the mess below, snapping even more photos.

The new truck's tires screeched, the body of it swerved, smacking into one of the other rigs, taking a few bystanders with it. Parking itself to the side of the vessel, it was relentlessly pelted with bullets. A gaggle of men in black fatigues returned fire from the back with hoards of heavier and more powerful machine guns. Others leapt off, knives in hand, slashing and stabbing those in their path.

Too much for those on the ground and aboard the cargo ship to suppress, they all quickly became pinned down, unable to ward off the surprise attack. The shipyard turned into a bloody war zone.

More chaos followed as grenades were thrown onto the ship. Explosions bombarded the steel transport. Men, along with remnants of the ship went soaring into the air. Bruce could feel the heat on his face, witnessing a full view of the destruction. Anyone left standing was gunned down and quickly shot up.

Gunfire seized, just as abruptly as it came on. Dozens of dead bodies laid across the dock and the ship.

Proceeding with caution, guns aimed, the new men in black exited from the safety and cover of their rig, scouring the rest of the yard, boarding the ship, looking for anyone who may have eluded them.

Who the hell are these guys, now?

Single gunshots went off, spaced out from one another, finishing the job, making sure no one was left alive.

Switching back, binoculars poised, Bruce needed a closer look.

The new men moved about, just as those they cut down did, prepared to continue the job.

A single individual exited from the passenger side of the new rig. Scrunching his eyes, Bruce zeroed in on him. He was young, very young. Maybe just a few years older than Bruce, if that. There was a kind of arrogance in the way he strutted out and around the truck, as if he owned the place. He played with the greasy ends of his dirty blonde hair that flared out near the base of his neck from under a watch cap. The appearance of a navy man, he sported a wide lapeled pea coat, much like Bruce's. All business, he spoke to the men, pointing, giving orders.

Bruce watched with overt curiosity. Whoever the new men were, the shipping job was now theirs, as was the steel containers and boxes their predecessors were about to unload.

Preparations underway, the crane above moved into place while forklifts drove over toward the ship. The original job had now turned from a simple pickup into a theft.

Bruce stayed focused on the younger man, who appeared to be spearheading the operation. Strangely enough, the young man wasn't paying as much attention to the operation at hand, taking place in front of him, as he was his surrounding area, looking everywhere else, but. As if expecting someone.

An abrupt, sinking sensation hit Bruce's stomach when he saw the young man peer in his direction. Quickly, he dropped the binoculars to his side.

He waited, thinking for a moment. Slightly wary. He shook his head.

There's no way he could see me from here.

Without using his scopes, Bruce watched the dot of the young man walk over to the driver side, asking something of another in his crew. Handing him that something, he took it.

Bruce looked through his zoomed in scopes again. And there was the young man, with his own pair of binoculars, looking right back at Bruce.

"Shit!" Bruce barked.

Well aware of Bruce's presence, the young man yelled out to the others, pointing directly at Bruce's location atop the gantry crane.

Dropping the binoculars and placing his camera inside his coat, Bruce picked up his feet and started to run across the top of the crane. In an instant, his well played plan had gone up in smoke. He had to get out of there.

The engines of all three rigs kicked on in the backdrop.

"Shit!" Bruce yelled again.

Bruce tried to get back to the other end, past the operating house and to the stairs. He started to descend down the long staircase, and before he knew it, the rigs had parked themselves right underneath him. Men were already exiting the trucks and beginning to ascend up the stairs to get at him. His whole person tightened, he was trapped.

"Shit! Shit!" Cursing himself the insane misfortune he was now in, Bruce went back up.

There was no where to go. He wriggled back and forth, looking for something, anything, a way out of the impending doom right at his feet.

A cold sweat hit Bruce's forehead. Teeth clenching, he racked his brain. An idea came to. He hauled it back toward the operating house. Machine gun fire erupted again with the shots now being fired at him. Running at full speed and hard, dodging stray bullets ringing off the rails, Bruce barreled down the door to the operating house with a stiff shoulder. Falling to the ground, within the dark confines, Bruce rose and moved with a panic stricken haste. Hitting a green switch, he activated the crane hook, next to a release lever which controlled the hooks descent. The pulleys, gears, and mechanisms began to shuffle and spin. Bruce grabbed a hold of the thick roping, supporting the metal hook, bringing it to him. It was heavy and difficult to maneuver around the cutout it was positioned over to easily pick objects up from the ground below.

He looked back through the door frame, behind him to the stairs. The men after him were just about to reach the apex of the crane.

Gunfire started again, hitting the operating house, causing him to startle. Without choice, he clutched on, wrapping himself around the hook, slapped down the release lever all the way and jumped through.

Holding on tight, Bruce plummeted fast, wobbling down from the one-thousand foot crane. Wind flapping in his ears, he braced, a rig right beneath him, coming up fast.

Body clenched, the hook smashed into the top of the rig, causing a loud bang, denting the rear trailer nearly in half. Bruce went flying off upon impact, rolled off the side of the truck, smacking into the pavement, letting out a painful grunt. He was back down on the ground, limping up with terrible pain while the men trying to reach him were now a thousand feet up.

Clamoring up to his feet, Bruce hobbled into the drivers side of the crushed transport, whose engine had been left running. Popping down on the clutch, Bruce tried like hell to shift into first gear. A grinding from the transmission prevented movement as the frantic teen roughly tried to get it going, Alfred's old driving lessons; escaping him.

Come on, you son of a bitch! Go! Go!

Finally, after several attempts, Bruce got the truck moving. Gas peddle to the floor, the hook loudly slid off. Swerving the rig erratically through the shipping yard, Bruce smashed into everything in his path; freight containers, stray equipment, even some of the nearby office buildings took the brunt of Bruce's terrible, nervous driving.

Skidding about with furious speed, the rig plowed down the caged fence near the exit, turbulently hitting the streets along the river. Bruce wanted to get out of there as fast as could, no matter what he took out in the process.

A look into the rear view mirror showed the area was clear. No one was behind, chasing him. He made it out.

And just when Bruce thought he could breath easy, he was violently broad sided by another rig.

"Damn it!" Caught off-guard, Bruce screamed.

Thrown off balance, the truck fishtailed as he attempted to regain control, jerking the wheel, trying like hell to straighten it, in the process almost toppling it right over. Looking out the driver side window, at the helm of the other truck was the young man who spotted Bruce on the crane.

With a frown of fury, Bruce turned hard left, delivering a blow of his own. The young man stifled, then countered with a hard right. Back and forth, they battled, smashing and side swiping into one another, trying to run the other off the thoroughfare. Bruce teetered on the edge of the road, riding along the water to his right while being pinned on the left by the other truck. One false move and he could be flipped right over, straight into the Siene.

Knocking over highway light poles, all the battering and ramming of steel on steel caused Bruce's driver door to snap off. The big rig bobbed, tires trampling over the driver side door. Sparks flew all around Bruce into the interior as he tried to avoid the chipping steel from hitting his face.

Bruce's futile attempts to steer himself out from the sandwich he was being pressed into was no use. His getaway vehicle was slowly being crushed into the curbside and the other truck. The compression caused the windshield to shatter. Hitting the breaks to halt the rig and the gas to speed it up became useless. He had no control, at the mercy of his new enemy now. The interior space increasingly compacted, tightening Bruce from within.

Grabbing the seat belt behind him in one hand, it was time to move. Bruce took a chance, leaping out of the windshield to the hood while holding onto the seatbelt. Planting his feet, he got sure footing, eying the other truck, lining it up, until he was sure. He counted to three. One. Two. Three. He went for it, jumping from one rig onto the hood of the other. And as he did, the battered truck he escaped from mounted the curb, grinding itself onto the cement barrier. In one fell swoop, the rig Bruce had been driving flipped up and over, straddling the barrier for a few moments before it went completely topside, landing hard into the river. The sudden impact and force coupled with the high speed caused the young man to lose control. Fingers clutched, Bruce clung to the hood for dear life, body swinging, the truck swerving forcibly into chaos. It was too much to recover from, the second rig tipped on an angle, wheels up, momentum taking over, flipping the truck over on its side. In a vicious fast paced slide, the rig forcefully came to a blistering halt, smacking into a stone divider, crushing its front end, nearly breaking the divider in two.

The rig singed with smoke. It was over.

On the other side of the bypass, scratched up, blood streaks on the side of his head, clothing ripped, Bruce laid, face down in the street, beat up, barely able to move. He wasn't completely conscious when the feeling of hands lifting him from the street took him.

When Bruce came to, he saw his feet being dragged across the pavement. Picking his head up, he was back at the shipping yard. Squirming, he tried to break free of his larger, stronger captures, whose grip tightened under his feeble arms.

"Don't try anything stupid, kid." One of them ordered.

Bruce was surrounded, in all directions by the men in black fatigues, guns by their waist. They brought him front and center to the side of the only truck remaining. His hi jinx had now made him a priority to be dealt with. Thrown to the ground, he could feel every pair of eyes glued to him.

From the rear of the rig,that young man exited, clothing just as torn, and face just as bruised with anger and frustration, the young man approached Bruce, who slowly rose to his feet.

Closely glanced over by the young man top to bottom, Bruce tried to hold eye contact.

"You have one chance." The young man exclaimed. He had an accent, French, Bruce believed as his flat cap was swatted from his head, scattering his piecey hair. "Who are you?"

Bruce kept quiet, showing resilience, but tightening from the pain in his body.

"What were you doing here?"

Bruce smirked. "Taking in the evening air."

The wise ass response earned the sarcastic Bruce Wayne a hard punch right in the gut.

"Ughhhhhhh." He fell to his knees, coughing repeatedly. Before he could get a chance to collect himself, he was quickly picked back up to his feet.

The young man gestured to his counterparts behind Bruce. "Search him."

Grabbed hold of again, they frisked Bruce, pulling everything from his person, searching it thoroughly.

"For an American you're not very bright. I'd rethink your next response real quickly." A threat from his enemy, one Bruce was meant to take very seriously.

His dented up camera was apprehended as one man took it apart, exposing the film, rendering every photo he took completely useless.

"Snapping photos?" The young Frenchman questioned with another query.

Bruce couldn't help himself. "Well you know, the moonlight is quite striking this time of night."

It was another scathing response that nearly earned Bruce another it could be delivered though, something of relevance was handed over to the Frenchman; the silver cigarette case belonging to the man who was struck by the Talbot a few nights ago.

The Frenchman opened the case, examining it. Bruce watched, confused as to why the case had any relevance whatsoever.

"Where did you get this?" The Frenchman asked.

No clever quip, Bruce held silent while the Frenchman waited.

"Hmm?"

Nothing. Bruce was back handed across the face. The Frenchman, aggravated with the lack of cooperation, waited again.

Still, nothing.

"Fine." Curling up his coat sleeve with a finger, the Frenchman checked his wristwatch. "We have a schedule to keep. And you're keeping us from that. So, it looks like you're coming with us." He approached Bruce, bringing his face as close as he could. "You. And everything you own, now belong to The Hunter."

Just as Bruce was about to let out a sigh of relief that he was going to be spared and that the altercation was over, a sharp thrust on the back of his head rapidly ended that thinking. He dropped to the ground, consciousness drifting. That last thing he saw were the feet of the Frenchman. And just like that; lights out.

Chapter 20: On the Road Again

Unknown Location. Unknown Time.

An uncontrollable spinning and dizziness filled Bruce's head like a black hole, deep within his own subconsciousness. In a terrible state of sleep paralysis, stuck inside a lucid dream he could not escape from, the mind knew he was dreaming, but the body did not, unable to fight. Immobilized, his head jarred, trying to take control of his lacking motor patterns.

Eyes twitching on the outside, his brain rattled on the inside, pleading with his body to wake up. Head shaking, legs spasming, desperate to try and pull him back into reality, every part of his body struggled to climb out of a stubborn dream that kept battling to keep him in.

Bruce's whole body involuntarily jolted, rocking with terrible violence. Jumping, he was finally able to open his eyes.

Hyperventilating in a cold sweat, Bruce awoke, sprawled out on his belly, consciously able to move, but very weak to do so. Extremely slowly, he picked his face and torso up from a cold, metal surface. Blackness all around him, a constant rumble swayed him back and forth.

Ughhhh!

Gently touching the back of his head, Bruce let out a cringing grimace. The blow to his head left a substantial bump on the base of his skull, tender to the touch.

Everything was spinning. I couldn't get to my feet without feeling like I was going to puke or topple over.

Not only was his equilibrium off, but wherever he was, or was in, it was moving.

Aiding himself up with a hand on his knee, Bruce stood. The wobbling in both his head and his surrounding area gave him nausea. He had to physically sustain himself with his hands to keep from retching.

I couldn't see a damn thing. Everything was pitch black. I wasn't alone though. I shared my new occupancy with something that kept shifting around and moving.

It took a few, very drawn out minutes for Bruce to get a hold of himself and his bearings. The rumbling around him was a familiar feeling.

On the road again. Great.

Bruce sighed.

Looks like they threw me in the back of one of the rigs.

He grimaced again, touching his forehead. A side splitting headache pulsating through to his nasal cavity.

How long have I been out?

Bruce had completely lost track of time. He didn't know if he had been in the back of that rig for a few minutes or a few days. All he knew was that he was still breathing, and that he was in deep shit, very deep shit. Stumbling upon something he was not supposed to, and now, about to pay the consequence.

He tried to think.

The Hunter?

Those were the last words spoken to him, just before he was rendered unconscious.

Was he the mystery man running the show at the lake house? Are these guys working for him?

Bruce shook his head, and then checked his person. Everything was gone. They took everything he had on him and confiscated it; his pocket knife, his camera, the cigarette case, it was all gone.

God damn it.

Bruce thought about his motel room, and everything he left behind back there; his father's envelope, most of all.

All this over a cigarette case?

While all sorts of ideas and theories went through his mind, the truck slowed, that instability, subsiding and becoming idle.

The parking brakes underneath engaged with a grind, bringing the rig to a full stop, while its loud diesel engine still ran. Doors opening and closing vibrated from the inside.

Something's happening.

Voices exchanged conversation, all too muted by the thick walls of the rig to be made out It certainly wasn't English.

The rig stayed idle for the next ten minutes before the engine completely shut off.

A fearful anticipation filled.

The sliding metal hinges from the rear doors shifted. Bruce backed away, scared of what could be waiting for him on the other side. Very faint lighting slivered its way through the thin separation of the double door's even smaller opening. A bit more shuffling about followed before they swung open from right to left, and from left to right. A shadow cast itself on the metal floor in the form of a person.

The face of the young Frenchman was the first to be seen. A snide, arrogant smile across his mouth. "It's time to get out."

Bruce's first instinct; to stay put, but considering what the alternative might've been, he figured complying was the safer choice, and slowly walked forward. A 9mm Beretta was quickly aimed on him and followed him every step along the way until he climbed down, out from the rig and hit land, right next to the Frenchman.

Still dark outside, the sun had yet to fully rise. Bruce guessed he'd have about another hour or so before it would be daylight.

Bruce removed his eyes from the Frenchman and his 9mm for a quick moment, just to get a sense of where he was. And from the looks of it; the middle of nowhere. On a barren dirt road, surrounded on all sides by nothing, but dead forest trees, sparsely populated with leaves. No landmarks or city lines to be seen, it was just emptiness. At that point, Bruce began to worry.

"Walk." Bruce was ordered.

Reluctantly, Bruce turned his back to his adversary, knowing it wasn't wise, and started walking into the dark forest, briefly closing his eyes.

He's gonna kill me.

Bruce knew what was about to happen to him. If the roles had been reversed, Bruce would be doing the exact same thing.

Leaves and branches, moist with morning dew rustled as Bruce brushed them aside, delving deeper into nothingness. Stepping over downed trees, overgrown grass, and streams of water, Bruce led the way while his impending killer kept close behind him in silence. Birds squawked up above and crickets chirped, making the forest feel rich with life as it was about to take one.

"Where are we going?" Bruce asked, gently rotating his head.

"Don't turn around." The Frenchman instructed.

It wasn't long before Bruce found himself lost, fully immersed in the foliage and nature. And though an abundance could be heard within those woodlands, all Bruce could pay attention to were the footsteps that crunched stray twigs, and the rustling of leaves behind him.

Rushing water came into the atmosphere, increasing in volume with each step deeper into the never-ending forest.

"Keep moving!" The barrel of the Beretta pressed into Bruce's backside, pushing him along. His patience for the Frenchman's attitude, slowly became tested.

They came to a small clearing of rocks and boulders. Passed that, a cliff, and the source of the rushing stream; a waterfall, flowing down into an unseen lagoon, clouded in steam.

"Stop!"

With an inhale, Bruce did as he was told, peeking below the cliff's edge at the black hole awaiting his corpse.

The clicking and sliding of a fresh round rung in Bruce's eardrum. His heart skipped a beat, inhaling once more.

"Turn around." Bruce was told, but remained with his back to the Frenchman.

The hammer cocked.

"I said. Turn, around!"

Bruce shut his eyes, he had to do it, and if he wanted to live, he had to do it right then and there. Working up the courage, he took one, last breath, and then, went for it, jumping off the cliff.

"Son of a bitch!" The Frenchman's angry words echoed downward, dissipating within the gushing waters as Bruce's body plunged, mixing with the cascading waterfall gently soaking him. Feet first, his legs splashed hard against the surface of the pool below. Momentum carrying him, Bruce's body dove deep. When the force of his own jump subsided, he swam up as sporadic gunshots broke the surface of the water around him.

Head up and out, breathing fresh air, swimming to the closest edge, gunshots still fired. The clouds from the surface shielding him, Bruce hopped up out of the lagoon, water collapsing off of him and crawled his way into the other side of the barren forest.

Running hard, Bruce used his hands and feet, getting as much distance as he could between him and the Frenchman. Panting, and gasping for air, he sprinted. Trees and branches zoomed by, leaves kicked up from underneath as he propelled himself far and away.

Forging on, Bruce approached a steady decline in the terrain, feet moving faster than his body could keep up with. Without warning, he was barreled into with shear force from something unseen, knocking him off his feet, the wind, out from his lungs. Velocity carrying him, Bruce was sent tumbling down the decline, unable to brace. Plastered in dirt and leaves, his body becoming battered and bruised on the way down, everything in his line of sight bounced up and around, left, and right.

When the terrain finally leveled out again, halting Bruce's tumble, dizzy and off balance, he was only able to get to his knees before a pistol met him right between the eyes. Huffing and puffing, he froze, staring directly at that 9mm once again. Equally as dirty and short of breath, the furious young Frenchman, nearly bested by Bruce, was more than ready now to pull the trigger.

Bruce tightly shut his eyes.

Pressure was applied, pulling the trigger back to an absent click; empty. Bruce reopened and thwarted forward with a snarl, taking his enemy full on into a tree.

Both let out moans of strain as Bruce was quickly overpowered and put into a tight headlock. Digging his fingers between his neck and the Frenchman's forearms, he desperately tried to peel himself out from the grip. Losing his ability to breath, Bruce thrust his head backwards, making solid contact with his opponents' jaw. The painful impact released the constraint on Bruce, who threw a punch that was easily blocked and countered with two clouts, one to Bruce's stomach, and another to his face, before he was kicked to the ground.

Blood dripping from each, Bruce fought back, delivering a dead leg with a hard punch to the quad. The crippling blow made the Frenchman yell out, falling to one knee. Lunging forward, Bruce cracked the Frenchman in the cheekbone, toppling over with him.

Scuffling around in the dirt, the pair pulled and grabbed at one another like children on a playground, desperate to get the upper hand. With all his might, Bruce positioned himself atop, driving his elbow deep into his rival's side in the hopes of keeping him down for long enough to escape again.

Grabbing his ribs, streaks of red trickling from his face, Bruce jumped up, made another run for it, limbering along. Barely able to run at his full potential with the shot he took to the stomach, air escaped him faster than it was coming in.

He found a clearing in the forest, leading to an obscure structure in the evanesce of darkness, peeking through the top of the tress. He headed for it, approaching a wooden bridge, hoping he could hide out and lose the Frenchman. Moving any faster was a struggle as Bruce's wobbly motions clunking along the unsteady wooden planks. Pushing through the pain, passing through a tall stone archway to the other side of the bridge into a grassy field, Bruce made it nearly ten steps before several spot lights switched on from up above in all directions.

The bright, florescent beams blinded, causing him to shield his eyes, halting his getaway. Nothing, but lights, there was no sense of direction to be had.

Terrified, cramped, and gasping for air, Bruce found himself pinned once more. The spotlights held on him intimidatingly for a few moments more before subtly dimming. Black, shadowy figures stood by on the ground and up above, honed in on him. None of their faces visible, only the silhouette each one cast.

The Frenchman glided in from the same stone archway and wooden bridge, a sanguinary, un-entertained grimace on his face.

A pelt to the back of Bruce's legs from someone unseen, sent Bruce dropping to his knees as he was violently placed and positioned to face forward.

One of the above spotlights affixed straight onto him, giving Bruce no choice, but to stare at the ground.

Moments passed, and not a sound was made. Bruce waited, distended in a barrage of dread.

Slow, deliberate paces edged forward from the light, taunting. A tall figure stepped out from the shadows, into the brightness. Shrinking the teenager with a sinister gaze, he looked down at Bruce, a mischievous grin before him.

"Well, well, well."

Chapter 21: A Rabbit Hole, Mr. Wayne

Unknown Location. Unknown Time.

Rusted metal bars, shoddy lighting, and the smell of old hay encompassed the small constricted space Bruce Wayne held. Prison bars around him on three sides, built into a brick wall made him a captive inside the barricade of a new enemy.

Stale, warm water and tiny portions of bread here and there were enough to keep me in a head fog. And not nearly enough to keep me full. My new host's idea of trying to scare me. Only problem; it was working. I've been down here in this cell for the past two days, I think, with only a few rats and whoever delivers me my rations for company.

I couldn't understand why they hadn't just offed me already. I was starting to wish they would. And just get it over with already.

The squeak of the entrance door made a delirious Bruce look over between the cylinder bars. On his butt, up against the back wall, he sat, forearms resting on his knees, awaiting his acquaintance.

A tray of bread and water slid across the floor, up to the cell; breakfast, same thing he had the night before for dinner. Bruce didn't budge, his mind and body, too tired. He waited until whomever provided him his meal vacated before deciding to go for it.

If there was any silver lining to being cooped up in that cage, it gave me plenty of time to catch up on sleep.

Hours passed before Bruce was awarded company again. The piercing squeal of the door chimed through, awaking him. And no food offering.

Bruce sat, waiting, harrowing.

Steel boots leisurely hit the hard surface of the floor, echoing into the hollow room, until the footsteps of its inhabitant stopped, mere feet away from Bruce's cell. The individuals face was blacked out from the shadows being cast through a single window. All the way up, Bruce immediately felt small, staring up at the tall presence. Unusual, standing at 6'2" himself, there weren't many people Bruce had to look up at. The intimidating figure had to be at least 6'4", possibly more, statuesque in a black, long sleeve crew neck shirt that fit tightly around his thick neck and chest. Over his shirt; a shoulder strap that holstered a gun directly under his left armpit. His rolled up sleeves revealed muscular forearms crossed over his body, covered in dark hair and scars. Wrinkles and spots of grey hair on his chubby fingers showed that he was not a young man. He held something in his left hand that was not quite visible. A tan combat belt around his torso told Bruce he was a soldier, or had served in the past. The scars on his arms were a marker that the man had seen his fair share of battles. His cargo pants, a dark shade of forest green, pockets on the sides and the bottoms were bunched and tucked into a pair of black combat boots. And strapped to is right ankle, a combat knife.

His stance and aura alone, tormenting, Bruce didn't need to see his face to be unhinged.

The Hunter.

A very tense, unbearable silence boiled up all around Bruce, making him perspire. He backed away, trying to make as much distance as he possibly could until his posterior frame made contact with the rear brick wall.

"Who are you?" A deep, crackly voice spoke out, with an accent similar to that of the young Frenchman, but more refined. more aged.

One step into the light, the menacing presence finally revealed himself for Bruce to get a good look at. A slightly weathered and leathery profile appeared, accompanied by a thick, dark mustache that almost matched the salt and peppery color of his cropped hair. He wasn't young, he had to be in his forties, possibly fifties, however, the burly shape he was in, he could easily stand toe to toe with a man twice his age.

Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat, doing his best to appear un-rattled.

The tall, leathery man began to pace around the perimeter of the cell.

"Son, the silent treatment is going to get you nowhere." He stopped when he got right in front of Bruce. "And believe me, you will not enjoy the alternative. So, I suggest you start speaking."

His eyes punctured through Bruce, into Bruce's soul.

"Who, are, you?" The leathery man asked once more.

"Dixon." Bruce cleared his throat. "Frank. Dixon."

Bruce's capture paced again, grinning. "And starting with a lie will do you no better...Mr. Wayne."

Bruce internally gasped. "How do you know who I am?"

"When you've been around as long as I have, you see the same eyes, just on different people. Yours, are that of a man running from something."

"You don't know anything about me." Bruce got defensive.

"And word of advice. If you're going to travel under an alias, don't carry items that have your real name on it."

The leathery man presented Bruce the unopened envelope from his father. Embarrassed, but more aggravated, Bruce snatched it back into his possession with a snarl.

"Which makes me wonder." The leathery faced man continued. "What the famous Bruce Wayne is doing all the way out here?"

"Where did you get this?" Bruce huffed.

"That stuffy little hotel you've taken vacancy in. An interesting choice for a billionaire. And I must say, that is some very fascinating wall art you have."

Bruce sneered with an evil eye, realizing he had been followed and that his room had been messed with. The two studied one another very closely. Bruce could feel as if he was being read like an open book. A man, an enemy he had never met had him pegged. He didn't like being so exposed to a complete stranger.

"Now, on to the more important manner at hand." The leathery faced oppressor came close again. "Where, did you, get this?" He held the silver cigarette case to Bruce, who gawked at it for a brief moment before answering. The time to say anything stupid, was surely at an end.

"On a dead man in Paris." Bruce replied with an angry, raised eyebrow.

The Hunter stared hard. "Did you kill him?"

Despite the uneasiness and intimidation, Bruce remained vigilant, at least on the outside. "No, I didn't."

Bruce's eyes were closely examined to see if he was indeed telling the truth. "Then, how did he die?"

"He was run down by a black car. Deliberately."

"Deliberately?"

Bruce nodded.

"By whom?"

With a breath, Bruce shook his head. "I don't know. They're dead now too."

The Hunter paced again."I'm curious. How you came to be in possession of this. And why you were anywhere near the scene of the crime in the first place?"

Hesitantly, Bruce offered the answer. "I was following him."

"Following him?" The Hunter echoed. "From?"

Bruce gulped. "A laboratory on the edge of the city."

"And what were you doing there?"

Bruce huffed, growing agitated by the game of twenty questions. "Following up on something I found in Mariette."

Aggressively, The Hunter pulled open the cell, ripping it right from its hinges and grabbed Bruce by the collar, throwing him to the floor. Taken aback, a terrified Bruce tried to fight, but the strength and power of The Hunter was too overbearing.

Pulling the knife from his boot strap, The Hunter drew it on Bruce. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't gut you right now!?" His grip tightened even further. "What are you doing in Paris?!"

"Get off of me, you crazy son of a bitch!" Bruce continued to fight to no avail.

"You're a part of this aren't you!?"

"What the hell are you talking about!?"

"Don't lie to me! People are dead. Now tell me what your'e doing here?!"

Struggling to break free from The Hunter's sturdy grasp, Bruce found it difficult to talk.

The Hunter held, fury increasing. "Tell me!"

Bruce struggled, trying to get some words out.

"The bombing!" Bruce matched The Hunter's volume. "I was there! I almost died! It wasn't an accident! A small group of men dropped that bomb! Innocent people. Good people, they died for nothing! That's why I'm here!" His breathing staggered.

The Hunter slowly eased up on Bruce, backing the knife away.

Bruce started to breath easy again. "That's the truth!"

Gauging Bruce's expression, The Hunter replaced his knife and stood.

Remaining, Bruce braced his hands just in case he was going to be attacked again.

After a few moments, the old savage extended his hand. Staring for a second or two, Bruce perplexingly took it and was helped up to his feet.

The Hunter exited the room from where he came, leaving the door open. Bruce, still confused, didn't know whether to take it as an invitation to stay, or as an invitation to leave.

Rubbing his throat, swatting some dust off himself, Bruce cautiously went through. The ferociously angry man from just a second ago, now seemingly calm, sat in a chair at a wooden table. A dangling light bulb up above swayed with a low luster, while a small powered off RCA television rested on a stool in the corner.

"Have a seat." The Hunter gestured to the chair opposite him.

"I think I'll stand." Bruce made sure to keep a safe distance.

"It appears we share a common interest, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce crinkled his brow. "How's that?" Increasingly more confused, given that his head was almost sliced off thirty seconds ago.

The Hunter held silent for Bruce to fill in the blanks, who squinted.

And then, it clicked. "You're looking for them too." Bruce remarked.

The Hunter blinked, confirming the response.

"Why?"

The Hunter breathed deep. "Two months ago, my team and I intercepted radio chatter about a weapon somewhere being developed in the Eastern Hemisphere, capable of wiping out hundreds of millions in a single blow."

"Mariette?" Bruce wondered.

"No." The Hunter replied. "Something much bigger."

Bruce listened intently to the information being relayed.

"And last night that trail went cold. The man you chased down in Paris. The man who owned this." He held up the cigarette case. "He was one of ours, working undercover." He studied Bruce again, very closely, as if trying to read his mind. "I'm wondering, how you, a boy from a privileged upbringing was able to get as close to these men as we did."

The Hunter came into the light, inching his torso forward.

"What I need to know now. Is what you know."

"And why should I tell you anything?" Bruce countered.

"Cause right now, Mr. Wayne, it's the only thing keeping you alive."

With those words, coupled with its tone and presentation, Bruce knew, the Hunter meant business. "I don't even know who you are. You just tried to take my head off a second ago. How do I know you won't kill me the moment I tell you what you want?"

"The way I see it." The Hunter eyed Bruce. "You don't have a choice."

Horribly apprehensive, Bruce didn't know how he could possibly trust a man he didn't know with all the information he had. In the middle of a rock and a hard place, he didn't feel like he could lie his way out of it. Like The Hunter said, he didn't have a choice.

"Start from the beginning. What were you doing in Mariette?"

"I wasn't doing anything there. It was a pit stop. A place to make some doe before moving on." Bruce took a very deep breath, slow to start. "I did a job. With a group of guys from the slums."

"What kind of job?"

"The first, blowing up a tunnel that a rival group was using to smuggle in drugs and weapons."

"There was another?"

Bruce nodded. "Checking out an abandoned oil refinery on the border of Andorra. That one went south, we were ambushed, but managed to make it out. I was getting ready to leave the country when it happened." He shook his head in despair. "A lot of people died, including the guys I was working with."

"How did you end up surviving?" The Hunter wondered.

"Someone." Bruce hesitated, thinking of Charles, he didn't want to say his name. "Someone, carried me out of there. I blacked out when it hit. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital with flash blindness."

The Hunter remained silent, listening to Bruce continue his story.

"There was a third job, I followed up on, on my own. Up at the Wharf in Old Town. There was a warehouse, containing a shipment of deadly chemicals that came from that lab in Paris."

"You mean this?" The Hunter pulled the enclosed vial sample from his pants pocket, obtained from Bruce's hotel room, laying it on the table. Bruce nodded.

"The next day I left for Paris, in search of that lab. That's when I saw your man."

"What compelled you to follow him?" The Hunter asked.

"The entire lab was left in ruin." Bruce began. "I didn't expect to run into anyone else. I figured following him might lead me to some answers."

The Hunter remained.

"Your man settled into a nearby hotel to make a phone call." Bruce glanced over, thinking more on it, before connecting the dots. "That was you on the other end? Wasn't it?" Again, The Hunter confirmed with a single blink. Bruce continued. "There was a shootout involving two other men. Yours got the better of them and fled the scene. I chased after him and that's when he was run down."

The Hunter leaned forward, scratching his mustache, curious as to where Bruce's story was going next.

"When I searched him, all he had on him was that case, and a matchbook that came from some sleazy joint uptown. So, I checked it out."

"And? What did you find?"

"That black car."

"Were they working alone?"

"No." Bruce responded. "Someone else was calling the shots, and I wanted to find out who. They were headed somewhere, so I jumped in the trunk. They drove for miles, to a lake house, well outside Paris." Bruce gulped, thinking about it sent shivers down his neck. "There was a meeting. Lots of men in suits. Dark. Very secret."

The Hunter leaned forward. "Who were they?"

There was a moment of silence and hesitation before Bruce continued. Reaching inside his opened pea coat, Bruce lifted the collar of his rolled turtle neck sweater, and removed the ominous looking pin, fastened to his inner shirt that fell into his possession. He slid it over. "There was only this."

The Hunter's eyes dilated to twice its size. His bottom lip separated just slightly from his upper. His eyes fixated on the pin as he pinched it between his thumb and index finger.

Bruce sized up the expression across The Hunter's face. "You know what this is. Don't you."

Only moving his eyes upward, landing on Bruce, The Hunter took a breath. "You've entered a rabbit hole, Mr. Wayne. And you have no idea just how deep it goes."

Bruce stiffened, ever so puzzled at the metaphoric statement.

"What you've seen. Is merely a thread. To a very tangled web."

Bruce now came into the light, approaching. "Who are these men?"

The Hunter now hesitated.

"Who are they?" Bruce asked once more.

"These men. They call themselves, Leviathan."

"What do they want?"

"What any man in power wants...more of it."

"These men. They're the ones who set off that bomb in Mariette. It wasn't the Soviet Union."

"The rest of the world would tend to disagree with you." The Hunter replied back.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, confused.

Arching up, The Hunter stood. "You've been out of touch with the world for the past few days. I'm afraid you've missed the news."

He switched on the boxy RCA television set in the corner, turning one of the knobs. A fuzzy, slightly scrambled, black and white broadcast appeared on the screen, clearing as the tube lit and a newsman spoke.

"Terror strikes again, this time in the heart of the Middle East this morning, just months after the newly elected Iranian government is formed. The Soviet Union's expansion into Iran since the conclusion of the Second World War has left relations between The United States and the Soviet Union tense. Hundreds of Soviet ships and troops have made their way into the country since last year. Fearing further Soviet expansion into Asia, President Truman turned his attention toward the Middle East and Iran in an effort to contain the spread of communism. Earlier this morning, five U.S. subs were sank off the coast of the Caspian Sea. Early reports claiming the missiles fired came directly from Soviet operated subs. With this act of aggression, it is now further confirmation that the Soviet Union may have indeed been responsible for the catastrophic incident in Southern France. Although Stalin denies the Soviet Union's involvement, the United States and Truman have taken this as an act of war, saying retaliation will be eminent. With the Paris Peace Treaties scheduled to be signed this coming Monday, tensions will be higher than ever as the Allied nations will now have to revisit discussions from almost two years ago."

The Hunter closed the television broadcast, looking at Bruce with an arrogant stare. The point had been made.

"Who the hell are these guys?" Bruce asked.

"People you are not suppose to know exist."

Bruce crept even closer. "You've seen them before?" It was more of a statement than a question, phrased by Bruce.

The Hunter licked his lips. "In Austria, during the war. They were involved in something with Hitler and the Nazis." He looked away for a moment, remembering. "Scientists. We believed they were helping the Nazis build a weapon. We never did find out for sure. When Germany fell, Leviathan disappeared. And up until now, I thought they were all but gone." The Hunter picked up the vial again, studying it deeper. "Perhaps this, has something to do with that."

"Those freight containers? What were they carrying?" Bruce pointed at the vial. "More of this?"

The Hunter slowly arose from his seated position, his movement made Bruce's defenses go on alert, even though there was no malcontent in it.

"Come see for yourself."

Bruce eyed the elderly, former foe very close, just to make sure he didn't try anything funny while walking toward a second door, opposite the entrance to the holding cell.

With a skeleton key, The Hunter unlocked the door and held it open for Bruce to go on through. Tentative, Bruce waited until he was nudged along with a gentle head bob.

Passing by, wits about him, Bruce stood between the doorway as The Hunter clicked on a switch that lit up the room. In a huge, wide opened space of cement flooring, every freight container from the vessel sat, opened and unhooked.

Bruce proceeded inside, locating the nearest crate, gently swinging open one of the steel doors. There was nothing, but stale air inside.

Bruce was at a loss. "I don't understand."

"It was a ruse." The Hunter indicated. "A ploy. Meant to throw us off. And it worked."

Bruce turned his eyes upwards, thinking. "So, the attack in the Caspian could be coordinated."

The Hunter nodded. "They must've known we caught wind of their plans at the shipyard."

"How?"

"You asked the question, Mr. Wayne. And we thought you were the answer."

Bruce held, trying to piece together what The Hunter was thinking. "You thought I tipped them off."

Again, The Hunter nodded. "We spotted you surveying the shipyard the night before, and when you showed up again the day of the operation. Well, it was enough not to be chalked up to coincidence. I told my son that if he found you to bring you in."

"Your son?"

That snotty little punk.

"Alive. But, dead if need be."

"So, why haven't you done the job already?" Bruce, sharp in his tongue with the question, wondered. "You could've killed me the second I told you everything. Why keep me alive?" Why show me all this?"

"Because I think you and I are after the same thing. And because you still have something I want."

Bruce scrunched his face. "I've already given you what you wanted."

"Not quite, Mr. Wayne." With a crooked eyebrow, The Hunter sized Bruce up.

Bruce did his best to grill The Hunter in return, showing his angry side. He took a deep inhale, he had heard enough. "Are we done?"

The Hunter simply smirked, offering no rebuttal.

"Good. I'm leaving."

Bruce turned his back and began to walk away, for another exit on the other side of the storage room.

Following a pause, The Hunter spoke. "And where do you think you'll go?" There was a slight hint of condescension in the way the question was presented to Bruce's backside. "A man can only run for so long, Mr. Wayne. Eventually he'll have to stop somewhere."

The stifling remark halted Bruce, still showing his back.

The Hunter walked forward. "How far do you think you'll get before these men catch up to you?"

With the words in his ears, Bruce listened.

"What you've seen at that meeting, is something no one ever lives long enough to retell. These men, are trained to operate in the shadows. You won't find them. But they'll find you. No question about that."

With that statement, Bruce started to realize the gravity of the situation he had stumbled upon.

"It won't be long before Leviathan becomes privy to you, if they're not already. Hell, we were. You're lucky you've made it this far."

Quietly, The Hunter lined himself up perpendicular to Bruce, purposely, so he could be seen out of the corner of Bruce's eye.

"I can help you."

"What makes you think I need help?"

"There was a reason you chose to pursue this, wasn't there?" Bruce's eyes wandered away, contemplating the remark. "What is it you're really chasing?"

Bruce knew the answer to that one, wholeheartedly. It was the reason he was out in Paris in the first place tracking those men, in search of a resolution to the events that occurred, killing Charles and so many helpless others, leaving many more without fathers and mothers.

Tensions soared within that storage basement and Bruce teetered on the edge of the fence, debating which side to hope over to. He had been running for so long from a past he was so desperately trying to escape.

"You've seen the faces of these men." The Hunter began. "Well connected men. And if they're going to be anywhere next, it's that conference in Paris Monday night. Mariette, The Caspian, this is all just the beginning. Something far worse is coming."

Bruce gave the unnamed man a crooked, unenthused stare, tracing the seriousness of the proposition.

"You want to live long enough to stop it? And maybe, figure out what it is you're actually chasing."

Scowling, Bruce thought long and hard. He wanted so badly to stop these men.

He turned, face to face with The Hunter, who held out Bruce's father's pocket knife. It was a welcome sight, believing it was gone. He took it back from The Outer, who then extended his hand for a handshake, one of agreement, but more than that, an unspoken trust.

After a copious delay, Bruce accepted it, and The Hunter replied, "Henri Ducard."

Chapter 22: At the Brink

Paris Peace Treaty Conference. Luxembourg Palace. Paris, France. February 10th, 1947. 7:23pm.

I decided to take my new ally up on his offer and attend the Paris Peace Treaty Conference. An offer I had little to no choice, but to accept. As much as I didn't want to admit it, he was right. This was about more than what happened in Mariette. Finding these men was something I needed to do. And if they were as dangerous as claimed to be, then I couldn't do this on my own anymore. After the events in The Caspian, it was clear that the whole world could go to hell at any second. The scarier part was not knowing what might happen next. Whatever was coming though, it could potentially change the entire world. Someone, somewhere, was playing an intricate game of chess, moving all the pieces in the correct position for some unknown endgame. And that someone now had a name; Leviathan.

Henri Ducard; my new ally, was a former agent for the French's Central Bureau of Intelligence and Operations, now turned mercenary, rouge detective to the highest bider. That was his professional title, but to those that knew him best, he was a paid assassin. A manhunter. Today, that highest bidder was Interpol, employing Henri's services to uncover the mystery behind the bombing in South France. And like me, he had his sights set on those responsible. I couldn't explain what it was or why, but Henri felt like a man I could relate to. A man who does what needs to be done, and does it without asking questions.

Henri operated with a small crew, big enough to be considered deadly, but small enough to stay under the radar and not be officially affiliated with any government agency.

Interpol green lit a recon mission to the conference for Henri and four members to attend. Three from his own team, and one civilian; me. It was to be a simple observation, with the sole objective to smoke out a rat. If Leviathan was to show themselves, it was going to be here.

Because I had seen the faces of these men at that lake house, I became an asset, crucial to the mission. Henri brought me along in the hopes I could pinpoint anyone I recognized from that secret meeting. My only reservation, was the fear of Leviathan recognizing me. My very presence at the conference put my life in jeopardy.

Other than myself, the other members of our small team included Henri, his son, who now had a name too, Morgan, and two others from his team, Arthur King; an expert marksman, and a woman; a Russian; Anya Volkova.

I didn't know much about Morgan, mainly because I didn't care to. All I knew is that he tried to kill me, twice, and now we were working alongside each other. Making for a tense situation was putting it mildly. He didn't like me and I didn't like him.

Arthur King, also known as Merlyn, was somewhat of a peculiar man. Merlyn was a nickname he earned from the tribesmen he fought with during the conflict in Shanghai, due to his wizardly supernatural accuracy with a bow and arrow; the only weapon he chose to carry. Anya, was somewhat of a different story. Young, no older than 25, she had a stare and a demeanor about her that looked like she killed men for sport. Her trade was thieving; objects, information, anything that could be useful to those she worked with.

According to Henri and his past dealings with Leviathan, very little is known about them, including where they came from, its members could be from anywhere, no one really knows for sure. Their interest lied within research and development. But, more than that, progression. And how they meant to do so, well, was a question we may not have wanted the answer to.

The city of Paris was all a buzz. All anyone could talk about was the impending Peace Treaty signing and the political ramifications the outcome of it could have. The signing was to bring about the official end to World War II for every nation. With prior events occurring how they did, a day that was meant to bring about settlement and order, could now be a pre-cursor to something terrible.

For the past several months, a series of negotiations known as the Paris Peace Treaty Conference has taken place within the chambers of Luxembourg Palace, to discuss and ultimately decide what to do with the countries effected by World War II. Delegates from 21 nations, as well as several distinguished political figures from both the Western and Eastern hemisphere have come together in an effort to diplomatically decide on a course of action to be taken that will be simple as well as fair.

The terms of the Paris Peace Treaty had been ongoing and strenuous. Today was meant to be the last of those meetings.

Bruce Wayne and his new, pseudo team of allies walked the throne room of Loius Phillipe, each at a different corner. The throne room was made up of ninety plus seats arranged in a layered fashion filling out the entire left side of the room. It consisted of a ground floor, an upper deck, and three balconies on either side of the northern wall that provided extra seating. At the center; four long wooden tables were aligned against one another to form a perfect square. Folders of info were placed at each seating. The room was primarily used for senate meetings involving French affairs, but in less than five minutes, it would commence yet another crucial world gathering. The room was a blur of incoherent chatter that bounced off every corner as everyone filed in, greeting one another.

All over, men and women in suits shuffled around to find their appropriate seat. Henri, Bruce, Morgan, Arthur, and Anya were also decked out in formal black clothing, as to blend in with the crowd and appear like another member in attendance. Each was assigned to a different corner of the room, close to the doors exiting the chamber.

Bruce Wayne, in a drastic change of appearance, stood covering the east end of the lower room with his hair combed and neatly polished, along with a clean shave and a new pair of threads; a tailored suit. He adjusted his black necktie, uncomfortable with the constriction on his neck. It was the first time in many years he had to look so presentable, he felt like a different person, someone he used to know. He couldn't help, but run the palm of his hand over his smooth face, the sensation of no scruff was off-putting.

Across the way, Morgan kept watch on the western exit, but his attention was more on Bruce, shooting a look of distrust and anger each time their eyes met. Bruce tried to avoid looking in Morgan's direction as much as he could. Arthur and Anya, two people Bruce just became acquainted with, were on the two balcony exits toward the head of the room, while Henri took watch on the upper deck, covering the only exit from above. A tiny mouse wouldn't be able to slip out without them noticing.

Interpol arranged it so five seats cold be reserved and made available to Henri and the others to sit in during the conference, without tipping anyone off. Bruce was given a chair in a specific spot so that he could see just about everyone in the room. His job was simple; if anyone at all seemed familiar, let one of the others know.

Hands in his pockets, Bruce scanned the area, trying his best to meld. It wasn't working. Bruce' gazed up toward the upper floors. He spotted Henri looking down on him, giving him a single head nod. It wasn't much, but it did make Bruce feel just a little more at ease. For the night, they were all allies, working toward a common goal.

The sudden banging of a gavel upon a sound block brought all conversation to a steady stop, signaling that it was time to begin. Remaining stragglers found their designated seats and quietly filed in. Bruce and Morgan did the same on the bottom floor, as did Arthur and Anya with Henri up above.

Once everyone was finally situated, there was nothing but, utter noiselessness, so quiet a pin dropping could be heard.

Those at the center table, the focus of attention, stood idly by. Among those there, included statesman, diplomats, and other big wigs. No one whose names were worth remembering. The rest were representatives from various Allied and Axis countries such as France, Italy, Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria, and Finland. Translators sat closely by each non-English speaking negotiator. World leaders such as Truman and Stalin were purposely excluded.

"Gentleman." The coordinator, a French Ambassador, at the head of the table stood, and began. "We are all well aware of why you have been brought here today before your peers. Today, is the culmination of almost two years of negotiation, and agreement. A day we all thought impossible when we were first brought upon one another. And one that I hope will result into a consensuses of peace. We have debated, we've argued, and we have come together. I don't need to remind anyone of the many lives that were lost to get to where we are today. This treaty is an effort to stop and prevent that bloodshed from happening again. We all stood at the brink five years ago, the brink of destruction and war. And we entered into it wholeheartedly, and perhaps somewhat foolishly. We stood together as men, and took one another's lives. And now we stand on yet another brink. The brink of order and semblance. One we can walk through together."

Paying close attention, everyone in that throne room kept quiet.

The Ambassador went on. "Last week's attack in The Caspian, as well as the incident in this very country has presented a new roadblock to our struggle. One I pray will not hold us back from moving forward to usher in a new world order."

Surrounded closely, rubbing elbows with others in suits, Bruce faded into the sea of the throne room. He zoned out for another quick gander at the others in their seats and the faces in the crowd to see if anyone stood out. Still, no one did.

"I would like to call upon the representative from the United States of America, to begin this conference." The Ambassador gestured, before taking a seat. The atmosphere changed almost instantly within the room, sucking the little life that was in it, right out. Everyone simultaneously looked over toward the Soviet Unions' place at the table.

"Thank you, Ambassador." The representative negotiator from the United States stood, clearing his throat. All the others already knew what was about to be said. He took a sip of water before he began. "I would like to take this opportunity to address the atrocious act of violence that occurred last week. An act of aggression, directly targeting U.S. operated ships." There was a long, drawn out pause before the representative continued. "An atrocity the United States can't help, but be seen as an act of war on the part of the Soviet Union."

"Nonsense!" A squeaking chair sliding across the linoleum floor made everyone turn. "Those missiles in no way originated from Soviet operated subs. That is a complete fabrication!" The representative from the Soviet Union barked from the other side of the table, accusing and pointing his finger as he stood and spoke out of turn, making the U.S. representative shout back.

The outburst stirred up everyone at the table, who all began to clamor about to the person next to them.

The gavel struck down violently, the French Ambassador tried to restore order. "Please! Please! Gentlemen. Be seated." The air was palpable with tension. "The representative from the Soviet Union will have their turn."

A deep, collective breath was shared. Order slowly returned to the throne room, knowing that it may not last very long. Bruce felt knots in his stomach. The anticipation of something else going awry, too close for comfort. The United States continued. Bruce turned his focus to Henri, who had his focus on one of the balconies to the front of the room. His stare was deep, and probing.

Bruce glanced up, trying to identify what had Henri fetched up.

"President Truman, other delegates including myself, as well as our Office of Intelligence Services are personally investigating the situation to determine the validity of the Soviet Unions' claim." Those representing the U.S. continued.

"All lies!" The delegate from the Soviet Union spoke out of turn once again, arguing the facts. "There is no such investigation underway."

"And I will have the members of this committee know, that this is not the first time the United States has been threatened by the Soviet Union." The United States continued their speech, interrupting the delegates of the U.S.S.R. "They have been trying to flex their muscle and demonstrate their power for two years now. They're using the bombing in Mariette and the attack in The Caspian as a smoke screen to bring our nations into war!"

"Outrageous! That's a horrendous accusation!

Every inch of the room erupted into absolute chaos. All that were seated now stood at attention, shouting and swearing. The delegates from both the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. had to be held back to prevent them from climbing across the table and attacking one another. The Ambassador from France desperately tried to regain order, hopelessly smashing his gavel. It was pure insanity. The tightly compacted throne room became that much more crowded.

Bruce, Henri, and the others were beginning to get lost in the shuffle. People pouring out of the their seats rushed the center tables, creating a mosh pit. Bruce had no choice, but to get up from his seat and fight to get a view of what was happening.

The uncontrollable mayhem ensued, when, all at once, two gunshots fired into the crowd. Bruce jumped, immediately ducking down. All ninety plus occupants of the throne room did the same, running like hell for the exits, screaming, shouting in fear.

Bruce fought from being trampled over and swept into the chaotic shuffle. Pushing, shoving his way forward, he bounced around, knocking others out of his path, eagerly racing in the opposite direction of everyone else, toward the center of the room.

He reached the head table just as Morgan did on the side opposite, where a person laid motionless, slumped across. Morgan flipped the body over. With a shot in his chest and another in the center of his forehead; it was the delegate negotiator from the Soviet Union, dead, clutched in Morgan's grasp.

The pair stood immobile, looking blankly at one another in shock, unsure of what to do. Looking to the upper deck floor, Henri watched, leaned over the railing with the same stare of awe. Back toward the balconies, Henri turned his interest. In a flash, he bolted for the exit and disappeared.

Withdrawing from the body, Bruce and Morgan did the same, finding the nearest exit, out into the palace halls.

Mass hysteria flooded the corridors, everyone was in a fierce panic, trying to get out and as far away from the palace as possible. Quickly, Bruce found himself lost in the mess once again.

The thunder of bullets hitting the plaster upstairs instilled more panic as more screaming followed. A fearful desperation to get out alive was all around.

Bruce followed in the direction of the gunshots, charging up a carpeted staircase, shouting at others barreling toward him to move out of the way, trying to be heard over the commotion. Morgan was just ahead of him doing the same.

On the top floor, the pair caught the backside of Henri, gun in hand, chasing after someone down the hall, dodging others around him. In a ferocious run, Henri exited through the main stairwell, slamming his body through.

More shots clapped, echoing off the stairwell's walls and through the corridor.

Weaving around the last flood of stragglers, Bruce and Morgan pursued into the stairwell, running behind Henri down below, who barreled through the emergency exit door, sounding an alarm.

Trampling faster than their feet would allow, Bruce and Morgan scampered down the staircase, racing to catch up.

Through the exit, into the rear courtyard, the two trailed behind Henri Ducrad's pursuit of three men. Firing shot after shot that had no direction toward his assailants, bullets whizzed back at Henri, chipping the stone of the palace structure.

From the streets, a black sedan pulled up through the archways of the courtyard, tires screeching it to a halt, awaiting the three men. The back door swung open as the driver urged them along.

Henri unloaded the rest of his Beretta at the sedan, pelting the rear windshield and bumper as it peeled away. Within a matter of a few seconds the sedan drove out of the courtyard and disappeared.

"Damn It!" Henri shouted, cursing himself.

Out of breath, Bruce and Morgan reached Henri just as another car pulled up from the streets. From the driver side window, Arthur poked his head out, smacking the door. "C'mon, get in! Let's go!

Chapter 23: Hot Pursuit

7:59pm.

"Who the hell are they?" Morgan shouted from the cramped backseat of the sedan, he, Bruce, and his father now occupied, Arthur was at the wheel with Anya riding shotgun.

Arthur slammed down on the gas.

"I don't know." Henri replied, discarding his empty magazine for a fresh one. "I noticed them enter from the balcony right after the conference started. Did you see anyone?" Henri asked, angrily of Bruce.

"No," shaking his head, Bruce regretfully answered.

"God damn it!" Henri punched the driver side seat. "We can't lose them, this our only chance."

Arthur shifted into the next gear, pinned back, their speed increased, in hot pursuit, zooming by and lacing around other cars, switching lanes, blowing through red lights.

"There they are." Morgan leaned ahead from the middle seat, pointing.

"I see em." Arthur concurred.

Focused, hell bent on catching up, the team of five held quiet as the black sedan approached a bridge a few hundred yards up.

"Stay on em!" Henri shouted.

Paris night lights flickered and streaked by in a flash. The five of them stared dead ahead, fixed, paying no mind for the blatant disregard of traffic.

"Arthur?" Anya subtly spoke, a hint of fear in her Eastern European accent.

"I see it." He answered.

"Iisus Khristos." (Jesus Christ) Anya remarked in Russian. The approaching drawbridge was beginning to rise.

Bruce, Henri, and Morgan collectively felt the same emotion of fear, leaning forward from the back, watching the pavement ahead slowly tip on an incline. They all looked at one another, unable to formulate a sentence.

Frontward, the black sedan carrying their assailants hit the bridge, gunning it, its engine roaring with velocity.

"Holy shit." In a low tone, Arthur cursed.

Tightly, Bruce and his compatriots held.

Momentum carrying the black sedan, it flew into the air, off the drawbridges separation, and vanished onto the other end.

Stedfast, the team of five continued their pursuit. The sudden fear from just a few moments ago, exasperated.

"We're not gonna make it!" Shaking his head, Morgan was the first to say what they were all thinking.

"We'll make it! Keep going!" Henri yelled.

With apprehension, Arthur hit the clutch, popping into fourth gear. Quickly, it became a race to outrun the pace of the drawbridges rise. Other cars ahead had already stopped.

Wide eyed, limbs tight, Bruce could only watch, unable to do a damn thing.

The incline hit a steep slope once their wheels made contact with the bridge. Climbing the ascent, the night sky soon became the bumpy view out from the windshield, the road ahead disappearing under the chassis. Unequipped for the terrain, the transmission began to drag.

"C'mon! Faster! Faster!" Henri screamed.

Gas to the floor, Arthur tried and tried to muster any kind of acceleration. They were so close, just a few more feet to the edge.

The incline was too much for the small car weighed down by five bodies. The front wheels tipped over the edge, hooking and halting the sedan. Arthur hit the gas to no avail, back tires spinning, smoking hard. Caught on the edge, the incline continued upward. Bruce, Morgan, Henri, Anya, and Arthur were at the mercy of gravity now, pinned to the back of their seats, an incline of ninety degrees coming painfully fast.

Quietly panicked, they all held, secretly praying.

The drawbridge's rise came to a gut wrenching stop, the black car dangled in the wind. Relief was there, but just for a moment.

When all was still again, they felt it. The car slowly started to inch backwards, removing itself from the bridge's hook.

They all clenched up, knowing what was coming.

The seconds dragged, hoping to delay the inevitable. Suddenly, the bridge's grasp on the sedan released, they were all violently thrusted forward, Arthur and Anya nearly through the front windshield. Gravity in full control, the road was coming up fast behind them.

"Hang On!" Henri screamed.

With a loud crash, the bumper flattened, the rear windshield shattered, jolting Bruce and the others all around into one another, nearly crushing them all.

Holding vertically upright for just a few moments, the destroyed sedan keeled over onto its side and upside down.

Smoke evaporated while gasoline spewed from the underside of the engine on to the pavement. Its back tires still spun, the car, still in fourth gear.

Concerned pedestrians looked on.

Creaking, the dented rear passenger door crunched open. Bruce was the first to fall out and onto his back, having been tossed around like a rag doll. The others slowly peeled themselves out from the confines of the battered car wreck, while other drivers and passengers watched from outside their own vehicles.

Each were slow to get their feet, bruised and scrapped. Their pristine suits, nothing, but torn cloth now.

"Everyone alright?" In a strained voice, Henri asked of his team, who could only reply with grunts and groans.

Bruce rubbed his eyes and forehead, trying to regain clarity, a throbbing headache in full force as blood trickled down his brow from a fresh cut. With a slightly distorted view, he gazed up at the tip of the drawbridge. A full moon in the sky, Bruce thought he saw a figure standing atop, a long weapon behind his back, staring right at him. He squinted, trying to bring it into focus.

"Hey." Distracted away by the concerning hand of Henri upon his shoulder, he turned to his new ally.. "You alright?"

When Bruce looked back, theres was only the moon. The figment of a shadowy figure, gone."...Yeah...I think so."

Chapter 24: The Hunt for a Killer

Luxembourg Palace. 8:31pm.

Flash bulbs blinded, flickering off incessantly like a series of irritating strobe lights. Photographers and newspaper journalists pushed and huddled around the dead Russian delegates body, creating a mass congregation, snapping pictures, taking notes.

Russian Delegate Murdered! I could see the headline now. In less then twenty-four hours, it was all going to be front page news.

"Alright fellas, alright, that's enough. Photo men, take your last shot so we can let these men get to work." A local French detective informed the gaggle of men that their time was up. The hour was getting late and others, like Henri, representing various agencies needed their time to investigate.

Fedoras, leather jackets, and cigarettes were everywhere, itching to get a turn at the body for analysis.

Bruce stood by on the outskirts of the madness, arms folded, jacket discarded, his tie loosened, slightly more comfortable, leaned up against a support pillar as the scrape to his head healed underneath a bandaid. He watched the controlled mania from a safe distance, something he wanted nothing to do with.

"So, you didn't you see anything at all?" A familiar, yet anxiety swelling voice snuck up on Bruce. Curling his eyes to the side, Bruce subtly looked at Morgan.

"No."

"Well, that's convenient." There was a tone of sarcasm in the way Morgan responded to Bruce's no.

Tightening his forehead, Bruce gave him a contemptuous frown. "How is any of this convenient?"

"You. Here, with all of us, when just a few days ago you were this close to lying in a ditch."

Antagonized, Bruce faced Morgan.

"I'm wondering if you saw anything at all at this so-called secret meeting."

Morgan's comment, threatening, was meant to be taken as such. Bruce tried to keep his cool. Inside, burning, he itched to throw a fist. "You think I'm lying?" He presented his comment more as a statement than a question.

"You better hope for your sake, that you're not." Morgan warned.

The two shared a scornful gaze that was just about to turn to haymakers before they were interrupted.

"Morgan." Henri called out to his son, gesturing him over.

"Let's go." Morgan informed Bruce, sneering as he followed.

Henri, Arthur, and Anya were already crouched over the body of the Russian Delegate, inspecting, and now, so were Bruce and Morgan. Some of the other local authorities stared at Anya, mystified by the presence of Russian woman.

"What do you think?" Arthur asked.

Henri ran the palm of his hand over the bottom quarter of his face, studying the gunshot square to the upper torso and to the forehead. Glancing up, he scanned the room. "Judging by the angle of the impact wounds." He pointed them out with the tip of a pen, as not to touch the corpse. "The trajectory of the bullets had to have come from at least a forty-five degree angle." Henri pointed up. "So, the shots must've been fired from a higher point."

"Those blokes you spotted on the upper balcony?" Anya interjected, offering a possible point of origin.

Arthur gave a look, swaying his head. "No." He said with certainty. "Too exposed. This was a professional hit. The shots are too perfect. A good hitman wouldn't risk being seen out in the open. Whoever those guys were that Henri saw, they were just meant to be a distraction."

Pondering other alternatives, each looked around for some sort of explanation, talking shop.

I felt useless, parading around in the background, just watching. This clearly wasn't their first rodeo. They knew exactly what to look for. I was just there taking up space.

"Alright. You all stay down here, question who you can, see what you can learn. Maybe we'll catch a break. I'm going up top. You." Henri singled out Bruce. "With me."

Yes sir.

Why do I get the feeling he wants to keep an eye on me?

Each separated and went off to their assigned jobs while Bruce did as he was told and followed Henri upstairs.

It was obvious Henri considered me a flight risk; why he chose not to leave me alone, and instead, very close by.

The once cluttered upper hallways; a chasm of anyone and anything now, it was just a mess of flipped over tables and broken flower vases; the aftermath of all the hysteria that occurred.

Watching the seasoned manhunter closely, Bruce saw Henri observe every square inch of the place, almost as if in a hypnotic trance, picking apart every aspect. Very detective-like.

Into the small seated section of the top third balcony; the highest point of the room and Anya's first suggestion to where the shots were fired, Henri ventured. Guiding Bruce along, he worked his magic, trying to recreate the incident. Looking out over the balcony, Henri squinted one eye closed, pretending to aim a rife and looked down at the delegates dead body, now covered in a white cloth, resting on a gurney, set to be taken to the coroners.

Scrunching his face, Bruce could see ideas flooding The Hunter's mind.

"Hmmm," Henri pondered. "No. Arthur's right. The shots didn't come from here. The angle doesn't add up. The shooter had to have been at a higher point."

Bruce looked up, baffled. "A higher point? How could that be? He would've been hanging from the ceiling if that were the case."

Henri sucked in some air. "He had a clear vantage point to take those shots. Without distraction, interruption, or witnesses. But from where?"

The pair studied every etched piece of the ceiling for an answer. An answer that seemed unexplainable. It was as if the gunman had made two impossible shots from an even more impossible location.

Using his own intelligence, Bruce observed the structure of the chamber and its setup. Parts of it seemed familiar, especially the layout. He was sure he had been in a room much like it before, perhaps in his younger years.

"What was this room used for?" Bruce asked.

"What?" Henri replied back, rather confused.

"This room. What was it used for before the conferences?"

Henri shrugged, unsure of the answer or why it was even relevant. "Senate meetings, and other types of gatherings. I don't know."

"But, it wasn't always right?" Bruce remarked staring up at a flat, squared-off section in the ceiling.

Henri looked around, trying to remember. "No. Years ago, they held opera here."

And just as Henri spoke those words, he realized what Bruce was getting at. Simultaneously, they both landed on the same page, probing the same squared-off section. Henri nodded, and Bruce back at him, before Bruce said it. "A lighting room."

Rushing off the balcony, back into the halls, Bruce and Henri walked side by side.

Bruce and his father had been dragged to the opera many a times by his mother, who was a lover of live theatre performances. Tosca was her favorite, and Bruce's least. He didn't get the fascination, neither did his father, who sympathized with his son. Bruce tried, but was bored to death, always half paying attention when he did have to suck it up and go.

Henri and Bruce located a single locked door on the right hand side. Jiggling the handle, Henri watched as the French Ambassador, coordinating the conference, walked to their location.

"This room. What's in it?" Henri was sharp and quick in his tone.

"This? It's just an old storage room."

"Do you have a key?"

"Downstairs perhaps, I..."

Impatient, Henri didn't have the time for that. With a firm kick, he shattered the lock right from its frame, splitting the door open while cracking wood chips splintered off.

"Could grab it." Humorlessly, the French Ambassador finished his sentence.

Inside, Bruce followed Henri through the broken door, up a small flight of stairs, through an onslaught of cob webs that clung to every corner.

It was just as the Ambassador had said; a storage room. Chock full of old opera gear, props, costumes, and lighting equipment. The room was only about fifteen by fifteen and maybe six feet high. Old, electrical wiring dangled from the ceiling, disconnected. A skylight window to the left led directly to the roof of the palace.

Henri had to crouch down to fit his massive frame inside, proceeding to the far edge of the small area, roughly about where the throne room would be overlooked and where that squared-off section would be located.

On the other side, Bruce inspected the window, whose latch had been left open, letting in tiny gusts of wind.

No wonder no one saw him. Clever son of a bitch.

"The wall." Henri got Bruce's attention, who had to duck down as well to get to the other side. Henri dragged his hand over the divider, feeling the roughness of it.

"What is it?" Bruce questioned.

"Its recently been plastered over." Pressing on a soft spot, Henri was easily able to push through it, creating a hole, barely the size of a silver dollar coin.

Squinting one eye, the recess gave a clear shot into the throne room and onto the conference.

"This is it. This is where those shots came from." Henri was certain.

Bruce crouched down to the floor. "And now we know for sure." Picking up two shell casings, he presented them to Henri, who gave him a small smile.

"Henri!" The voice of Anya Volkova shuttered in from the halls as she joined the pair. "Check it out." She presented a record of names, written out on a long sheet of paper. "This list accounts for every member in attendance tonight."

Shrugging, Henri didn't find anything particular special about it.

Anya continued. "The conference called for ninety-five members to be in attendance tonight, including us. This list, counts ninety-six." Their eyebrows widened. "So, I'm guessing there's someone on this list, who wasn't supposed to be."

Henri nodded. The hunt for a killer was on.

Chapter 25: Uninvited Guest

Bord De La Ville, France, 11:20pm.

The guest list Anya swiped from the Ambassador's Office contained all the names of the members in attendance at The Peace Conference. Ninety-five were expected to be on that list, but ninety-six showed up. Which meant someone made it in as an uninvited guest. Number ninety-six, the final to arrive at the party; Kyle Abbot. The shooter? Possibly. There was only one way to find out.

"That's it, up there." Henri gestured to Morgan from the passenger side of new, un-battered, bulky Triumph Dolomite, pointing at a lonely stone bourgeois master house, off the edge of town, outside the heart of the city, in one of the more suburban areas of France; Abbots last known residence.

The three rode together while Arthur and Anya pulled up ahead first, in a new ride as well, below the grassy bank.

French suburbs, or a Banlieue, weren't like a typical American suburb, where every family residence looked alike on every block. French suburbs were much older, and more elegant, with homes spaced out, encompassing much more property and land. It was like looking at several Wayne Manors, on a smaller scale, of course

Bruce sat alone in the back, excluding himself from the conversation.

The affluent Provence; Bord De La Ville, literally meaning edge of town, was an upscale, quiet, much quieter than the city, gentrified town, full of windy roads and lots of farmland. Many of the homes they drove past were tall, multi-level rectangular shaped homes built before or during the turn of the century, and possessed lots of greenery, grass and foliage a plenty. Abbots home was at the far end of a dead end road, atop a grassy bank, set back in the brush, almost completely surrounded by trees.

At nearly 11:30pm at night, the town was completely hushed, everyone was asleep. Abbots home; a two level, proportioned structure, consisted of lots of windows and a main entranceway, perfectly centered. A single car was parked outside at the front of the promenade, where well manicured shrubs and a patio set laid. One light had been left on within the top floor. It was a home more suitable for a family, not a single man, which Abbot was. Having done a quick background check on the man, Henri and the others weren't looking for surprises.

Exiting the car, Arthur and Anya approached the passenger side of the Dolomite as Henri rolled down the window.

"Whataya think?" Arthur asked, one arm leaned up on the car.

Henri studied the house, while Bruce paid half attention, listening more to the constant chirp of the crickets.

"I don't like it." Henri replied with a breathy exhale.

"How should we go about it?"

With a deliberate pause, Henri mulled it over. "Slowly. We just wanna talk. Don't wanna give him any cause for alarm. As far as he's concerned, we know nothing about him."

A few more penetrating gazes from the car, Henri took his time.

"Ok. Let's just go knock on the door. Morgan, you and Anya go around back, in case things go belly up and he tries to make a run for it. You." Insouciantly, Bruce prepared himself. "Stay here and keep watch."

"You still don't trust me?" Bruce replied with snark.

"I still don't know you."

Great.

Shuffling about, Henri and his son exited the vehicle, while an aggravated Bruce stared at the house opposite Abbots, curling his lip, annoyed that he was being left behind to be a lookout.

"I don't trust you either." Bruce replied under his breath.

Before walking up Abbots front yard, Morgan made sure to reach his hand back inside the driver side window, removing the key from the ignition, giving Bruce a snide smirk.

Bruce shook is head. "Asshole."

Uncomfortably sharing his own silence, Bruce, left out, watched his newly acquainted counterparts mosey up to Abbots house. Henri and Arthur took the front walkway up as Morgan and Anya faded around the side.

Arthur reminded me a bit of Alfred. The English accent, his lanky build and the receding hair line. His appearance though, was where the similarities stopped. A healthy chip on his shoulder, he knew he was skilled, never letting his bow out of his sight, always clutching on to it as if it was his most prized possession. Probably made him crazy that he couldn't take it into the conference with him, as it now rested comfortably and firmly in his grasp. He sported an unusual piece of facial hair on the bump his chin, that was well groomed into a point. He and Henri had clearly known each other for some time. His expertise in and out of the field; he had been around.

Anya was different, quieter than the rest. I wasn't sure if it was because she was a woman or what. Definitely had a rough exterior though, like the wrong words could set her right off. Anya wasn't what you'd call traditional looking for her era. Definitely spent some time exercising, her frame, more of a gymnast than a lady. She preferred guns and stealing shit rather than dresses and perfume. Face, pale, pink lips, it was easy to tell she was of Russian descent. Her shoulder length blonde hair was consistently slicked back as not to hinder her from taking out a target. Always down to business, a smile was something that rarely crossed her face.

And then, there was Morgan. He was almost a replica of me, same height, same build, just the tanner, blonde version. He had a strange scar on his left eyebrow, creating a divide in the hair.

Going at it old-school, Henri and Arthur stood on either side of a cherry red front door, one hand ready to use their weapons if need be. Henri gently tapped on the golden front door knocker, loud enough so that anyone inside would hear, but low enough as not to disturb any neighbors. The pair waited for a response. there was nothing. Henri tried again and rang the door bell. No reply, not even a stir. Henri waived the subtle approach on the third attempt, pounding on the door. "Kyle Abbot?" He yelled out. Still, there wasn't even a peep.

The seasoned veterans looked at one another, silently conversing about what to do next. Arthur gave Henri the go ahead with a single facial nod.

Henri took hold of the the doorknob, slightly turning it. It wasn't locked. The reveal made both draw their weapons, Henri's from his coat, Arthur, an arrow from his quiver.

Disappearing indoors, out from Bruce's view put the teen on edge from the car, now keeping a close watch.

Minutes dragged without a single disturbance. The outside view to whatever was happening, plus the half-opened door, tantalizing, only intensified Bruce's curiosity. Shaking his leg, he held, agonizingly patient for something, anything to happen.

"Screw this." He had enough of the waiting around game. Bruce exited the back seat of the Dolomite. He was going in.

Cautiously prowling the front grassy front lawn, up the walkway, and in through the cherry wood front door, Bruce crept. The dark entranceway gave two optional routes. Straight ahead, past a nightstand and coat rack would lead into the kitchen, or slightly left, up a set of stairs, to the second floor.

The obvious choice, was upstairs.

A quarter of the way up, a movie or a variety program could be heard, playing through a radio or a television set. The strangeness of it slowed Bruce's pace. Dragging more, before reaching the top, Bruce froze when a 9mm greeted his face.

"Jesus Christ!" Henri said softly, lowering his pistol, equally as startled. "I thought I told you to wait in the car."

Bruce simply gave a mischievous grin.

"What the hell?" Arthur joined, protesting the intrusion. "You stupid little bastard."

"Shhh. Enough." Henri held a finger over his lips. Frustrated by Bruce's persistence, he growled. His eyes debated wether or not to shoot Bruce right then and there. Unfortunately, and perhaps fortunately for Bruce, he knew Henri still needed him. It left Henri with no other choice, but to stay the course, with Bruce. "Be quiet and stay close."

Bruce took up the rear, Arthur ahead of him, and Henri at the front as they all tiptoed down a narrow hallway atop the second floor, toward the center of the banter, and that single light, shining from a caddy cornered room. An inch ajar, a hazy glow permeated through the bottom and sides of the door and its frame, enough to make ones spine tingle about what could be waiting on the other side.

"Kyle Abbot?" Henri tried once more.

Inches from the room, Henri put up a fist, letting Arthur know to hold. Gun cocked, he quietly pushed the door open. Letting out a breath, Henri held the weapon to his side. There was no danger, instead there was disappointment.

Placing his gun back into his shoulder harness, Henri invited Arthur over, who revealed the same look of disappointment.

"What?" Bruce whispered.

Without a word back, Bruce waited for Henri and Arthur to enter before he followed.

Hunched over a desk, face down into a bottle of scattered pills, laid Kyle Abbot, next to a discarded rocks glass, still trickling with bourbon onto the floor.

"Damn it." Bruce muttered.

The room; Abbots study, now a crime scene, was lit by a single bankers lamp, chock full of books and brown leather seating. Cozy, at least, it was.

Henri tuned off a television in the corner by a dry bar, while Arthur strolled over to Abbot, checking his pulse for a beat. Arthur shook his head at Henri.

"How long?" Henri asked

"An hour. Maybe less." Arthur indicated.

"Well, there goes that." Just when they thought they were making headway.

Arthur lifted up the bottle of pills with a single finger. "Laudanum. Think these are prescription?" He commented with derision.

Laudanum; a narcotic pain reliever used to treat everything from meningitis to yellow fever. He must've consumed about half the bottle.

"He OD'd." Bruce figured.

"No." Henri was quick to reply back.

"No?"

"No. This was staged to make it look like he did."

"How do you know that?"

Disconnected from Abbot, Henri pointed to the surrounding area, the shelves of books, the carpet, and the layout of the study. "Look around." Bruce took the advice. "Notice anything? The furniture."

He was right. The circular impressions in the faded green carpet where the desk and armchair had been resting for a time could be seen. Meaning both had been shifted.

Henri scoped the study further. "There was a struggle here. Otherwise nothing would've been moved." Even some items atop the desks blotter had been slightly shifted.

Right away, Arthur inspected the rest of Abbots body for any more signs of a struggle. "He's got a contusion around his neck the size of grapefruit. Someone got to him before we could."

"Which means someone's trying to cover their tracks." Henri acknowledged.

Arthur pulled Abbots head up for Bruce to get a good eyeful. "Look familiar?" Puffy faced, wrinkles in his forehead and crows feet, probably from constantly hitting the bottle, Bruce doubted Abbot looked any better alive.

Slightly disturbed, Bruce gave a glance. "No."

Arthur rested Abbots head back to the desk. "So, what are we dealing with here?" Arthur started, the questioned geared toward Henri.

Bruce removed his eyes from Abbot, in favor of the bigger picture while Henri and Arthur moseyed around, speculating plausible scenarios. Abbots dead body was not telling the entire story of what happened at his home. His study was, as Henri already pointed out.

A page out of The Hunter's book of expertise, Bruce took an even paced stroll around the room, examining everything with a close eye. Over toward the back wall, lined with bookshelves, of which there were an abundance, stacked top to bottom with hard covers. Abbot had a acquired a vast collection over the years, ranging from Classic English Literature to Organic Chemistry, Dickens to Einstein.

Must have been a well versed guy.

The shelf came to an end at a single window, behind Abbots desk that was anchored by another bookshelf on the other side.

Bruce's leisurely stroll came to a gradual halt. Something was out a place about Abbots copy of Pragmatism, at the very far edge. Firmly pressed into the binder, clouting the author, William James's name; a bullet. Inspecting closer, Bruce unhooked his father's trusty pocket knife. Using the sharp edge, he pried the slug out.

Within his palm, the dented bullet still had a sizzle to it, it was warm in Bruce's hand. The heat of it, continuing to char the novels binder. It was fresh.

"You have those shells from the light room on you?" Bruce interrupted Henri and Arthurs investigative , handing him a shell, Henri watched Bruce match up the recovered shell to the new slug. It fit perfectly. "Check it out."

Henri firmed his facial muscles. "Same shooter." He answered, that same inquiring look in his eyes about the room when he first walked in. The whole situation went from strange to confusing, past that, to downright bizarre with each new discovery.

"Guess that rules out Abbot as our guy." Arthur said, arriving at the same conclusion as Bruce. Abbot wasn't the trigger man from the conference.

"Check his desk drawers." Henri said firmly, a thought in his head.

Doing so, revealed nothing out of the ordinary to Arthur; newspapers, magazines, more books, until he opened the top drawer. "I've got a .45."

"How many rounds are left?" Henri asked.

Grabbing the nickel plated pistol, Arthur slid the mag out from the handle. "Eleven." Pulling back on the slide, popped another round out from the ejection port. "And one in the chamber." Arthur paused, glancing at the side of the pistol. "And the safety's still on."

"So. Abbot never went for his gun." Henri replied, just as confused by the implications of ever changing situation.

Bruce, dissecting the scene, wondered now as well what was going on.

Henri meandered around, collecting ideas. "Abbot was clearly taken off guard. So, either he didn't have to time to grab his gun, or. He didn't feel the need to. Because..."

"He knew whoever came to do the job." Bruce filled in the blanks.

"But yet someone fired at him? And missed?" Arthur presented the other roadblock in the aforementioned theory. "That doesn't add up. Considering the shots this guy has already pulled off."

"None of this makes any sense." Henri agreed. "But now we've got a bullet to match those shells. It's time to do some work."

Chapter 26: Part of a Team

Ten miles outside Western France. February 11th. 1947. 5:24am.

It was a long, uncomfortable ride back to the outskirts of the country, away from Paris, sharing the rear of a troop carrier with two men I barely knew. Even longer because we couldn't take any major highways in a military vehicle. However, it was much more pleasant than being locked inside the back of a big rig, so I wasn't complaining. The troop carrier, which I assumed was part of our mission detail, assigned by Interpol, was waiting for us at an impound yard.

The recovered bullet and shell casings from the conference and Abbots residence gave us an opportunity to discover more about the mystery shooter hid up in the lighting room. Hmmpf. Us? I was talking as if I was part of a team or something. Half of which didn't care to say two words to me. They didn't trust me. It was an emotion I had a knack for drawing out of people when I arrived in Europe and starting doing side jobs. Always an outsider. And I was ok with that. Certainly wasn't the first time. So, I did what I always did, pretended to sleep.

Morgan carried the most distrust for me. He didn't believe a single word I said about witnessing Leviathan's secret meeting. He sat in the front glowering, while Anya took her shift behind the wheel. Morgan might have been the only person I ever met that brooded more than I did.

I shared the back with Arthur and Henri, who conversed over a flask of whiskey and a game of gin rummy like old war buddies.

Their base of operations was housed all the way on the west end of France. In a barren forest region called Hulbrook. A very isolated region of the country, and the perfect place to stay under the radar.

When Arthur and Henri's game concluded, Henri changed shifts with Anya, whose eyes started to get heavy. And of course, Henri insisted I sit up front with him. It was beyond awkward, I spent most of the ride trying to ignore Henri's constant glare in my direction.

Half an eye on the road and half an eye on Bruce, Henri kept to himself. He was tired too, struggling to keep his eyes afloat. About twenty minutes into the shift change, Bruce noticed Henri pull down the visor overhead. He watched as the hardened assassin stared at a photograph wedged into a strap. It was of a women, her hands clasped together and a warm smile on her face. Bruce looked on discretely as the hint of a smile started to form on Henri's face. Henri turned, his eye's met Bruce's for a brief moment. Bruce looked away, and within that same moment so did Henri upon the realization that he was being observed. Quickly, he flipped the visor back up.

The drive perpetuated and in the wee hours of the early morning as the sun began its amber rise into a grayish, cloudy skyline, Bruce and the others pulled into their final destination, just outside a towering stone castle buried deep within the forest. A castle Bruce had inadvertently stumbled upon a week prior, a location that had been repurposed for Henri and his team's use, outfitted with everything an intelligence crew would need.

The French construct, overwhelming in sheer size, was built in France's Medieval period in the mid-1300's, during the The Hundred Years War with the Kingdom of England. Used by the Capetian Family, the castle served as a safe haven and a place to store weapons and goods. During Germany's occupation in the second world war, the Nazis took possession of the stronghold and used it as an HQ, as well a place to re-write history, desecrating much of the historical art collected and passed down through each generation. After Hitler's defeat, a lot of the Third Reich's gear was left behind, Bruce took notice of that gear in the form of German R75 motorcycles and more military troop carriers outside the south entrance.

Bruce pretended to awaken from a slumber as they pulled in. Hoping to prolong their arrival back at the forest for as long as he could. He wasn't exactly helpful in identifying any Leviathan members at the conference, nor Abbot. But, he was helpful when it came to locating where the gunman had taken his shots from, and in recovering the slug from Abbots. Suffice it to say, he didn't know where he stood with Henri and the others, or what they were planning to do with him. A part of him considered grabbing a motorcycle and high tailing it. What was for sure though; rest was needed by all.

Exiting the rear of the troop carrier, Bruce outstretched his whole body, un-stiffening every tight muscle and joint.

"Ok." Henri spoke in a weary voice. "It's been a long night. Let's all get some rest." Those words were music to everyone's ears. Henri checked the time on his wristwatch. "Let's all regroup in a few hours. Bruce." Bruce's stomach churned, it was the first time Henri addressed him by his actual name and not you. "I'll show you where you can stay."

Surprised by the invitation, however, relieved, Bruce didn't argue. Sleep was long overdue. He followed Henri as the other three glared him down, Morgan so than anyone else.

The keep of the Chateau, as they all called it, was an intelligence hotspot. The lower ground section of the main floor was used as a communications room. There were three workstations set up, each with a radio communicator, a transmitter, a typewriter, a telephone, two tape recorders, and even an old morse code machine. One man to a station, each of them had a pair of headphones attached to their ears and a cigarette hanging from their lips that puffed smoke while they adjusted and tuned radio knobs to calibrate channels and clean up any chatter over the airways. The place stank like a dirty ashtray. Behind a sound proof glass room to the left corner, lived a very large computing machine, relaying some sort of info printed out on paper, maybe codes, Bruce wasn't quite sure. Every channel, frequency, and communication was tuned to and monitored from around the globe. It was Big Brother at its finest. Those manning the comms were men assigned to Henri's unit by Interpol, who remained out of the field, doing analytical work. But, according to Henri, they were there to keep an eye on him and his crew.

At the head of the room, plastered to the back wall was a large map, displaying the eastern hemisphere. Certain key areas in Europe were circled in red. Men on the floor above skulked about a wrap around walkway, shuffling in and out of rooms used for meetings and mission briefs. Each room was complete with a table, some chairs, a projector, and a pull down screen.

Sculpted busts depicting historical figures, as well as paintings by DaVinci, Renoir, and other European artists, laid piled up in corners of the Chateau. Left there since the war, they had thankfully been preserved, despite Germany's attempts to destroy them. Another reminder of Hitler's failure to erase mankind's history.

Once Bruce's head hit the pillow of a barracks bed, he was out, a solid three hours. The most, undisturbed, sound sleep he had accumulated in quite some time. He was like a new man when he awoke, no bags under his eyes or that fatigued feeling in his bones. After a shower and a pair of fresh clothes, while everyone was doing their own thing, Bruce found his way back into the forest, needing to isolate himself from the commotion inside.

I had a good mind to just grab my shit and get the hell out of there right on the spot. And I probably would've if I didn't feel like I'd be shot in the back. The men manning the Chateau's towers, eyeballed me with every step I took, rifles at their sides.

I was hostage to Henri and his crew, at least until I could provide a face to Leviathan, or, until they decided I was no loner needed. What would happen to me after that, I didn't want to think about. My stay of execution was already overdue.

With nothing else on his plate, Bruce's scenery, slightly expanded from a musty prison cell, took a walk outside, away from anyone who needed to be avoided, which for him, was everyone within those castle walls.

In an attempt to clear his head, he felt some fresh air might do some good, take his mind off just how uncertain his current situation was.

It was peaceful, walking through those woods, not being chased by someone looking to put a bullet in your skull. However, not peaceful enough.

Hardly a hundred feet from the Chateau, three arrows, rapid fire, crossed Bruce's sight, nearly nicking his face, plunging stiffly into the tree on his left. Their stems, perfectly outlined his torso, halting him from traveling any further.

"Going somewhere?" A voice asked in the distance.

To his right, about a hundred paces away, was Arthur, giving him a contemptuous smile. Bruce, unamused. "Getting some fresh air." He said, yanking an arrow from the tree. "Thanks." He replied causticly, gesturing with the sharp projectile.

Arthur came over as Bruce contemplated sticking that arrow where the sun didn't shine.

"What are you doing out here?" Wondered Bruce, although he had a pretty good idea.

"Just staying sharp. I'm no spring chicken anymore, you know." Arthur said, but not with the greatest amount of conviction.

"In other words; keeping an eye on me?" Bruce corrected.

Arthur returned Bruce's deduction of his intentions with a wink and the click of his tongue. "Can't have you running off now."

"The thought did cross my mind." Bruce replied, sarcastically.

"Trust me, you won't get very far. Not that there's a whole hell of a lot out here, except for trees and dirt."

"And you, apparently." Somehow, Bruce knew he wouldn't make it very far, before someone came to collect. "You don't sleep?" Arthur shrugged the question. "Henri put you up to this?"

Arthur dug his other two arrows out, cleaned off some of the wood splinters, before replacing them back into his black, suede quiver. "Something like that."

"You and Henri, old friends?"

"That's one way to look at it I suppose. In this business, there really is no such thing as friends as there is people you want to go into battle with." Arthur said, placing a clean arrow into his bow's sight window.

"And Henri sees you as one of those people?"

One eye closed, a twangy pull of the bowstring and a slight tilt of his head, Arthur took aim. Elegantly releasing his fingertips, a sharp whisk snapped the sound barrier. The arrow soared with lighting speed, unyielding in force, splitting a narrow tree in half, at least two-hundred yards away.

Bruce widened his whole face, both impressed and scared by the shot, which also gave an answer to his question. "Right."

"I happen to be very good at what I do, which makes me useful. You, on the other hand, contain information, which makes you useful." Arthur pointed out.

"Well, a few of your other, friends." Bruce emphasized the word friends, given Arthur's previous explanation. "Are inclined to disagree with you."

"Then I guess it's up to you to prove them wrong."

Bruce scoffed, he didn't owe those fools anything. The way he saw it, they needed him a hell of lot more than he needed them.

"Cause unfortunately, kid, for you and them, if you did see what you claim to have seen, then it's in our best interest to keep you breathing." Arthur gave a prideful glance at his shot, before looking back at Bruce. "For now."

Which means I'm on borrowed time. As soon as these assholes get what they want from me, I'm done for.

"And here I thought you guys were keeping me around for my charm." Bruce tried to make light of the threat.

Arthur chuckled, lowly. "That's good. You're gonna need that sense of humor. When this is all over, that might be all you have left."

Arching his neck, furrowing his forehead, Arthur gazed deeper into the woods. "What matters, is the big picture." He said, taking a few, slow steps forward.

"Leviathan." Bruce answered, strolling with him.

"Exactly. Hand me that arrow." Arthur outstretched his hand, crouching slightly.

Raising an eyebrow toward Arthur's strange behavior, Bruce gladly handed it over.

"If you can help us do that." Arthur stopped mid sentence, taking aim once more.

"What do you see?"

Arthur barely looked up, "Straight ahead, to the left." He replied, pointing very loosely. Bruce had to gaze extremely closely, until he saw it, blending with the landscape; a black panther, patrolling his territory.

"Why do you care so much?" Bruce rebutted.

"About?"

"Finding Leviathan."

Arthur halted his fix, mind trailing off. "Lotta evil in this world, kid. And sometimes, the only way to deal with it, is to eradicate it from this world. Before it gets to you. I've seen enough bad shit to know when more of it's coming."

"What makes you think more is coming?"

He took a breath. "Call it an archer's intuition."

"So, you're the good guys?" Bruce questioned with a snide look.

"There are no heroes in the real world, kid. Just those willing to do what it takes."

Arthur drew his bowstring back slowly until it held taught. In one swift motion he tilted his arrow upwards letting it go, into the upper branches of the woods.

Bruce scrunched. "You missed."

"Did I?" Arthur countered with a smirk.

A whimpering screech up in the sky hit the air before a wild hawk fell, thudding to the ground.

Arthur's friendly grin, fast transitioned into an earnest glare, packed with the utmost seriousness. He holstered his bow, giving Bruce a subtle warning. "Don't go running off anywhere."

The tone at which Arthur made his last comment, and the manner he presented it in made it seem like his next arrow might have Bruce's name on it.

Walking past, Arthur stopped. "Oh." He turned back. "That bullet you pulled." Arthur flicked his open palm twice.

With reluctance, and a sneer, all Bruce could do was toss it over.

Chapter 27: American Made

Chateau Basement Level. 10:30am.

After a much needed recovery, that some took the advantage of, all five reconvened on the sub floors of the Chateau, an area designated for weapons and arsenal. Although Bruce wasn't technically sought out and invited, he made certain he found his way there.

No way in hell was I going to allow these guys to stifle my hard earned work. I got them to where they were, wasn't going to let them take it away from me, as they were probably planning. They may have been keeping an eye on me, but I was also keeping an eye on them.

The team was none too pleased to see Bruce arrive downstairs, but they didn't protest, at least not verbally.

"What've you got?" Henri asked, leaned over Arthur's shoulder at a wooden workstation, who, as Bruce discovered, didn't take the opportunity to rest. Examining the recovered slug with a magnifying glass and heavy eyes, Arthur studied every inch, turning it with a pair of tweezers; a slug Bruce both found and provided. After a few more seconds of deep, penetrating analysis, he handed the flaxen bullet over to Henri.

"American."

They all scorned toward Bruce, who rumpled his face.

"You're certain?" Henri questioned.

"Not a doubt in my mind. Here. Take a look." Arthur walked over to another workstation where a microscope sat. With a needle nose plier, he gripped the bullet and held it under the microscope while Henri peered into the lens. "See the striations on the side? Dead giveaway it's American made. And this was no ordinary gun this bullet was fired from."

"No?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Make and model?" Henri asked.

"A one of a kind Henri. A Suppressed Hi-Standard LR 22. A truly unique weapon. You don't see many of these around."

"What?" Anya said, flummoxed.

"Not a chance." Morgan interjected. "To be that accurate, from that distance, with such a small weapon. That's a very difficult shot. Let alone two."

"No." Arthur replied. "It's an impossible shot."

Henri rubbed the facial hairs of his mustache. "Weapons like this were merely experimental. Issued only to OSS operatives during the war, deep undercover, behind enemy lines."

"That's right. And unfortunately, the ballistics don't lie. This was the weapon used. Check it out." Up from his seat, Arthur waltzed into another area of the lower level; the firing range, where a slew of paper targets hung on a back wall. He loaded a long, narrow looking pistol, resting at one of the stations. "This is the updated version of the same weapon." Standing at the firing range with a fresh target, Arthur took aim for the head and the chest, firing off two, very loud rounds.

Suddenly, Bruce became light-headed, slightly losing balance. No one noticed. He had to close his eyes for a brief moment to try and regain is bearings. He collected himself and shook it off, attempting to convince himself the strange onset was nothing.

A mechanical pulley brought the paper target up to the front.

"You missed, a couple of inches off to the right on both." Anya indicated.

"That's my point." Arthur confirmed Anya's observation. "Even I couldn't make that shot. And this is approximately half the distance those bullets were fired from, minus the incline. This is not a weapon meant for that type of distance. Much less the kind of pinpoint accuracy it was landed with. Not to mention, this guy only had a clearing about the size of a golf ball to shoot through."

"What are you trying to say?" Anya had to ask.

"What I'm trying to say." Arthur paused, looking for the appropriate response. "Is that these shots, were beyond impossible. I don't know anyone on this planet who could've pulled this off."

Arthur's assessment made Bruce swell with uncertainty and fear. He wondered, who Leviathan and these people were that they were dealing with.

"Well, that definitely narrows the list down, but not enough. We'll have to keep digging," Henri gave a pat on Arthur's shoulder. "Nice work."

A group of Interpol agents entered into the firing range, headed for the firing for some practice it seemed, some down time to blow off steam. Their intuition placed the team's investigation on hold.

"Lets head back up." Henri replied, in response to the untimely company. "See if we can maybe get our hands on a list of OSS operatives. Figure this thing out."

On their way back through the firing range, before they could exit, the Interpol agents loaded up and took aim. Simultaneously, gunshot after gunshot bounced off every corner of the room.

A flood of uncontrollable emotions instantaneously washed over Bruce, triggering a sudden panic. He stopped, eyes flickering, losing control of himself, his body slumped up against a wall as he grabbed his forehead. Bruce went deaf, unable to hear those around him. All he could hear; a painful ringing in his head and those two familiar gunshots that have always haunted him. It was happening again. Everything went black, his eyes closed. When he opened them, he wasn't in the basement of the Chateau anymore, he was in that alley, walking with his parents outside the Monarch Theatre. The gunman was right there, getting closer, and closer. He tried to call out and warn them, but nothing came to.

Henri approached, noticing the distraught, and attempted to console. Shaking Bruce by his shoulders, Henri tried to bring his young ally back into consciousness.

The practice shots came to a halt as the rest of the room now became fully aware.

All at once, amidst all the trembling, the scene shifted within Bruce's mind. The alleyway drifted away, just as fast it came in. Henri, there in front of him now, tried speaking, but the words were mute. Bruce could see Henri's mouth moving, but the sound, inaudible.

"Bruce! Bruce! Hey!" Quietly and softly, Henri's words became coherent.

The gunshots and the ringing dissipated. The episode had passed, but not before causing a scene, halting everything. Everyone; Arthur, Morgan, and Anya surrounded Bruce, concerned, confused, and frightened.

"Hey! Hey! Are you alright?"

Bruce could hear Henri loud and clear now. Sweat dripped from his forehead, down toward bloodshot eyes, his face, a shade of ghostly white. Arms up, shielding his torso, his fist clenched as if to defend himself.

"You ok?"

Chapter 28: A Face to Put the Demon to

Chateau Medical Bay. February 11th. 1947. 7:03pm

A bright beam of light shined into Bruce's right eye, dilating his pupil as he sat on the edge of a patient table, getting the once over from the Chateau's in house physician. He found the procedure ridiculous and completely over bearing, afraid it might ruin the credibility he already lacked.

"Well, all your vitals seem to be normal." The old Doctor in a white lab coat presented the good news.

"Great." Bruce was ready to hop off the table just as the Doctor interrupted him.

"But, I would take it easy for the next few days, if I were you."

Bruce shifted his facial expression. "Right."

The Doctor exited from a sliding curtain and walked away.

Bruce could hear whispering from behind. Carefully he hopped off and inched closer, eavesdropping.

"As far as I could tell, he's suffering from some kind of phycological disorder, perhaps a past traumatic experience. That was somehow triggered by the gunshots." Bruce had heard those same words used before; Dr. Thompkins' diagnoses of him. Her fear was it becoming worse if left untreated. Bruce's fear, was that she might actually be right.

A few minutes later, the curtain opened back up, revealing Henri Ducard. Bruce wasn't expecting any visitors, but he wasn't very surprised when he saw Henri there, letting himself in, closing the curtain behind him.

Uh, great.

At first, Henri was silent, simply staring.

Here it comes.

"What happened back there?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Bruce played it off. "It was nothing. Just." He shrugged again, "Bad memories is all. It's nothing."

"It didn't look like nothing." Henri paced around the table. "Has that ever happened before?"

As per usual, Bruce kept quiet as Henri came closer.

"You called out to parents. Several times."

Bruce's heart sank. He didn't know, he blacked out during his panic and had no idea that he had said anything at all. Angry that his mind kept reverting back to that incident, an incident he kept trying and trying to forget.

"What happened that night?"

"What night?"

Henri returned Bruce's daft question with a simple stare down. There was no need to specify what night Henri was inquiring about.

Bruce glared. There was that pressure again, someone forcing him to talk about something he had no desire to rehash. Rolling his eyes, swirling his tongue inside his mouth to keep from shouting, Bruce finally answered. "You know what happened. The whole God damn world knows what happened."

"To your parents. But, what happened to you?"

Bruce gave Henri the silent treatment. Like he had done so many times before, when certain types of conversations were about to commence. He barely knew the man, he owed him nothing about his personal, past life.

"Is that why you're out here?" Henri intelligently asked. "Chasing bad men who do bad things?" Bruce took a very deep inhale. "And why you carry that unopened letter everywhere you go?" It was there with him now in that moment, inside his pocket.

Bruce could feel his teeth clenching from behind his closed mouth. "What does it matter why I'm out here?"

"Because." Henri stepped closer. "This fight, this common enemy we're all fighting. Is yours the one that's in front of you? Or is it the one that's behind you?

Bruce knew damn well the answer to that one.

"Your eyes. They tell a story." Henri brought it up again, like he did when they were first acquainted down in that prison cell. "Even if we do, somehow find Leviathan. It's not going to give you the closure you're looking for. No matter how hard you try."

"Yeah? What the hell do you know?" Bruce snapped.

Henri wither for a second, as if remembering. "I know there will always be someone or something else to chase after. A face to put the demon to."

"Everyone has a past. I can't change what mine is."

"A past centered around tragedy and so much anger can do terrible things to a man's future."

Scoffing, Bruce grew agitated like an impatient adolescent. "I really don't need another lecture right now. I've had my fill." He had, enough for a lifetime when he was younger and it first happened.

Henri took a deep breath, trying not to take any of Bruce's comments personally. "You know. I wasn't always out here." Henri rubbed his chin. "I was married to a woman once, long ago. Morgan's mother."

Bruce was thrown for a loop. Firstly, because, he always knew Morgan had to have a mother, but he figured it wasn't anyone significant, or ever worth mentioning. Especially not someone Henri was married to. And secondly, because, Henri was about to discuss himself, willingly.

"That woman in the photograph?" Bruce asked, to which garnered a simple head nod.

"She." There was hesitation in Henri's voice. Bruce could sense that whatever was about to be said next was going to be tough to discuss. "Like your parents, was taken too soon from this world. Not long after Morgan was born."

Henri had to bit his lip. Remorse in his tone.

"How did she die?" Bruce was almost afraid to ask.

Discomfort evident, Henri peered away. "She was murdered. Almost twenty years ago now. By a man I was hunting." Henri took a seat on a nearby chair. "This man. He found about the birth of our child together, and killed her as a way to get to me."

Bruce's heart sank once again. It was no wonder why the two shared some sort of unspoken relation.

"Unfortunately, in this line of work, making enemies becomes commonplace. And it puts those you love in danger."

"What did you do?" Bruce asked.

Henri took a second before continuing."With every ounce of life in me, I tracked him down. And I made him suffer, in the way he made me." The tone in Henri's voice quickly transitioned from sadness to anger.

Bruce, no longer withdrawn, listened closely, he needed to know.

"I took what was most precious to him." A regretful sigh followed before Henri continued, his voice breaking a bit. "He had. A wife, and, three children. Two daughters and a son. When I finally caught up to him and his family, he pleaded, begged for me to spare the lives of his family." Henri shook his head. "I killed them all, right in front of him, forced him to watch. And when he had nothing left to live for, that's when I took his life."

Bruce swallowed the extremely large lump in his throat, not expecting Henri's story to take such a cruel, horrific turn.

Henri, hurting internally, rubbed his forehead. "Morgan was just an infant, and never had to deal with the hole his mother's death left on him. What he did have to deal with, was the emptiness it left on me." A deep breath, he closed his eyes for a moment. "I was a young man, I didn't know how to raise a child on my own."

Bruce barely knew Henri, and he certainly didn't view him as a man with a past wrought with so much pain. He took his Henri's words to heart, understanding what he was trying to convey.

"I lost five years of my life trying to find that man. And in the process, lost five years with my son. A past with so much tragedy and anger. That's the kind of road it leads you down. And if you let it, it can consume you, destroying relationships with those that are still here."

Henri was done. He had shared about as much as he was willing to give. And it was more than enough to paint the picture.

Henri went for the exit.

"Did it make it go away?" Bruce stopped Henri, asking him. "The pain?"

They locked onto one another. "A pain that deep never goes away son. It stays with you, like a scar. You forget about it sometimes, but it'll always be there. And if you're not careful, you could end up collecting more along the way."

Bruce turned away, and stared with emptiness at the wall.

"That demon you're chasing." Henri turned back. "It's one that can't be caught."

Chapter 29: Pound of Flesh

Industrial District, Gotham City. April 13th, 1946. 8:56pm.

Hard rain pelted the dingy streets of Gotham City's Industrial District. A low life end of town, and a haven for breeding dirt bags. An area of the city notorious for its black market drop offs and drug deals. If anything were to go down in Gotham under the table, it was there.

For the past year, I've followed the clues, sniffed out all the leads, and leaned on every Dick, Tom, and Harry. And now, I've finally got em. Joe Chill. Tonight is the night, the night I've been waiting on for five years. The night I get my pound of flesh. Tonight, I make right what this son of bitch took from me.

Through a sopping wet flat cap, beading with droplets of rain water, Bruce Wayne kept his distance within a dark alleyway, eyeballing the warehouses belonging to well known crime boss, Rupert Thorne.

Joe Chill has eluded police custody since the murder of my parents. His connections, his high position within Thorne's crew has provided him a reprieve from jail time. Despite the hoards of empty promises made by the Gotham PD to apprehend Chill, he has remained untouched. I decided long ago, that if the police didn't have the gumption to do what was right and what needed to be done, then, I would. I didn't care what the consequence might be; life in prison, the chair. It didn't matter, I was going to kill Joe Chill, even if it was the last thing I ever did.

Bruce pulled a handgun from the inside of his coat pocket, a snub nose pistol he swiped from his fathers old collection, making sure it was loaded and that the safety was off for the hundredth time. He took several deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to steady himself and the hard pump circulating through his chest. He didn't want to miss this shot, an opportunity he may never get again.

Just about 9 o'clock.

As the clock struck nine, the engine of a Chevy Master Coach came humming onto the scene and parked itself behind the back entrance of the warehouses. Bruce watched and waited in nervous anticipation, gripping the gun tight in his grasp, shaking.

The driver side window rolled down. Slow motion, the adrenaline came on. It was him, with scars across his chin, craters in his cheek, and a shadow on his face, taking in a cigarette; Joe Chill. Bruce's heart locked up as he exposed himself from the alleyway and slowly walked forward, aiming the gun right for Chill. His thumb cocked back the hammer, deafening the night, his trigger finger readied to apply pressure. Before he could take the shot, a hand grabbed a hold of Bruce's wrist, pulling him back into the alley.

"What are you doing out here?"

In a panicked fidget, Bruce desperately tried to release himself from the grasp. When he was able to, his first instinct was to look back toward the warehouses. Regret instantly filled him. The window to the Chevy Master Coach rolled up, and seconds after, it drove away.

"Nooo! Noo!" Bruce screamed out in defiance, the hands of Alfred Pennyworth trying to control him.

"Master Bruce! No! Not like this!" Alfred fought with the strong willed teenager, desperately wrestling the handgun away.

"What've you done?" Bruce pleaded, pushing Alfred away, tears bubbling in his eyes, voice breaking. "What've you done!? I've waited so long for this! And you. You. You just took it all away!"

"Master Bruce, no." Alfred showed Bruce the gun. "This is not you. Not like this."

Alfred tried to place a consoling hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce smacked Alfred's hand. "Get away from me." Backing away, Bruce shook his head. "Don't. Don't ever come near me again."

Bruce turned his back to Alfred and disappeared back into the alleyway.

Chapter 30: A Severed Relationship

Wayne Manor. Bristol Township. Gotham. April 26th, 1946. 5:47pm.

When the dust had settled on Bruce's failed murder attempt on Joe Chill, mostly in part to Alfred's intrusion, what was left in its wake was nothing more than a severed relationship. In the days following, Bruce had learned that Joe Chill was murdered by someone in Rupert Thorne's crew for letting the deal from last week go sour. He was beside himself, leaving a mark where ever he went, breaking furniture, windows, chairs, pretty much anything that got in his way. And to compound that, not a word was spoken between he and Alfred. Bruce would pass by Alfred in the halls of the Manor without even making eye contact. Easter had come and gone without an inkling of reconciliation or an olive branch. A plethora of food and desert had been prepared for the holiday, with two table settings placed, but with only Alfred in attendance.

To further strain the situation, tomorrow was the day Bruce had spent the better part of six months agonizing about and praying would never happen, 'The Thomas and Martha Wayne Remembrance Ceremony.'

Hoards of hired help had been coming and going the last few days to the Manor in preparation for the event. Caterers, planners, and organizers roamed freely throughout the grounds of the interior and the backyard of Wayne Manor, giving Bruce a headache he surely could've done without. The Manor had gone from a morbid, vacant home, to a living entity in just a week. Bruce couldn't go anywhere in the living space without bumping into or crossing paths with someone. It was an unnecessary confusion he didn't need.

In disgust, Bruce witnessed the frenzy below from his bedroom window, overlooking the rear preeminence of his home. Along the perfectly cropped perennial ryegrass of the Wayne Manor backyard, a giant wooden stage was in the process of being organized as the centerpiece of the ceremony, with the Gotham River as its backdrop. White folding chairs were brought in by droves of people, arranging them on either side in rows, creating an alway down the center, leading to the the stage. A red carpet was to be rolled out, giving the ceremony a certain Hollywood feel. Rounded cocktail tables were draped with fresh white linens and strategically placed behind the rows of chairs. To the right of that, an open space intended for the band, and to the left, a bar, for all to wet their beaks. It was already madness, before it even started. A podium along with microphones, hooked up to a sound system on the stage was tested for the speakers of the ceremony. Some of those speakers included Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb, Lucius Fox, and Roger Elliot. Two isolated chairs had been arranged on stage, meant for those whom Thomas and Martha were survived by, one for Alfred, and the other for Bruce.

Bruce sat in his bedroom, on the edge of a king size bed, with the blinds closed, barring any sunlight and the lights dimmed low, just enough to see.

In his right hand, Bruce clutched onto that old familiar envelope, worn with time. It almost didn't even matter anymore. With Joe Chill dead and gone, there was nothing, no words or thoughts that could give Bruce any sense of clarity, comfort, or closure. He truly felt like there was nothing left.

A knock at his bedroom door interrupted the harbored emotions he had been trying to suppress and equalize for the last five years.

At the entrance of his bedroom, the welcome site of Dawn Golden, one of Bruce's oldest childhood friends. Bruce paid no mind as she came in and cautiously sat down on the edge of the bed next to Bruce.

"Hey." She spoke softly. "I thought I'd come by. I didn't get a chance to see you in school this week."

"Yeah, I ditched kind of early the last few days."

Dawn was always a pretty girl, even in her youth. With her strawberry red hair and lightly freckled face, which became more prominent toward her nose as she matured, disappearing from the rest of her, fair skinned, she had grown to take on a more curvy shape upon entering into her adolescence, resembling a Hollywood starlet. She routinely wore her hair in a high pony with a ribbon. That day it was pink. Consistently fashionable, opting for a long, off tan pencil skirt, paired with a wool forest green sweater that covered a checkered button down shirt, it was perfect for the mild Spring day it was. One thing she never forgot to wear; a victorian cameo brooch pendant etched with a woman in the center. There was always an unspoken attraction between her and Bruce, that both were very aware of, that neither would ever act on. They drifted, as any pair of friends do when they enter into High School.

Dawn held a sympathetic gaze on Bruce with her hazel eyes, while he stared at himself in an gold, oval shaped, cheval mirror.

"I heard about what happened." Dawn started. Off in another place in time, Bruce Wayne barely looked at anyone anymore when they spoke to him. And his replies were always as short as possible. One word responses, his specialty. Dawn waited long enough for Bruce to absorb her words before she offered her condolences. "I'm so sorry. I know how much you wanted him to answer for what he did."

"I'm sorry too. I'm sorry I wasn't able to do it myself."

"You don't mean that."

Bruce pressed his teeth together. "I had him. I had him Dawn, the other night, he was right there. I had the gun ready, my finger on the trigger."

Dawn leaned back, holding her arms close to her body. "What stopped you?"

Bruce shook his head regretfully. "Alfred. At the last moment he grabbed me and took it all away."

"Bruce, he saved your life."

"I didn't need him to!" Bruce barked. "I was ready. Ready to accept whatever would happened to me afterwards. And now." He shrugged. "It's all gone."

Dawn took a deep breath, one that signaled relief and praise that Alfred showed up when he did. "You don't realize it now, but, Alfred saved your life." She held for a moment. "You'll thank him one day for it."

Again, Bruce shook his head.

She let out an exhale. "Are you going to be here tomorrow?" She asked, changing topics.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I haven't decided yet?"

"Don't you think you should be?"

"For what?" Bruce snapped back.

"Other than the obvious?"

"So I can see the media make a circus of my parents death all over again?"

Dawn let out another, frustrated exhale. Something she was accustomed to every time she broached any subject relating to Bruce's parents. "To honor them Bruce. What they did for this city, and what they stood for. You can't just sit in your room the whole day."

Bruce let out a breathy, annoyed chuckle. "I don't know, Dawn. I really don't know." The glum teenager finally made eye contact with his old friend, but only for a brief second.

"Please tell me you'll at least think about it." Dawn reached over, placing her hand on Bruce's battered knuckles. "Everyone would like to see you." Bruce didn't share that same sentiment. Many of his parent's old friends and acquaintances hadn't seen him since it happened.

He gave a slight nod. And managed to summon a smile at Dawn. It wasn't much, but it was enough for the both of them. Bruce always did a feel a little bit better whenever she was around.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Dawn left without Bruce saying goodbye back. Most days, that was the extent of their interactions with one another, when there was one, short and difficult, as it was with most people that tried to engage Bruce in conversation. The two had always been close in the years past, sometimes, very rarely, Bruce felt as if Dawn was the only one he could really talk to, besides Dr. Thompkins, who usually forced him into discussing how he felt. Dawn and Bruce spent many days after school, playing tag in the backyard of the Wayne Manor garden, or hide and seek on the interior grounds during their early elementary youth. All that came to a blistering halt, as did most other activities in Bruce's life.

Another knock hit Bruce's bedroom door ten minutes later.

"Master Bruce?"

Without answering, Bruce kept his back to Alfred, hoping he'd just leave.

Alfred let himself in.

"Master Bruce?"

"Go away, Alfred."

With a half-hearted smile, Alfred tried. "I know we haven't spoken in quite some time."

With his backside still to Alfred, Bruce tried to remain calm.

"I understand that you are upset with me..."

"Upset?!" Bruce's volume increased, interrupting the old butler. Finally, he turned and stood. "You had no right. Do you realize what you took from me? Finding Joe Chill was the only thing I had keeping me going, and now. I'll never be able to get that back."

Alfred was unable to come with anything, the right thing to say to make it okay. As he was unable to make amends for what happened.

Bruce, stern in both his tone and body language, gave Alfred the stone cold hard truth. "From now on, you stay away from me."

Chapter 31: It's Time

Wayne Manor, Bristol. 1:30am. Clouded moonlight, cool air, and the sounds of crickets chirping filled the monstrous landscape of the Wayne Manor backyard. It was colder than usual for the season that year, Spring, getting a late start, and with the breeze coming off the Gotham River, the wind made the temperature feel even more brisk.

Bruce sat on the rear ledge of the wooden stage, all prepped for tomorrow's event. A piece of him, ashamed that he had absolutely no interest in being a part of it. But, at the same time, there was only so much more a sixteen year old could endure. He stared at the city across the river, soaking it all in.

"Couldn't sleep?" Dawn Golden's voice snuck up from behind Bruce, coming forward to face him.

"Hey." A small smile came to. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course. Why did you want see me? Is everything ok?

Bruce stood, distraught, more so than usual, and it was clear. He rang Dawn earlier that evening, unusual in and of itself, asking for her to meet him. After a few more moments of hesitation, he finally said it. "I'm leaving tomorrow, Dawn."

Dawn chuckled, taking none of the words to heart. "What are you talking about?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'm getting on a boat and I'm leaving Gotham."

Her chuckle slowly dissipated, turning into a frown. Dawn saw the conviction in Bruce's blue eyes, and it scared her. "You're serious?"

Bruce blinked, and Dawn turned away, crossing her arms.

"It's something I've been thinking about for a long time."

"Bruce?" She said, slightly aggravated, turning back to him. "Why now?"

Bruce gave a look around at everything that surrounded him. All of it, painful. "There's nothing here for me, Dawn. And there's never going to be, you know that. I'm a prisoner in my own home. And I can't escape. And with tomorrow's, proceeding." He rolled eyes, letting out a stuttering breath. "It's time."

"And you can leave it all behind? Just like that?" She shouted, her voice breaking.

Bruce put his head down. Nothing he could say would make it any easier.

"You'll be eighteen in less than two years Bruce. You'd be able to take over Wayne Enterprises."

"I don't want my father's life, Dawn."

"And what about Alfred?"

Alfred, he thought, still hating him.

"Alfred's miserable. And he's miserable because I'm miserable. He tries to hide it, but." He thought for a second, knowing Alfred always meant well, looking out for him. "Alfred doesn't deserve this. Maybe with me gone, he can finally move on from this place and have a life of his own."

"Are you going to tell him?" Dawn asked, knowing Bruce, knowing that if it wasn't imperative for him to let someone know where he was going, he wouldn't.

Bruce crinkled his head.

"Bruce, you owe him at least that."

"He has enough to worry about. With tomorrow and everything, he doesn't need me getting in the way. Besides, he'd never let me go."

"And what if I won't let you go?" Dawn finally asked.

Bruce cautiously approached Dawn. She was angry, but without any words, she leaned into his chest as he hugged her. Dawn, on the verge of tears, did know Bruce, and when he had made up his mind, that was that.

Bruce knew she would hate the idea, but he also knew she'd understand.

"Where will you be going?"

Bruce thought for a moment. He didn't want to tell her, to make it any harder than it already was. He wanted to make a clean getaway, without any trace. "Europe. And then I'll figure it out from there."

"You're certain this is what you want?" She broke away from him.

"If I don't go now...I'll never be able to."

Dawn tried her hardest to hold back the tears trying to release. "It's late." She wiped one away. "I need to get back."

She faked a smile, placing the palm of her hand upon Bruce's left cheek. They both knew what it meant. She began to walk away, but turned back one last time.

"Promise me you'll write?"

Bruce gave a nod and a smile that said yes, but deep down, the both of them knew, that moment would probably be the last time they ever spoke to each other. Dawn would graduate in a year, go off to college and then start her own life, get married, have kids. Bruce would be God knows where by that time, and the two would just be a distant memory to one another. It was sad to think of it in such a heartless way, but it was the truth.

"Bye." Bruce whispered, only for himself to hear.

It might have been easier to not tell her, but for some odd reason, Bruce felt an obscure obligation and loyalty to Dawn. She was, after all, the only one he was close to and stayed close to, even after his parents death. She was also the only one of his friends growing up, that tried, and kept trying.

Bruce watched his old friend, who was more than that, disappear from the light and into the darkness.

Any relationship left that bound Bruce Wayne to Gotham City and its wretched memories, all died that day.

Chapter 32: Smoke Signals

Chateau Briefing Room. Hulbrook Forest, France. February 21st, 1947. 9:45am.

The clicking of slides shuffled about in a projector machine, relaying its images onto a canvas screen at the front of a briefing room, which looked more like a school classroom. Men sat at tables in the dark, studying each image that appeared while cigarette smoke clouds puffed up into the air, a silent reprieve to heal their boredom. Everyone had lost count as to how many times they actually went though the same series of slides.

The images displayed the assassination at the Paris Peace Conference inside Luxembourg Palace, which now took on the appearance of an old murder scene. Dozens and dozens of photos were taken before an investigation took place and the Russian delegate was moved to the local morgue. Copies were given to Henri as per a request from Interpol so that his own investigation could be further conducted.

Arthur and Anya were among those taking part in the presentation, along with a handful of other Interpol agents. Morgan, absent, Henri, at the center table, in a chair to the right of the projector, ashed a cigar into a tray while another man on the opposite side handled the operation of the machine, loading slides.

An abrupt entrance into the dark room seized the endless boredom, but only briefly. Bruce Wayne entered. Everyone gave him a sideways stare. Henri's stare was more inviting, giving him a single nod, which meant he could join, but more than that, Bruce took it a sort of understanding between the two. They were all getting used to the idea of having him around, as he was of them.

Bruce Wayne walked a little differently in the days following he and Henri's little chat, gaining a little perspective. Something he couldn't ever achieve in Gotham. Dr. Thompkins meant well, as a doctor, but her chats were always the same, leaving Bruce stagnate. What he needed was someone who actually understood, who experienced real loss. And as unlikely and unpredictable as it was, Henri did.

Bruce strolled in rather gingerly and found himself a seat toward the back of the room, away from the masses.

We had been at this for ten days now. And each time had come up empty. My first attempts to identify anyone from the lake house within the conference proved less than helpful. Which is why I was even invited into that room in the first place. There were dozens of stills from the conference taken, both before and after the assassination. If I or anyone else had missed anything, we hoped we might find it in those photos.

Henri had everyone working double time, trying to uncover the identity of the assassin. Abbot had been ruled out. And there was still little to no evidence or leads to go off of, save for the bullet we recovered, which only concluded two things; the shooter was maybe American, and perhaps a former OSS operative. The agent files we were able to get our hands on didn't help much in clarifying any of that though. It was like a ghost had taken those shots. And needless to say, patience was becoming thin.

As for me, I wasn't going anywhere. I intended to see this through to the end, no matter what would happen afterwards.

All was quiet as another pass through hit an end. It was with welcomed anticipation when a blank slide popped up, singling the end of another arduous show.

Everyone let out a sigh, finishing off their smokes, stretching their arms out. No progress and no change.

"Alright everyone, lets take a break." Everyone sensed the agitation in Henri's voice. "When we come back, someone better give something to work off of."

One by one, everyone dragged out, they couldn't get out of there fast enough and finally be able to look at something besides a canvas screen.

The exterior of the briefing room, the keep of the castle was a bellow of incoherent chatter, ringing, and radio broadcasts.

"Sir?" A field analyst came running in with urgency, looking for Henri's attention. "I think you should see this."

Henri, Arthur, Anya, and Bruce followed as the analyst led Henri downstairs to the comms center.

"We've been closely monitoring chatter from all over the country. At first I thought it was just smoke signals, but when I tracked down the origin and receiving sites."

"Let's see what you've got." Henri said, walking with haste.

Into the secure, sound proof glass room on the main floor, drowning out all the commotion, a teletypewriter machine sputtered on a nearby desk, standing by on idle.

The analyst continued his train of thought. "We were able to piggy back on a strange communicate coming out of Paris, headed for Washington. The first incoming message came in less than five minutes ago." The analyst pointed at a long strip of paper that had been fed into the teletypewriter. The first line of text read; 'Alpha to Epsilon. Mission status; complete. Target; neutralized. Standing by, awaiting orders.'

The message made sense and could be linked, as vague as it was.

"Can we transmit back?" Henri asked of the analyst.

"One sec."

Morgan finally joined the rest of the team, coming through the door. The main floor commotion briefly re-entered then exited again with his arrival. "What's going on?"

"Strange transmission from Paris." Bruce answered. "Could be something. Could be nothing."

"I didn't ask you." Morgan aggressively replied, his attitude toward Bruce remaining unchanged.

"Well, maybe if you were here, instead of dicking around, you'd know." Bruce gave it right back.

"Hey. Enough." Henri warned the two.

A few cable wires were unplugged and re-inserted into another of the teletypewriter's slots. The machine's typing key clicked and spun in place, idling until it was ready receive what it was to write.

"Go ahead." The analyst took a seat, fingers poised, ready to type in Henri's reply to whomever Alpha was.

Everyone held quiet, fully enthralled, watching Henri.

"Epsilon to Alpha. Confirmed. Location?"

With quick moving fingers, the reply was typed in and sent into the machine and into Paris, back to the mysterious Alpha.

They waited, agonizingly for a return message. Exchanging glances, subtle gestures, and loud breaths. The minutes lingered.

Bruce tapped his foot, Morgan flicked his fingers, Arthur played with a cigarette, Anya crossed her arms, while Henri kept his stance over the machine.

Wishfully hoping, they could only watch the machine's ink needle stammer.

"Did we lose the feed?" Henri wondered.

With blank stares, no one answered.

When it looked like the communicate was dead in the water, the teletypewriter began to move and receive a new message. The text printed out. It read; 'Eastern safe house. Permission to proceed to extraction point?'

Henri squinted at each member of his team. It was the opportunity they had been looking for; a chance to take control. In long thought, Henri seemed to be debating what to say before looking back to his analyst to type another message.

He instructed. "Extraction point change. Proceed to Designation 46.4142° N, 6.9275° E at 23:00 hours. Further instructions to follow. Confirm?" The analyst did as he was told, typing Henri's words verbatim.

Bruce checked the time. That was less than twenty-four hours away.

Again, they waited, watching the needle sputter. A look of worry on their faces, a concern, that they had been made.

'Copy. Alpha, out.' Finally, a reply came through, as did their own confirmation, before the feed cut out.

All at once, everyone started to move.

"What's that location?" Morgan asked of Arthur, who had already grabbed a map and began plotting the coordinates down on a nearby table.

The others hovering around, pencil in hand, Arthur traced the longitude and latitude paths. "If memory serves me right." He circled a spot just off the border of France. "Yes, Switzerland, Lake Geneva." He glanced at Henri. "That old drop point we used to use, it's perfect."

With haste, Henri pointed at Anya. "Make this everyone's top priority, cross reference every OSS operative with the code name Alpha and possible associates of Kyle Abbot. See if anything comes up." Then at Arthur. "Secure any kind of transport you can into Switzerland. We've got less than twenty-four hours to find out who this bastard is and nail his ass."

"Are we sure this is our guy?" Morgan asked the obvious.

"If it is, we can't miss this opportunity. We've got the advantage." Henri spoke with urgency. "Pack up any gear you think we might need, be prepared to move out in a couple hours."

Bruce felt that outside presence again, on the exterior looking in. Only difference was, he wanted to be included. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he could've sworn he was purposely being excluded. Everyone had their instructions, except him.

In a timely manner, everyone left the secure room and got to it.

What the hell?

Chapter 33: Hired Gun

2:06pm.

Back into the briefing they five-some all went. Henri clicked to a slide that displayed the black and white image of a former United States officer plastered onto the projection screen. The mug, narrow faced, slightly sunken with distinguished cheekbones, a cleft in his chin and hair that swept from left to right across his forehead, he was middle aged, maybe thirty-five. It was a face Bruce had seen once before.

"Him." Bruce hunched forward in his seat, staring penetratively at the canvas screen, recollecting, rubbing his chin. "He was at that meeting."

"Are you sure?" Henri needed to know for certain.

Bruce nodded, without breaking away from the image. "Saw him kill two guys." Bruce, kept on the mugshot, nodding. "He was there."

"Sommers, Michael." Henri replied, identifying the mug in question. "AKA, Alpha."

Sommers had a rough around the edges appearance, a face that would stand out if I had seen it before, and I knew I had. Like a guy who did some serious time in the clink. He was most definitely at that meeting outside Paris. And most definitely the man who killed those two bricks, now floating at the bottom of that lake. Interpol's agents and analysts proofed useful when it came to the fast checking and cross-referencing, turning up only one individual with the appropriate code name.

"Alpha?" Arthur asked.

"That was his callsign. Top of his class, expert marksman, and skilled assassin. Fits the bill." Henri described. "Sommers, like we suspected, was an OSS operative during the war."

"He as good as he appears to be on paper?" Arthur continued his questioning.

"Can shoot the wings off a fly. Quote taken from one of his commanding officers. Over 200 confirmed kills out in the field. The math speaks for itself. Our paths have actually crossed." Henri answered. "When I was stationed in Bergenz investigating Leviathan for French Intelligence."

We all convened once again in another of the conference rooms, only difference, now it was just the five of us. No analysts, or other outside man power involved. This was eyes only.

"Were you able to pull up any history?" Arthur, keenly needed more details.

"Much of Sommers' assignments were classified top secret and still are. However, we were able to pull some strings overseas." Anya joined in, standing, she handed a dossier to everyone, except Bruce.

"These are his mission reports." Henri continued. "Sommers spent almost his entire term behind enemy lines in Germany, part of a special team in Berlin, assigned specifically to investigate, infiltrate, and take out members of Hitler's inner circle. Most of his victims; high ranking German officers or Gestapo police, all killed in exactly the same manner; one gunshot to the chest and one to the head, all with meticulous accuracy. A bit of a calling card and a subtle way to stick it to the Germans. He was the best."

"This is our guy." Arthur said, scanning some of the file. "So, what's he been up to recently?"

"Nothing."

Everyone squinted, confused.

"Michael Sommers has been presumed dead. Killed in action." Anya doubtfully replied.

"What?" Morgan barked in.

"He went awol after the war, off the grid, and no one's seen him since. It's like he vanished. Disappeared."

"I'm guessing he didn't?" Arthur came back.

"According to our contact at the embassy, The OSS disassociated themselves with him." Anya went on. "Sommers turned, went rogue, started carrying out assignments on his own, then, for a rival organization."

"And here's the kicker." Henri jumped back in. "In Sommers last known report to the Strategic Service, he mentions the existence of a secret organization within Hitlers regime involved in some sort of undisclosed project, calling themselves, Leviathan."

"No shit?" Arthur exclaimed.

"And turns out." Anya came in again. "Kyle Abbot was his informant in Berlin. His go to guy, feeding him information about the Nazis."

"So, Abbot must've been working for Leviathan before Sommers." Morgan added.

"Which means Sommers was taking out the trash." Arthur said, placing his file down.

"Exactly." Anya finished up. "Bumping off Abbot removes anything linking the two of them, the assassination, and Leviathan."

"Damn." Arthur shook his head. "If the Reds find out an American spy killed one of their delegates."

"We're looking at World War 3." Anya finished Arthur's thought.

"You think he's Leviathan's hired gun?" Arthur posed the question to his old pal.

"I'd bet money on it. His disappearance, the nature of the assassination, Abbots death, the OSS issued weaponry used. It all points to Sommers." Henri smirked, responding to Arthur's query, strolling over toward the map at the head of the room. "And now," he smacked his fist on Switzerland, almost excited. "We know where he'll be."

"Sommers is no amateur. If we somehow let him escape, he'll get away with everything scot free." Anya gestured. "No one will ever see this guy again."

"We need to make sure he doesn't." Henri said with firmness.

The team all shared a collective understanding, knowing what was at stake.

"What's the plan?" Arthur was ready.

"We intercept Sommers at the extraction point. Here. Chillion Castle." Henri brought up a picture of a broken down fortified structure resting on a lake. "The castle leads right into the Alpine passage, it's the perfect getaway for anyone looking to disappear. We used it half a dozen times to get our men out of some tight spots. We capture, and interrogate." he studied all the faces of his team. "We get Sommers, we get Leviathan."

The strategy was set, ready to be put into motion.

"Be ready to move out in two hours."

Upon Henri's final words, with urgency, everyone dispersed. Bruce scowled at his so-called team walking on, leaving him to wonder about his position.

When just Bruce and Henri remained, he opened his mouth. "Think you can pull this off in this amount of time?"

"We have to. There's no prize here for second place." Henri started gathering his things. "I'll have one of my men see you back to the city."

"What!?" Bruce argued.

"Thanks for your help."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"You've done your part. We can handle the rest from here."

"Bullshit!" Bruce, very defensive, fired back. "It's because of me you know Leviathan's involved at all. I'm going with you."

"No." Henri chuckled a bit. "You're not a field agent. You have no training for this kind of thing."

Bruce lifted his head up in disgust.

"Listen." Henri took Bruce aside, lowering his voice. "Take my advice one this one. Walk away from this." Henri said with sincerity.

Bruce was baffled by Henri's remark. Especially given the discussion they had last week. "You and I both know I can't do that."

"Look. I get it. I really do, which is why I'll say it to you again. Walking away from this." He spoke even slower.

With a stern shake of his head, Bruce's stance was clear. "I'm not a child, you don't have to protect me."

"What you need protection from, is yourself." Bruce grew angry at how he was being cast aside and treated. "Remember that conversation we had?"

Bruce slanted his eyebrows, rolling his pupils.

"Once you go down this path, there is no turning back."

For Bruce Wayne, the time for turning back was long gone. Long before he even knew.

Seriously gauging one another, Bruce showed Henri he knew the consequences of the actions he was about to choose, while Henri showed Bruce the face of man who had been there.

Suddenly, the entire Chateau rumbled off kilter, ending their discussion, pushing them back and away, nearly to the floor. Any piece of equipment resting on tables or desks fell over. Henri and Bruce clung on to the nearest object for balance, staggering to rise up.

Cautiously Bruce and Henri exited. Agents and analysts in the keep were already stirring. A buzzing outside the walls, and a steady vibration came on a second rumble slammed into the Chateau like a massive tremor. A colossal explosion hit, Bruce and Henri were slammed off their feet as the entire briefing room imploded behind them, knocking out a huge portion of the western wall. Everyone yelled out, running for cover as clouds of smoke impaired sight.

The frenzied commotion compounded as every station became quickly abandoned. Stone blocks holding the castle together fell from the top, smashing tables of communication gear, nearly crushing agents and analysts.

Up to their feet, Henri grabbed Bruce, forcefully turning him around. "Listen to me!" Bruce, still in a daze, Henri shook him, practically screaming. "Listen to me! Go find Morgan and the others! Morgan will know what to do! Do you hear me?!"

"What about you?!"

"Just go!"

And just like that, Henri disappeared.

Unaware of where to turn next amidst all the chaos, Bruce felt like he was back in Mariette. He did his best to navigate through the stone and dust collecting throughout. The presence of others around him, panic stricken and moving with freight was everywhere.

An indefinite whistling came on. Faintly, then louder, and louder, until it became deafening. Another titanic explosion hit, knocking out another wall. Bruce fell backwards, heat on his face, he shielded his body.

Surviving the recent blast, Bruce got back up to his feet, ringing in his ears, he pressed on, widening his eyeballs.

The struggling moans and sharp expletives of a female voice caused Bruce to temporarily halt his incognizant search for Morgan.

Coughing his way toward the voice, Bruce uncovered a woman trapped under a very large piece of the castle walls.

"Anya!" He called out.

She swore incessantly in both English and Russian, before answering Bruce. "My leg! It's jammed!" Her breaths were short, having been straining for a period, trying to break free.

"Hang on!"

Bruce rushed over. Shimming his hands between the piece of stone Anya was caught under and her leg. He put his back and every muscle he could utilize into it. Holding his breath, Bruce gathered his strength, the stone felt like lifting a car. Exhaling, Bruce took another deep breath, clenching, screaming, veins bulging from his arms, neck, and forehead. He lifted the rock a couple of inches, just enough for Anya to drag herself out from its imprison. With relief, Bruce dropped the piece of cement. Instantly the pressure in his head released.

Anya's leg had been badly squashed, a huge gash in her right thigh poured of blood as she clutched on to it.

"Let me see." Ripping the sleeve of his shirt, Bruce made a tourniquet, wrapping it tightly around the wound. Anya cringed as he tied it. "Can you get to your feet?"

She tried, grimacing in pain. "I don't think so."

"Here. Hold on to me." Bruce reached down, helping Anya to her feet, draping one of her arms around his shoulder, helping her limp away."Do you know where Morgan is? We need to find him."

"I think I saw him in the bailey, just before that first explosion hit."

Hobbling along, the pair made their way through ash, fire, and debris, before reaching the outside through a hole. The exterior of the Chateau began to take on fire as well. Smoke simmered up into the sky while planes buzzed overhead. Jagged pieces of rock laid, smushed into the grassy field.

"Morgan!" Bruce shouted, his voice, gravely from the inhalation of smoke. "Morgan!" He coughed, blinking his eyes. "Morgan!"

From the eastern stables, Morgan appeared, shielding with the palm of his hand.

"Morgan! Over here, Anya needs help!"

He sprinted over. "What happened!?"

"She got pinned down inside."

All three of them couldn't help, but cough now, trying to speak without taking in smoke.

"Where's my father?"

"He went back, he told me to come find you, that you'd know what to do."

Morgan looked back through the hull of the Chateau, which was now completely inaccessible as more pieces broke off from the castle walls.

"Fuck!" Morgan shouted. There was no going back. "Follow me, try to stay close."

Desperate to keep up while keeping Anya afloat, Bruce moved as fast as he could, staying on Morgan's trail through the lower bailey.

The fire quickly spread, the grassy fields catching flames and taking over fast.

"Through here!" Entering the stables, Morgan hurtled toward the far end, the last stable, while Bruce and Anya struggled behind.

Crouching, Morgan swatted some hay away and ran his hands over the ground. The outside fire soon found its way into the stables, making the area sweaty as wood crackled.

Locating a latch, Morgan lifted up a concealed trap door. "Come on! Get in!"

Bruce slowly let Anya back on to her feet, allowing her to be the first on in. Bruce was next, proceeded by Morgan, sealing the trap door behind them.

Chapter 34: As Fate Would Have It

Underground Chateau Tunnel. February 21st, 1947. Unknown Time.

Stalagmites hung and dripped of water from the high ceiling of the underground caverns the unlikely trio of Bruce, Morgan, and Anya had now found themselves in. It created for a cold environment, making the little hairs around Bruce's exposed arm stand at attention, giving him goosebumps. A nice change, considering the fiery hell they just escaped from.

The lower caves and tunnels served as a hideout, and an alternate route to get to other areas of the Chateau undetected during war time. Especially good if one were up to something no one was to see. Henri had told Morgan that the caves could be used as an area to lay low, in case of an attack. Morgan relayed such information to both Bruce and Anya upon their arrival.

Coughing perpetually to remove the taste of ash, Bruce wiped the soot from his eyes to see clearly as he re-wrapped Anya's makeshift bandage. The blood that poured from her wound had finally subsided. She had lost a fair amount, but was able to get to her feet unassisted, just not without some anguish and light headedness in the interim. It was good a thing Bruce happened upon her when he did, if he hand't, Anya would probably be dead.

"Hey." Anya got Bruce's attention, who hadn't uttered a word since arriving down below. "Thanks for your help back there."

"Don't mention it."

"We need to get moving." Morgan interrupted, scaling down the ladder of the trap door from whence they came, again, checking the status of the heat above. They weren't going to be able to go back the same way.

"Right." Bruce said, before turning to Anya. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah. Just give me a minute."

Bruce stood and quietly spoke to Morgan off to the side. "Her leg doesn't look good. Wherever we're going, we need to get there soon. She's gonna need medical attention."

Morgan walked past Bruce without a glance or acknowledgment.

"Hey!" Bruce shouted to Morgan's backside. "Did you hear what I said?"

Morgan turned, sharply. "I'm not interested in anything you have to say. Since we've known you, we've all nearly been killed. Twice now." He reiterated by holding up two fingers.

"Me!?" Bruce countered. "If it wasn't for me, you'd all be still be caught with your tail between your legs."

"The only reason you're still alive is because my father decided to take you in. Thought you'd be worth a damn."

"You think I wanted to be here? I was doing just fine on my own."

"Then why are you still here?"

Bruce didn't answer the question. Morgan wasn't worth the effort. He walked away, but was halted by Morgan's next comment.

"You know what I think. I think you're full of shit, about everything."

"Yeah?" Bruce spun, angry, now face to face with Morgan. "How bout you and I finish what we started in the forest then."

"Take your best shot, pal."

"You two done?" Anya stood there, unseen, between the two like a mother scolding her teenage sons, just as it was about to turn to blows. "Cause if you guys are finished measuring your dicks, then maybe we can get going."

They stared in awe of the words the lady just spoke. She walked on, signaling she was ready, so, they better be too. Bruce and Morgan shared a perplexing stare that had an undertone of humor in it. Bruce gave a single nod, gesturing with his eyes toward Anya as if to say, 'she's the boss.'

Silently, the two caught up to Anya's limping stroll, taking deep breaths to relent the adrenaline from just a few moments ago.

"Alright." She started. "You brought us down here for a reason. Where are we going?"

Clearing his throat, Morgan spoke. "We need to follow the tunnels north. There's an exit that leads back up to the surface."

"How long?" Bruce asked.

"Maybe two miles."

"Can you make it?" Bruce asked Anya.

"I'll be fine. Let's go."

She was resilient, I gave her that, despite nearly being flattened by a boulder. I didn't think about it much before, but it was strange, a woman in Henri's unit. Although, no one seemed to look or treat her any differently. They were probably scared she'd crush anyone who did. Unwillingly, I had found myself trapped, again, with people that couldn't stand the sight of me. Perfect ending to a perfect trip.

We all kept to ourselves the rest of the time through the tunnels. Where we were going, I hadn't a clue. The Chateau was gone, as was any information pertaining to our mystery shooter, who now had a name; Michael Sommers. And then there was the other mystery; who attacked us, but I had a pretty good idea.

I was already making plans for my exit. For real this time. Who the hell knew what was going to happen after this?

When we finally reached the surface again, we were back in the forest, many miles away from the Chateau, or whatever was left of it.

Crackling lightly in the dead of night, a calming fire hissed, keeping the band of improbable young adults warm on a cold winters night. It wasn't any of their first choice to be stuck there with present company, glaring distrustfully at one another, but as fate would have it, there they were.

Morgan poked at the logs of firewood with a stick, while Bruce played with a pile of pebbles, and Anya kept her leg warm on the opposite side. Each of them struggled to keep their eyes afloat. Hours had passed since their escape.

"What exactly are we supposed to be doing here? Besides sit around?" Anya asked.

"This is the rendezvous location. A backup plan, in case something like this were to happen." Morgan continued. "We agreed that any survivors meet here. And as soon as dawn hit, to move on."

"Ok. What if no one comes?" Bruce chimed in. "What if this is it?"

"Then nice knowing you." Morgan retorted sarcastically.

Anya let out an irritated breath. "Nice knowing you? Did we ever?"

Morgan scowled.

"Almost three years I've been with you guys. Do you even know my last name?"

Bruce hung back, curious to where that statement was about to go. Morgan held quiet. It was nice seeing him put to silence by someone, and a woman, no less.

"Tell me something, since we're being honest," Anya began. "Was it always in your nature to act like a little shit?"

Bruce smiled, trying to hold back the laughter.

"You got something to say?" Morgan got defensive towards Bruce.

"I think she just said it all."

Morgan rose, ready for a fight, again.

"Morgan, sit down." Anya scolded.

"You're gonna defend him?"

"If it wasn't for him, I'd be dead. So, yeah, I am."

Morgan sat, put in his place again as Bruce sarcastically grinned. He didn't have to say a word.

"And what are you grinning about?" Anya, now turned on Bruce.

"Excuse me?"

Anya shook her head. "Children, the both of you. Go ahead. Duke it out, be my guest. Let's see who the bigger man is."

Anya waited for them to accept the invitation. Having it shoved in their faces made the notion of fighting not so appealing as neither of them even budged.

"How the hell are we supposed to find Leviathan if we can't even get our own act together?" A great question posed by Anya, that none of them could even begin to answer. Constantly ready to fight each other, they barely knew who the other was or what they were about, yet they were tasked with stopping men they didn't know, or where they came from, or what they were planning. However, in retrospect, it may not have mattered anymore.

The hours kept drifting. The sun would rise soon.

"You think they're all dead?" Bruce asked, directing the question at Anya.

"I don't know. I hope not. I still owe Henri, for what he did for me."

Both Bruce and Morgan stared, wondering what Anya meant.

"What do you owe him?" Morgan replied in a sharp tone, as if the man in question was nothing to him.

"What, are we friends now?" Anya adjusted her position, extending her injured leg with a groan, hesitant. They waited. "Henri..." Anya took a moment. "Henri picked me up off the streets, in Moscow. I was pretty much at the lowest point in my life, begging for food, pickpocketing, stealing from merchants, anything and everything I could get my hands on to trade in for survival. There wasn't much room for a reckless female thief when the war ended in a communist regime. He saw potential in me when no one else did. I never knew my real mother or father." There was sincerity in her eyes. "Henri's the closest thing to a parent I've ever had. I'd follow him into hell if I had to."

Surprised by her openness, Bruce nor Morgan knew where Anya came from, or how she wound up working in Henri's unit. Bruce just figured Interpol assigned her.

"I'm glad he's a father to one of us." Morgan added, continuing to poke at the fire. "Nearly twenty years with him and I still feel like we're strangers."

"What about your mother?" Anya asked. Bruce knew that backstory.

"Are we friends now?" Morgan echoed Anya's words from just a moment ago with more sarcasm. Holding still for a moment, he answered. "I never knew my mother. She died shortly after I was born." Morgan frowned. "When my father looks at me, he sees her, and it reminds him all over again about what happened."

Bruce knew that painful backstory as Anya couldn't help, but ask.

"What happened?"

Morgan sunk his lips in. "She was killed, by a man my father was tasked with tracking down." Morgan kept his eyes to the fire, subtly adjusting his facial muscles as if to hold something in. "I suppose when I look at him, I see the same."

"I'm sorry." Anya replied.

"He tries to protect me from it, but." He hesitated. "I think he forgets I'm not a kid anymore. The good I try to do." Morgan sneered. "It'll never be enough."

Familiar words to Bruce, and for him, maybe even more that, it was the first time he actually empathized with Morgan.

"Since we're all sharing." Anya turned toward Bruce. "What's your story?"

"I don't know if it's much of a story."

"Everyone's got one."

Bruce took a very deep inhale. That pressure again, although this time, he didn't think he'd be able to squirm his way out of it. "Maybe another time."

"There may not be another time." Anya said, acknowledging how finite things were looking for them.

Bruce wasn't going to escape the question. Tossing a tiny pebble into the fire, he took a very drawn out, extensive breath. "I grew up in a world where being wealthy was expected. And if you weren't, you didn't exist. You didn't matter. I despised it, the lavish lifestyle, the parties, everyone kissing your ass just because of your name. The funny thing is, when my parents died, I thought that world would die too. It only got worse. So, I left it all behind. I wanted to be done with it, the people, my name, everything. I just wanted to forget who I was. It wasn't until after what happened in Mariette did I start to understand who my parents really were. Those people that died out there, they were people my parents tried to help. I think your father helped me realize, you can't ever forget."

It was strange, but in some subtle way, the three did relate. They all had a past they were trying to escape from.

"Right now." Bruce added. "Finding Leviathan is everything. I don't care about much in this world, but this may be the only thing I ever do that matters."

None of them said it, but for the first time, they were all in aggreeance.

"So, you're rich huh?"

Bruce gave Anya a snide look ash her comment.

"Think we could get a loan?"

They all held, as humor coming from Anya was an oddity. A second to absorb the joke, she smiled and they all genuinely laughed, together, lightening the mood. For a moment, as brief as it may have been, they all acted as they were meant to, as kids.

A brushing nearby in the forest ended the laugh session as they all jumped, ready to defend.

With an arrow primed to attack, there was Arthur, battered and scuffed up as all hell.

A sigh of relief, they all let their guard down as Arthur lowered his bow. "You three enjoying yourselves?"

"You made it." Morgan stated.

"Barely." Arthur and Morgan shared a brotherly hand clap, pleasantly happy to see one another.

"Did you see Henri?" Anya asked.

"No. I was on my ass before I knew what the hell was going on. You guys alright?" Arthur pointed at Anya'a bandaged leg. "What happened?"

"I'll live."

"Who the hell was it?" Morgan pondered the question each of them was thinking.

"I dunno, but I can make a pretty good guess." Arthur wiped some residue off one of his arrows. "It was a warning."

"Warning?" Morgan questioned, feeling as if they were lucky to be alive.

"If they wanted us dead, we would be." Arthur commented. "They were just toying with us, which means we were on the right track."

"Yeah, and anything we had just went up in smoke." Bruce threw another pebble into the burning fire.

"I wouldn't say that."

Another voice entered.

"Henri!" Arthur exclaimed.

Each of them smiled, looking at their leader as if they hadn't seen him in years.

He looked like hell. Like he had been through a tornado. Torn garments, blood dripping from his arms and forehead, two bags of gear around his shoulders and a bunch of papers tucked under his arm.

"You son of a gun." Arthur could hardly believe it. More gentle laughing followed.

"Everyone ok?" Henri couldn't help but notice the leg. "Anya?"

"I'm good. I had help." She looked to Bruce with a light smile.

"Transport?" Henri got right back to business, asking of Arthur.

"There's already a boat waiting for us."

Without exchanging any words, each of them exchanged a reaffirming head nod. They were ready. With a renewed sense of determination and spirit, all, with the exception of Bruce and Henri, collected themselves and prepared to depart for the coast, together.

Snickering, Bruce looked to Henri, waiting. Whatever came from Henri next would ultimately determine if Bruce was following, or leaving.

Drawing a deep sigh, thinking it over as seriously as he could, Henri finally nodded. "Thank you," he replied before motioning with his head toward the others, both knowing what it meant.

Chapter 35: High Tide

Lake Geneva, Switzerland. February 26th, 1947. 10:02pm

It was back to business, and back to the task at hand; apprehending Michael Alpha Sommers.

Our extraction point for Sommer's resided at a very specific location on the border of Switzerland, just off the coast of Lake Geneva; Chillon Castle; a vacant stronghold resting right on the shore that Henri and Arthur had used previously to get their own men out the country. Time was of the complete essence. The mishap at the Chateau set us back a couple hours, we were under the gun, literally.

We were one-hundred percent certain Sommers was the shooter from the Peace Conference, even more so now. All the evidence added up, pointing directly to him. And if the communicate was indeed accurate, he'd be here, and we'd be ready.

My help with Anya during the explosion earned me another life in Henri's unit, although he wasn't too intent on the idea, he didn't have much choice in the matter. I was going to be at the meeting point with or without them.

Stars sprinkled the evening sky while a gentle sweeping wind glided over the crystal clear waters of Lake Geneva, cascading its waves below the stern of a small charter boat. The hum and vibration of the forty foot craft returned its own splash of counter waves upon the lake.

Bruce's usual act of sleeping until the time came to move was not so on that night. Wide awake and charged with energy, they couldn't get there fast enough.

Chillon Castle; it was the perfect escape route, barren of anyone for miles, it led straight into the Alpine passage, ideal for someone looking to disappear. Hundreds of years ago, the castle was used to house captives during the Religious Wars of the 16th century by the Dukes of Savoy. And now, it was about to house a different kind of prisoner.

Sommers, Alpha, was a name given for good reason, given his past history and work on the Russian Delegate. If those were any frame of reference, then he was a man not to be trifled with.

"Pull into that alcove ahead." Henri ordered Arthur at the wheel. With a turn, Arthur steered the small vessel into a waterway entrance, leading to the foundation level of the castle.

Two spotlight beams shined into the entrance, guiding them inside the narrow waterway, speckled with stone walkways up to the surface. The infrastructure of the castle grounds crumbled from years of bearing weight above. Tiny bits of rock dropped from the ceiling, rippling the water below.

Roping off the boat, Morgan secured it to a piece of stone jutting up from the ground. Arthur shut the engine while Anya started to unzip bags of gear.

Henri tapped Bruce on the side of his arm. "Here, take this." He presented a hunters knife; thick, heavy handed, and sharp, much more deadly than his father's old keepsake.

"I can handle myself." Bruce countered.

"I know you can. That's why I'm giving it to you."

Eye balling the blade, Bruce contemplated, knowing what he was up against.

"You wanted to be here, right?" Henri reiterated Bruce's feelings back to him.

Reluctantly, and rather presumptuously, Bruce accepted.

"And one more thing." Henri added, showing Bruce the vial of fluid from Mariette, still secure in its stainless steel casing "It's safer with you."

"You trust me now?"

"I'm trusting in that when the time comes, you'll do what needs to be done." Henri told Bruce, handing over the vial.

"Alright." Arthur filled his quiver to the brim with freshly sharpened arrows. "Let's do this."

Bruce took the sample, pocketing it.

Up a narrow set of steps that barely held together, acquiring new cracks when pressure was applied, they all traversed, wobbly to keep balance and prevent themselves from plummeting off into the lake.

The plops of dripping water accompanied them throughout a series of tunnels and narrow paths of broken, sawtoothed rock. Wide enough for only one, each trailed closely behind the other, keeping an eye out.

The cramped passageways eventually opened, leading them into the dungeon floor. Pillars and archways encompassed the entire area, null of anything, but an eerie landscape of human bones, scattered about the place, giving the revelation that those prisoners from hundreds of years ago perished, spending their last days held captive.

Only an hour ahead of time before Sommers' scheduled extraction, they had precious little time to thoroughly prepare.

After informing Interpol of our present whereabouts and what had occurred, the agency, Henri and the others agreed, as well as I, the best way to catch Sommers off guard was to have someone pose as Alpha's contact; Epsilon. And for that someone to be Henri. It was a risk, but one worth taking. We had two possible outcomes on our plate. One; Sommers would be unaware of who Epsilon actually was, giving us the advantage to take him without suspicion. Or two; the less desirable outcome, that Sommers would know who to look for. In that case, we would need to be ready for a fight.

We had a spot picked out in the next city over, where, if we were to succeed in apprehending Sommers, our interrogation of him would take place, undisturbed. In a perfect world, such interrogation would take place back at the chateau, but that wasn't an option anymore.

Henri clicked and loaded a fresh magazine into his 9mm Beretta, sliding one round into the chamber. Dark fedora and a thick wool trench, the veteran certainly had the look and appearance of a secretive man as he straightened his collar. "Stay on my six, and cover my ass. Anything tips off Sommers, this could go south real fast."

"Got ya covered, boss." Arthur checked the time. "Ten minutes, you better get into position."

"Do us a favor. And stay in plain sight." Anya warned.

The rest of us took a post up top, with Arthur right above Henri. He was the best shot, and if necessary, he needed a clear view of Sommers. Anya set up across from Morgan and me, on Henri's 9 o'clock, us on his 3. All of them locked and loaded.

Henri lit a cigar while he waited. Strategically, Henri placed himself in an area of the castle where one archway path served as both the entrance in and the exit out. They were going to need every advantage possible. The poor lighting would make it difficult to make out Henri's true appearance, another advantage that wishfully would keep Sommers off his guard.

"I hope this works." Morgan mumbled, almost under his breath.

"Yeah. Me too." Bruce shared the sentiment.

Relaxed breaths, or as relaxed as could be given the situation, were taken amongst Bruce and Morgan. The air, so effortlessly still, their ears became hyper aware of each drip, each thrum, and every delicate wave impacting upon the castle from the outside. It was hard to tell if they were just focused, or scared.

Taking in the situation, Bruce wondered about how he had gotten to where he was, as well as Morgan.

"Did you always want to do this?" Bruce calm asked.

"What?" Morgan responded back, unsure of what Bruce meant.

"This? Working with your Dad? Hunting bad guys?"

Morgan looked out blankly. Bruce could tell that the question was never posed to Morgan, who was now thinking about it for the first time.

"Never really had a choice." Morgan answered. "This is all I saw, this is all I knew."

Through the stillness of the night, gentle steps upon the rocks patted, halting every other thought or action that may have been taking place.

Henri tossed his half finished cigar and took one step back into the dark. Bruce did the same, honing in on the new arrival.

From the shadows, a tall figure stepped through the arches, clouded in light and darkness. Down coat to his ankles, the figure's hands were strategically concealed within his deep pockets. Calculated in his short steps, he made sure not to expose himself. too much.

Bruce watched, on pins and needles. The next few seconds would pave the way for what would follow.

Cool as ice, Henri held his ground, poised to receive their target. Both hands in his coat pockets as well, his right, clutched the handle of his weapon. He switched the safety off.

Without budging, the two grilled one another, waiting for one to make the first move. Given the aptitude they were up against, Henri was the more vulnerable one.

The seconds nervously dragged as neither said a word or moved a muscle.

"I don't like this." Morgan whispered to Bruce.

"Just give it a minute."

The rift between them tensely shortened as the face of Michael Sommers finally slivered forward in the moonlight. Stone faced, he stopped just an arms length from Henri. Softly, he looked around, breathing in the crisp air. He let out a sigh. "High tide this time of year."

"Shit." Bruce heard Morgan quietly, this time, from under his breath.

"What?" Bruce whispered.

"It's a coded phrase."

"What do we do?"

Anxious and unsure, Morgan reached for his pistol. "Be ready."

The coded term got Arthur and Anya stirred up as well, who also brought their weapons to the ready.

Henri held, looking for a response, one that wouldn't tip off Sommers. "Let's get you out of here, son. And back on familiar soil." Stalling, he readied himself to pull that Beretta.

Sommers angled his eyes up and to the left, and then to the right. The short stint of silence was enough for the seasoned operative to raise his suspicions, beginning to back peddle.

With stealth, cutting off the exit, Arthur crept up from behind, through the archway, placing an unaware Sommers in the cross hairs of his bow and arrow. Calm and collect, Sommers now subtly trailed his eyes to his left.

Henri took a half step forward, and within that nanosecond, both drew their weapons. Rapid fire, Sommers unloaded one round, Henri fell back. Quickly sidestepping Arthur's catapulted arrow, turning with a crouching 360, Sommers fired one shot at Arthur that clipped the archway before he bolted.

Fully aware of his surroundings, Alpha knew exactly where to go. In a hard run, discharging several rounds at a weakened section in the castle wall, Sommers rammed his shoulder through, breaking the enclosure, escaping into the wilderness.

"After him!" Henri shouted from the ground, holding his left shoulder. Arthur was the first up and on the move, through the man shaped hole.

Bruce, Morgan, and Anya ditched their disclosed spots, heading for the closest exits.

"Split up! Try to cut him off." Henri ordered, limping up.

Out of the nearest balcony, Bruce looked out. He spotted Sommers, hauling it across the battlements below him and across the way.

"Shit!"

Without a second thought, Bruce hopped over the balcony, nearly losing himself off the slim battlement as he landed on his hands and feet. Up, chasing hard, on the same level of Sommers now, Bruce hauled it. Watching each step, Bruce fought to stay level while keeping his sights on Sommers. Ahead, the battlement would make a sharp ninety degree turn. Sommers jumped the corner turn first, toward the next tower. Bruce was next, making the turn. Sommers tried to slow him down, firing two shots that shaved the stone, mere inches from Bruce's head. Narrowly escaping the attack caused Bruce to lose his footing around the bend, tripping him off the ledge. Reaching out with both arms, Bruce clung to the ledge, latching his torso to the battlement, digging his fingers in to the stone. Legs dangling, the ward of the castle lied hundreds feet below him in darkness. Bruce struggled to pull himself up, slipping further which each attempt. Sommers was already climbing up the side of the next tower, making his getaway.

Straining, hands wrapped around Bruce. "Come on, get up!" The friendly arms of Anya helped pull him back up. Together they sprinted into the tower. Henri and Morgan were already doing the same on the other side of the ward. The foursome met up, charged up the towers interior spiral staircase, Henri leading the pack with one limp arm, skipping over steps to get to the top.

Up through the top they all came.

"Don't do it Sommers!" Henri shouted, gun aimed.

Alpha stood, immobile, at the tip of the towers ledge, back to Henri and the others. The contemplation on all their minds; if he'd jump. It was over. There was no where to go for Sommers, his only alternative was down. He was surrounded.

A hefty wind whipped through the top of the tower brushing everyone's clothing, chilling their faces, flapping a current through their ears. No one made a move toward the backside of Michael Sommers, scared that doing so would send him over the edge. He was soldier, and he'd rather die before being taken alive.

Anya gauged Henri, who held his palm up to her. Bruce and Morgan glanced at one another, ready to move, thinking the same thing.

The night, Bruce, his allies, and now the wind, held motionless. Nervously, there was horrid anticipation about what would happen next.

All at once, a blistering, steel tipped arrow soared from below, puncturing Alpha's quad, through to the either side. Sommers yelled out. The impact was enough to make an advance. Henri ran forward, grabbed Sommers from his coat and yanked him down from the ledge, on to his back.

"Gotcha, you son of a bitch."

Chapter 36: In Bed with the Enemy

Stranded Central Train Station, Montreaux, Switzerland. February 25th, 1947. 11:57pm.

The crunch of bones shifting and the spill of blood staining the floor echoed as Henri Ducard delivered another, stiff right cross to his kidnapped victim's left chick bone; Michael Sommers. Sommers' whole body stifled, unable to fight back from the chair he had been bound and secured to, the pain from his arrow wound, still fresh.

"Leviathan! Talk!" Henri ordered.

"Go to hell." Sommers spat out a wad of dark red saliva that landed just shy of Henri's boot.

Henri dealt another blow, a fierce right hook this time, from his un-bandaged arm. Sommers' hard grunt of pain vibrated off the walls, the by product of his lack of cooperation as his beat down ensued.

"Who hired you?!" Henri tried again.

Bruce stood by on the side, arms crossed, his stomach churning, slightly un-hinged with the methods Henri was imploring, although he did his best to appear otherwise. Bruce had been given his fair share of smack downs before, but none where he was unable to defend himself. Henri's work on Sommers was more like torture, rather than the interrogation he thought would take place. Morgan, Arthur, and Anya watched intently on the opposite side, guns and bow ready, just in case Sommers tried anything cute. They were more at ease with the situation, like they had seen it used before.

Following Sommers apprehension on the lake, we slipped him a Mickey Finn so we could get to the station and Sommers set up for a proper interrogation. Or, Henri's definition of proper. Arthur lined the perimeter with explosives, just in case Sommers actual contact crashed the party. We weren't taking any chances.

Henri brought his face closer to Sommers' swollen mug, in an attempt to intimidate the former American agent. "You're only making this worse. Give me, what I want."

Sommers studied Henri's gaze upon him, and held quiet, as if considering the request. With a squint, Sommers turned his head without breaking eye contact, and spat out another clump of blood, prolonging his defiance.

"Have it your way." Standing straight up, Henri turned his back, taking a breather to collect himself, removing his hunting knife from his boot strap. More drastic measures were about to be taken.

Sommers sized up Henri closely with a hint of recollection in his eyes. "I remember you, now."

Playing with the tip of his blade, Henri simply turned his head, showing Sommers only his side profile.

"Bergenz. 1945. Ducard. Right?"

Henri distanced himself a bit more upon the Sommers recognition of him.

"Yeah, I'd remember a froggy Frenchman if I saw one before." Sommers laughed at his own joke. "Somehow I always knew death would wear a familiar face."

"Cut the bullshit, Sommers. We know you carried out the assassination from the Peace Conference."

"Then I guess a congratulations is in order."

"It's over. Now tell me where to find Leviathan. And I might just spare you."

Sommers laughed again. "Spare me? You really think I'll make it one day if you let me walk out of here alive? You might as well kill me now."

"If I don't like what I hear, believe me, I will." Henri assured.

Sommers struggled in his constraints, sniffing the air, shaking his head. "You think you're the only one whose fingered me for the hitman? There's a big fat price on my head for anyone willing to cash in. I'm a marked man now."

"Then you don't have much time do you? Cough it up." Henri grew impatient with the stall tactics.

Again, Sommers shook his head, and not in opposition, but in aggravation. Realizing there was no point in continuing the charade. He bit his swollen lip, widening his gaze at Henri. "I didn't do it."

Henri rolled his eyes back, grinning at the blatant lie. "You're the only man within a thousand miles with the skill to pull off that assassination."

"Even if someone approached me. You really think I'd be dumb enough to take on that job?"

"You're handiwork is all over the crime scene. Your informant, Abbot, we know everything."

Sommers shook his head once more. "You're barking up the wrong tree, old boy."

"Am I?"

Sommers pursed his blood stained lips. "You really don't get it, do you?" He waited a moment and then brought his voice down, almost like he was scared, scared that someone might over hear him. "Leviathan. These people. They don't deal with loose ends and they certainly don't make mistakes. You're a smart man, you should know better than anyone. Every move they make is calculated down to the last detail."

For the first time in the conversation, Sommers turned a light shade of white, accompanied by a look of distress.

"If that assassination looked like I did it..."

Henri paused, narrowing at the seriousness in Sommers comment. The wheels of his mind beginning to turn. He thought. "It's because it was meant to."

"Red tape, old boy." Sommers explained as Henri started to walk away, rubbing his chin.

"Why?" Morgan joined the conversation.

"I'm sure you have my file. Berlin. 44."

Henri stood confused. "This is all a revenge vendetta? Because of your involvement in Berlin, investigating Leviathan?"

Sommers chuckled. "It's much more than that. More than you could possibly comprehend." His tone, there was an air to it, a hesitation that instantly made everyones spine tingle.

"Then why?" Anya hopped in now. "Why go through so much trouble to make it look like you murdered Abbot and the Russian delegate?"

"Because." Sommers spoke slower. "I saw the truth. I saw up close who Leviathan was, and what they were were doing. The OSS didn't want anyone knowing that I was investigating Leviathan. On paper I was disavowed, free for hire." Sommers shrugged his face. "Two years under, and in their employ, I was careful. But, somehow they figured me out. The assassination, that was an opportunity to put my face on notice. I'm a risk to their entire operation...just like all of you."

With hard intent, each of them fastened their eyes to Sommers.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Arthur took two steps closer, maintaining a distance, readying an arrow.

"Why is it you suppose it's you five who are here talking to me right now?"

Silence followed, coupled with a stare of bewilderment, an understanding they didn't want to believe. In that very instant, they all knew it. They had been played, all of them.

"You're all here, because that's exactly where they want you to be. You three." Sommers gestured toward Morgan, Anya, and Arthur. "You're simply guilty by association with Henri. But you." Sommers turned and made direct eye contact with Bruce. "You've been on their radar ever since you started messin' around with those fellas in South France."

"What did you just say?" Forcefully, Bruce arose.

"You went snooping around where you shouldn't have. That blast. Why do you think it went off in the first place? Hmm?" Thoughts of Charles and his son quickly came to Bruce's mind. "You all got a little too close to something you weren't suppose to see."

In a daze, Bruce's mind began to swell, his face locked. "Are you telling me they killed all those people, just as a cover up?"

"There's no depths these people won't sink to in order to keep their future secure. All those deaths, that blood might as well be on your hands too."

Bruce felt knots in his stomach. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault. That's what he had to keep telling himself to keep from exploding. Pacing, Bruce tried to fight from having another episode. Rage inside, reaching into his pocket, removed the vial, and scampered right up to Sommers' bruised and ugly mug.

"What is this?" Bruce grabbed Sommers by the collar, shoving the vial of green fluid right into his face. "And why the hell is it so damn important?"

Sommers, stoic in his expression, no longer smug, he glanced very carefully at the sample, then back at Bruce. "What you're holding, is the very fabric by which all their research has been based upon for the last thirty years. The nature of its existence outside their grasp, is most likely the only thing keeping you all out of a body bag. The discovery of that, all those years ago...changed everything."

"What is it?" Bruce asked again.

Sommers held for a moment, gulping back some of his own blood. "They call it Ezarium."

Henri came rushing back over, acting as an intermediary. "The Nazis and Leviathan were building something in Bergenz. What was it? And how is this shit involved?

Sommers let an irritated breath out from his nostrils. "You really believe the Nazis aligned themselves with Leviathan simply for their ability to create a weapon?" He waited for Henri or Bruce to respond, but nothing came to. "That's just the tip of the iceberg, and what that stuff can do."

The gap between Sommers and the rest of the team shortened. Curiosity encapsulated the entire station with Sommers at the head of attention.

"What are you talking about?" Morgan chimed in, a hand on his sidearm.

Sommers turned his attention back to Henri. "All those rumors. Those horror stories out of Berlin. Remember? Nazi human testing and genetic experimentation?" Sommers had to look away, freight and disbelief washing over. "They were all true. I saw it with my own eyes, the atrocity it was, and the horrendous things they were doing. Leviathan led the whole God damn thing."

The fear in Sommers eyes was now shared with Bruce and Henri as the others looked on as spectators, enthralled in the exchange.

"You can never un-see something like that." Sommers shied away. "And believe me, it wasn't just happening in Berlin. It was happening all over."

Henri walked away. Holstering his knife, he rubbed his forehead with strain.

"I started piecing it all together two years ago in Bergnez." Henri turned back, once Sommers referenced Austria. "We were both there Henri. That special assignment? Didn't you ever wonder why it was so imperative for us to infiltrate all those labs, and gather up as many Leviathan scientists as we could. We weren't looking for them so that we could end their existence."

An uncomfortable silence entered the station as they all waited on Sommers.

"We were recruiting them for our own use."

A collective, terrified, and blurred stare hit them all.

"The Americans, they codenamed it Operation Paperclip; a secret directive order from Truman himself. Its sole purpose; to employ well known Nazi/Leviathan engineers, scientists, and technicians. And who do you think was whispering in Truman's ear to carry out that initiative?"

Sommers gave Henri a minute to mull over his previous sentence. "That's why you disappeared."

"I've been undercover ever since. Abbot. He was trying to help me expose the truth."

"The truth?" Bruce asked.

"That we've been lying in bed with the enemy for years. And it's been going on right under our noses the whole time. When I found out what was happening, I went off the grid. I knew I couldn't trust anyone, not even my own people."

"I don't understand. Why would the Allies go along with this?" Arthur wondered.

"Knowledge, insight, advancement. Call it whatever you want. The United States wasn't stupid. They knew, as did Leviathan, that when the war ended, someday down the road the U.S. would be in conflict with The Soviet Union. The information and intelligence the United States could gather and use from those scientists would give them edge they would need against the Reds. Leviathan saw this as an opportunity. And last year, the Reds began conducting their very own employment of Leviathan personnel for the same purpose. Operation Osoaviakhim. And I don't have to tell you who spearheaded that."

Astonishment ran over Henri's leathery face.

"Leviathan's been infiltrating every level of government since long before the war, manipulating world leaders. Playing both sides against each other, so that in secret, Leviathan's work could continue under the guise of democracy and socialism."

Trying to fit the pieces together so that some sense could be made from it, each of them scoured through all the information and facts Sommers presented, hoping what he said wasn't the truth.

"The attack in France, the Caspian, and now the assassination." Sommers went on. "This is all just the beginning. Leading up to a bigger endgame, paving the way for something terrible."

Henri's eyes dilated, he was beginning to connect the dots.

"You understand now? Just how deep this thing goes? Leviathan never disappeared and they sure as hell didn't stop. Those experiments, they're are at the forefront of everything Leviathan is trying to create. Their lineage, and what they're building, is more than just a weapon."

Sommers locked eyes with Henri. No longer a smirk across his face, or the glimmer of a sarcastic comment waiting in the wings, he was as serious as any man could have ever been.

On the edge, all eyes on Sommers, they waited for him to finish, to fill in the blanks, and decipher what Leviathan was conducting in secret.

He held, and then he said it..."The Deathstroke Project."

Before Sommers could voice another syllable, a single, whizzing gunshot penetrated the airways, piercing him right through his forehead. The deadly impact knocked him right over in his chair.

A reaction couldn't even be made to the shock of Sommers murder, mere feet away, because before Bruce or any of the others knew it, they were already under attack. Vicious gunfire assaulted the entire station from every which direction. Bruce and the others jumped and scrambled for cover, dispersing where they could, hiding behind the first thing they could find.

Bruce ran, diving behind an old broken down ticket booth, bullets flying by his head, hew unable to think with all the commotion.

The whole train station instantly became a battleground war zone, bullets relentlessly fired without pause.

From behind a side pillar, Henri returned fire in no direction whatsoever to provide some sort of cover and protection.

"Can you see em?!" Morgan yelled out, trying to make his voice heard over all the hysteria, returning gunfire as well. No one replied.

Shots ricocheted off every object surrounding Bruce. The group was horribly pinned down, unprepared for the atrocious firepower reigning hell upon them. There was no escaping the terrible onslaught.

"God damn it! Where are they!?" Anya screamed, trying to get a clear shot as the firing squad ensued.

Ducking and trying to dodge shards of scrap metal became too much. Without any other alternative, Arthur pulled the detonator switch from his cargo pants pocket. If they were to survive the onslaught, he had to do it, there was no other choice.

"Cover your ears!" And with a single click of the detonator, the explosives set all around the station went off simultaneously like a sonic boom. The whole of it rattled off the ground and trembled like an aftershock from an earthquake. The sound of the explosion drowned out anything else. Pieces of the station, violently broke away, scattering everywhere.

In an instant, the gunfire seized, and the whole place went stone quiet.

When the dust from the blast settled, Bruce and the others slowly started to peak out from their hiding spots, covered head to toe in white dust particles, to see if the coast was clear.

The hysteria, the erratic scenery from just a few seconds ago, abruptly came to a stop. Each individual looked around, then at each other, weapons ready.

Bruce gave a quick glance at the dead body of Michael Sommers, a thick sheet of powder covering him.

"Did we get em?" Morgan asked.

They all continued to check the area. It was still, quiet. Too quiet.

"I don't know. Stay sharp." Henri whispered.

They searched all over, everything surrounding and object in between. They saw no one.

Suddenly, an object from the unknown pinged to the floor, into the middle of the team, shortly capturing their attention. Off it went with a bang, creating a hiss of disorienting smoke, clouding everyones vision.

Shielding their eyes, everyone coughed, inhaling the fumes as they tried to reposes their bearings.

Seamlessly through the cloud, like a bat out of hell, something came bolting in from the smoke with cat like quickness. Bruce, Morgan, Henri, Anya, and Arthur were all knocked right from their feet and disarmed of their weapons.

Before any of them could get up to defend or prepare for an attack, they were hit with another unseen blow. Not one of them could get eyes on the apparition foiling them. Like a speeding blur, it was everywhere at once.

From the ground, batting his eyes, Bruce caught a glimpse of a red headband, fluttering in the slowly dissipating smoke.

They were hit again and again.

When the fumes cleared, enough to make out the station again, Bruce and the others staggered to pick themselves up. Encircled at the center of the them, standing ever so still, decked out in tactical armor, staring back, ready for battle; a single, lone soldier. Equipped with grenades at his hip, a katana sword holstered to his back, he clutched a metal bo staff. Tall and intimidating in his stance, he allowed himself to be still enough so that his adversaries could get a good look. The soldier; young, well built, a groomed goatee, slicked, jet black hair which was held back by a red bandana, his size and strength was beyond human.

Fisticuffs up, Henri was the first to try and take the assassin on.

With the twirl of his staff, the soldier countered with incredible agility, dodging and blocking every strike attempted, before roundhouse kicking the Hunter away with force.

Fueled by ferocity, both Bruce and Morgan jumped in to defend a fallen Henri, engaging the soldier two on one. The soldier spun his staff again and with blistering speed, weaved flawlessly between the pair, evading every swing, every grab, every failed effort to land a punch. Neither Bruce or Morgan were a match for the highly skilled opponent. Bruce was the first to be struck by the assassins's bo staff, one shot to the gut, the second to his back. Morgan was next, receiving a pummel to his ribs. Grunting, the pair took on multiple blows in just a matter of seconds from every direction. The attacks came in faster than either could physically raise their arms in time to defend. Both were pushed back and away with impacts so terrible, it launched the wind from their lungs. The soldier glared, toying with the young men, down right bullying them. Out of their depth, they fared for just seconds more before being belted down to the ground as well.

With the soldier occupied, Arthur reached for an arrow, Anya, for a fallen pistol. Both were shot away, clean from their hands with pin point accuracy by the soldier's LR 22 Suppressed Pistol.

Boasting, the assassin holstered his gun, then proceeded to lock his staff behind him. Grazing each team member dead in their eyes, he sized them all up, walking around the area, without a single emotion on his face, practically egging them on.

All at once, the five of them leapt up and attacked. A combination of punches, holds and kicks were thrown by the hands of the quintet to no avail. Leaping, spinning, rolling through and underneath, the sniper showed he was the superior fighter, escaping or blocking each and every single attack thrown his way. The five-some's lone opponent hadn't even thrown a punch, there was no need. Five on one was barely a challenge.

Bruce went for a right cross that was grabbed mid air, in a instant, Bruce felt the twist of his arm as it became separated from the socket. Screaming in agony, Bruce was flipped to the cold floor. One down. Morgan was next to blare out in anguish as his own hunting knife was swiped and then lodged into his calf. Two down. Henri, Arthur, and Anya soon followed to be smacked down and to sustain injuries. Bruce couldn't see it, focused on his own pain, but heard their screams. Three, four, and five, all down for the count.

Beaten, and with minimal effort, each helplessly laid, waiting for the assassin to put them out of their misery.

In a slow, confident strut, the assassin set his eyes on Bruce, approaching methodically.

Staggering away with his one good arm, the vial of green fluid slipped from Bruce's side pocket, rolling forward.

The soldier stopped immediately, fixated on the vial with obscure interest. It stunned him.

Henri quickly scooped up a stray pistol while the soldier was distracted. Desperately unloading every remaining round left at the assassin, a single, clean shot landed, directly into the soldier's right hamstring.

Reacting to the wound with a buckle in his leg, the solider dropped a flash grenade. Exploding with dust, the air went invisible again. And just like that, he was gone, vanished from thin air.

Chapter 37: The Wool Over Our Eyes

Interpol Safe House. Montreaux, Switzerland. February 26th, 1947. 1:10am.

Defeated. That was the nice way to explain the emotions we all shared, cramped up inside that one bedroom safe house. Each of us occupied a small space in a dingy living room, together, but we might as well have been a thousand miles away. No one had uttered a single word since we left the train station, beat up and at a loss. We all just stared into a burning fireplace, watching it crackle, alone to our own thoughts. I don't think we quite knew what to say. Or if there was anything to say. In an instant, everything we thought we knew, had changed.

The sensation in my arm was beginning to come back after being placed back into my shoulder socket. I don't know which was more painful, having my arm pulled out or put back in. Or if the real pain I felt was from what Sommers said. Was he right? Were all those deaths really my fault? Is that why I'm still here? And they're not? Was this my punishment? I began to wonder, how many others were meant to die because of the secrets these men intended to keep?

Henri Ducard sat at an old, rickety dinning room table. He hadn't stopped playing with the facial hairs on his chin since they arrived. Morgan was flopped up close to the fire, picking tiny pieces of dirt up off the floor and tossing them in. Anya leaned forward in a rocking chair, fist in palm, gathering the warmth while Arthur sprawled out next to his bow, on an old, beat up grey sofa, patched up with grey duct tape. Bruce took a position farthest away, he was the only one standing, leaned on a window, watching the embers spew. They were all banged up from the beat down they ensued.

The distant honking of a car horn outside was a pleasant interrupting distraction from the silence that prolonged. It made everyone break away from their own solitude and shift positioning, remembering they were indeed sharing the same space.

An anticipatory feeling entered the room, like someone was about to say something. And it was clear, no one wanted to be first to open their mouth.

"What the hell was that back there?" Morgan broke the stillness with the one question on all their minds. No one offered a reply, none of them knew how to reply. "That sniper. That was one man. It felt like we were being attacked by an entire army."

The query was open for anyone to answer, to explain, but really, only one knew how to even begin.

"Deathstroke." Arthur sat up and replied. "What was Sommers droning on about?"

Henri remained numb, but did cease playing around with his chin hairs. He stared blankly ahead. "I…I made a terrible mistake." He finally spoke. And the burning fire was no longer the focal point. He sat back from the dining table as everyone else turned to him. "Leviathan. The Nazis. And what was actually happening."

"What happened in Bergenz, Henri?" Anya joined the conversation.

Henri, looked up at the ceiling, crossing his arms.

"Henri?" She tried again.

He was slow to answer. "Our instructions were simple. They gave us a list of names. Leviathan researchers involved in creating an undisclosed weapon that were to be seized and captured. We didn't ask why, we just did what we were told. What happened to them afterwards, that was not our business. When our mission ended, a series of investigations into their research took place. Those captured were interrogated, and eventually, tortured for information; Heinrich Himmler, Wernher von Braun, Walter Schieber, and several more. Afterwards, rumors started to swirl, that the Nazis and Leviathan may have been conducting experiments on humans. And that a top secret project may have existed, involving surgical and genetic human augmentation. Codenamed; Deathstroke."

"Augmentation?" Arthur interjected.

"Some members of our unit speculated that the Nazis may have been trying to create some kind of enhanced human army. Men with increased longevity, stamina, and whom could withstand pain; the perfect soldier. We looked into, but nothing tangible was ever recovered to support that the project actually existed. So we just chalked it up to some German mumbo jumbo. But, after tonight, what Sommers said, that assassin." Henri had to take a second. "Then, it was all true. Just the wool over our eyes. I never thought for a minute we were taking those men in to use for our own research."

Henri laughed, and not because he found humor in it. Cracking open his flask, he took a deep sip.

Again, that silence entered the room and it stuck there for a good while until Anya broke it. "So, what happens now?"

They all sat back again, reassuming their positions from before, eyes glued to the fireplace.

"Well. I don't know about the rest of you, but there's a train headed back to Paris in two hours. And I intend to be on it." Arthur slid out from the couch, grabbing his bow, and started packing his gear.

"So, that's it? We're walking away from this?" Anya reacted to Arthur's rash behavior.

"This hunt ended the second that assassin put a hole through Sommers' head." Arthur continued gathering his things.

"He's right." Morgan reluctantly chimed in, siding with Arthur.

"You're backing out now too?" Anya shouted, disgruntled.

"I hate to say it, but Arthur's right. There's no point in sticking around here anymore." Morgan voiced his perspective. "You heard what Sommers said, we're all in the crosshairs now. You wanna wait around to see what happens when they find us?"

"Which is why we need to find them first." Bruce joined in.

Arthur laughed. "That's insane," adamant in his retort. "We're lucky we've made it this far. What they want, is what you've got." He pointed to Bruce. "I say we ditch it, then get as far away from it as possible."

"After all that talk back in the forest the other day?" Bruce called out Arthur. "You can just walk away."

"Hey!" Arthur blurted back, defensive in his tone. "I've also been around long enough to know when I'm way out of my depth."

"Leviathan has a whole shit ton of this stuff." Bruce held the fluid, now known as Ezarium, up for all to see. "There's no telling what they could do with it, or when. And by that time, it won't matter where any of us choose to run."

"I'm sorry, kid. I really am I. But, it's time to walk away."

"Leviathan isn't gonna let us just walk away?" Anya slowly remarked. "Not with everything we know. We'll be running forever."

"I'd rather take my chances on the road, than go looking for trouble. You saw what just happened. Look at us." Arthur gestured. "You think we'd survive a second encounter with that fucking guy?"

"We can't just hide out and wait to see what happens next. Not when we can do something about it. Or we're gonna find out with the rest of the world, before it's too late." Bruce quieted everyone with his response, making his point as well as his stance clear.

Arthur, apologetically shook his head. "I know how much this means to you, but we'll all die trying. I'm sorry. It's over."

Before any counter could be made, the Arthur and Morgan were already heading for the door.

"I can't believe you two." Anya raised her voice agan. "Talking out both sides of your mouth."

"Oh please! Suddenly you want to be a hero now?" Morgan was quick to shout back. "Get real."

The four began to stir, all up from their seats, arguing with one another, until finally, it escalated into a full blown pointing and shoving match over who was right and who was wrong. The back and forth accusation within the small, cramped safe house quickly became a clamor of incoherentness.

Arthur went up another octave as Anya pushed him back. "Even if we wanted to find Leviathan! Where would we start? Our best lead is laying stiff on a train station floor. We don't know where Leviathan is, what they're doing, or where they're going." He presented the gargantuan sized roadblock hindering them.

Bruce could only stare at Arthur. He had no rebuttal. Looking to Anya, she had none either. There was no answer or solution, they were lost.

"Like I said." Arthur started. "It's over."

Bruce slowly walked away, feeling defeated as the remaining three continued conflicting with one another.

I didn't want to accept it, I refused. But, I had nothing left to say. Nothing left to convince them.

"It's not over." Henri replied in the background.

Calmly, the noisy banter began to subside upon Henri's words, breaking up the argument.

"What?" Arthur conjectured.

Stillness returned.

"It's not over." Henri said it again to his old friend.

"How do you figure?"

"There's still one avenue we haven't ventured down yet."

"Which is?"

Henri sat back, while his team created some space between one other. "Those assignments in Bergenz." They listened. "There were extremely top secret. Only a handful of people knew the missions actually took place."

"What are you driving at, Henri?" Henri's old pal asked.

"Every agency under the Allied Nations agreed that any documented information pertaining to Leviathan be taken to a single, disclosed location. And be kept there indefinitely."

Henri looked to Anya, who met him with her eyes. "No." She replied, shaking her head.

"Where?" Arthur came forward.

"Henri, no." Anya said again.

Thinking about Anya's reserve and her second answer of no caused Henri to hesitate. "In an archive room, two hundred feet below the surface." He stopped mid sentence again as Anya scoffed and walked away.

"Where?" Arthur had to ask one more time.

Henri tapped his fingers on the table. "The one place no one would be dumb enough to break into." Taking a moment to size up each individuals body language, Henri tried to gauge their emotions before he uttered his next words. "The Kremlin."

Arthur laughed. "You're pulling my leg, right?" Laughing some more, he proceeding to pack his things.

"Those documents are the only thing that could possibly provide answers."

"If there even there." Arthur made his skepticism clear.

"I'm sure they are." And Henri made his confidence clear.

"Henri. The Kremlin? Let's be on the level here. We're talking about The Kremlin. One of the most heavily guarded constructs, in the world."

"What would we need to pull this off?" Morgan joined in, already reconsidering his original decision.

"Besides a miracle?" Arthur sarcastically answered.

"A lot of outside resources." Henri replied to his son. "We'd have to steer clear of any legal jurisdiction. And go dark, completely off the radar. No one can know, not even Interpol. We may not be able to trust them anymore. We have to assume anyone outside this room has possibly been compromised. We can't trust anyone, but each other."

"How many days?" Morgan took it a step further.

"Two. Three at most."

Arthur turned away, shaking his head and then back. "I can't believe you guys are actually entertaining this. You've all gone off the reservation. You have any idea what would happen to us if we got caught snooping around Stalin's backyard? In Soviet occupied Russia, much less The Kremlin, looking for confidential government files? Then it would really be over. Leviathan would be the least of our problems. They'd throw us in the gulag, we'd be prisoners of war, and that'd be it. Interpol, our people, everyone would forget we were even born. None of us, would breath fresh air ever again."

"Or." Henri raised his voice a bit. "We throw in the towel. Pack up all our stuff, and go our separate ways. Your choice."

The room was divided. No one knew what the correct response was, nor the logical one. Each of them stood there, quiet again, waiting on the other to reply.

"Bruce?" Henri singled out the boy billionaire from Gotham City, as if he had the final say.

Bruce broke away from Henri, reaching into his coat pocket. Once more, he held and stared into that unopened envelope. He thought long and hard, but the answer for him, even before the question was posed, was clear. "I'm not going anywhere."

Henri nodded to Bruce in approval with a small smile. "Morgan?" Henri next turned his attention to his son.

Morgan shrugged apathetically, letting out an exhale, that Henri took as a contradictory yes.

"Whataya say, Arthur? Can't do it without you."

"You're all crazy." Arthur closed his eyes, and gave a slight shake of his head, but the manner in which he did it in, signaled what his answer was going to be. "Lucky for all of you, so am I...I'm in."

"Anya?" She turned to Henri. "You still have contacts in Moscow?"

Chapter 38: A Game of Chance

Southeast Moscow, Russia. March 1st, 1947. 9:36pm.

And I thought France was cold.

Bundled head to toe in heavy insulated clothing, scarfs, hats, and gloves, Bruce and Henri's team walked through the busy back end cobblestone alleyways of Moscow's pugnacious neighborhood, while a light snow fell to the ground. Many of the pedestrians passing by were liquored up, one hand in their pocket, and the other on a brown bag, not doing a great job of concealing the handles of booze.

"It is always this cold here?" Bruce asked from behind the pearly whites he couldn't stop from chattering.

Anya smirked. "Only during the winter."

Arthur leaned in, "Yeah, which lasts about six months."

"So, where do we find this guy?" Henri asked while blowing some hot air into his gloves.

Anya's contact was a one, Anatoli Kynazev. A man whose crew she occasionally ran with during her days scrounging the streets of Moscow. Anatoli was an agent for the NKVD; Russia's version of Interpol, now disbanded. He recruited Anya from time to time for her skills as a thief. She was skeptical in approaching him for any sort of help, her apprehension was written all over her face. I wasn't used to seeing her so unsure. It had been a long time since they had last seen one another. And apparently their last exchange wasn't exactly cordial. But, she was certain, if anyone could get us into the archive room beneath the Kremlin, it was him.

"Anatoli runs a back door card game and casino behind a restaurant bar, The Grizzly Socialist." Anya informed.

"Catchy." Morgan added.

"As a cover?" Confused, Arthur had to ask.

"Well." Anya started. "Unfortunately there wasn't much opportunity after the war for a man like Anatoli. And if there's anything that follows you in Moscow, it's a reputation."

"You'll have to excuse me for asking." Arthur questioned once more. "But, how is a guy like that going to be of any help?"

"The only thing Anatoli hates more than a defector, is Josef Stalin himself. You see, Anatoli is from a Slavic group called the Cossacks. And during the war, the Cossacks fought alongside Nazi Germany against Russia. Many of those that survived after the war, Stalin had executed for their betrayal against the Soviet Union."

With that sentence, they understood how he ended up where he was, and the need for the low profile.

Past a series of doors and lamp posts that flickered to stay lit, Anya led the way, stopping at a set of three steps, up to a barricaded steel door chiseled into a stone building.

"Anatoli is a bit of an acquired taste. So, don't take anything he says too seriously. He's something of a loud mouth Slovak."

"Great. And you're certain he can help?" Arthur still had is reservations about the whole mission entirely.

"He's as seedy as they come. But, if there's anyone in Moscow's underworld that can sneak us into the Kremlin, it's him." Anya approached, while the rest hung back. "Chances are he's not gonna be happy to see me, or Henri."

"And why's that?" Bruce asked.

"Because I sort of left his unit to join Henri's. Left him pretty sore. No to mention, I nicked a case of his finest vodka before I went. So, we didn't exactly leave on the best of terms. When we get in there, let me do the talking, he won't take too kindly to added guests."

"Then why are we here?" Morgan wondered.

"Backup." Anya gave a systematic spaced out three knocks to the steel door. "In case things get rowdy. This is Moscow after all."

Bruce and Morgan gave each other a worrisome scan.

Within a minute, the look out groove of the door slid open, revealing a pair of glossed over eyes.

Anya muttered something in Russian, to which granted her access to the sight of a very burly, Paul Bunyan-esque, heavily bearded, bald man. He gave a gesture with his hand that Anya received, stretching her arms out, so that she may be frisked. She glanced over the rest of the team with a raised eyebrow, indicating they do the same.

Following a thorough body inspection, everyone followed the burly Russian inside, through an array of high stakes table card games, and some sketchy looking fellas. The whole place stank like a distillery and cigars.

There had to be close to five-hundred thousand dollars in chips at some of those tables. These boys could rival Vegas.

Into another adjoining room of vodka barrels, the Russian Paul Bunyan brought them all down some cellar steps into a small office space. Directing, he pointed to a location opposite a desk, where they all wait. He walked to the side of a swivel chair, that faced the back cement wall. The desk was nothing unusual, except for the odd collection of interests that lay atop; a couple of flag statutes, some random toy trinkets, and a bottle of vodka.

Simply to stand on ceremony, the man in the chair, assuming it was Kynazev, played true to Anya's described offbeat personality, and waited there, annoyingly with his back to everyone, just for the hell of it.

After a another presumptuous minute, the chair rotated around.

"Anya Volkova. To what do I owe the pleasure? After so many years?" He spoke with a very thick, broad, intoned accent.

"Hello, Anatoli. Keeping busy?"

Finely dressed in a pinstripe, navy vest, that rested over a canary yellow button up, Kynazev poured himself a double shot of straight vodka. "I see you've brought the usual band of ruffians with you. Mr. Ducard, a pleasure, welcome. It's nice to finally meet the man who stole my lovely Anya away. Merlyn." He glanced Arthur over. "What? You didn't bring your bow? Haha." He chuckled. "And the son, Morgan, still wet behind the ears?" Anatoli smirked, the man had done his homework, acquiring background on everyone in Henri's crew. Raising his shot, he gulped down the vodka in one swift swallow while the remnants of it dripped trough his gangly blonde beard as he let out an exaggerated, yet satisfactory exhale and then proceeded to pour himself another. "This one, I do not recognize." With a right hand splattered in gold, Kynazev pointed several times at Bruce, before brushing back his undercut hairstyle off the side of his head.

Studying Bruce with a set of filthy, misshapen teeth made Bruce give Kynazev a cringe worthy crooked eye.

"He's with us." Anya answered.

"Ah. Can he not speak for himself?" Anatoli turned his observation back on Bruce. "You are not from around here, are you, son?"

"No. I'm not from around here." Bruce answered, stoically.

"Oh. American uh? A French Intelligence officer, a thief, and an American walk into a bar, eh? Hahaha." He took his second double shot down, laughing the whole time.

Anya gave Bruce a subtle head shake.

"So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?" Kynazev sat back. "Must be important for you to bring so many."

Anya didn't want to say it. "We need a favor from you."

"Hahaha." He smacked his palm on the desk, laughing hysterically. "You want me to do a favor for you? That is rich."

When his obnoxious laughing fit finally subsided, he entered back into the conversation, neatly interlocking his fingers atop the desk.

"And what sort of compensation do I receive for this, so called favor?"

Anya bit her bottom lip. "We have nothing to offer you in return."

"Hahaha." The nauseating laughter went on again, unnecessarily drawn out. "A little lopsided, wouldn't you say?"

"Believe me, if there was anyone else we could go to, we would."

"Uh huh. Quite, what is the word? Ironic. You coming to me for help."

Anya had no rebuttal.

"Well, before I say no, indulge me." He said with a snide smile.

Anya took a moment. "We need someone who can get us into the Kremlin, no questions asked."

"Rather straight forward. Is that all?"

"Access to the archive room buried underground."

Anatoli leaned back in his chair, his smile shifting shape as he scratched his hairy cheek. He arched toward his burly bodyguard and whispered. Immediately following, the burly Russian left the room, closing the door.

"I know nothing of an archive room beneath the Kremlin." Kynazev's tone had altered.

"Cut the crap, Anatoli. You and I both know it's there."

Kynazev sealed the cap to his vodka, "You can exit where you came." He stood, taking his half empty bottle and placed it into an ice box behind his desk.

Anya gave Anatoli a contemptuous glare. "You know, for a Cossack, you surprise me, Anatoli. I would've thought you'd jump at the chance to stick it to Uncle Joe."

Slowly closing the ice box, Anatoli circled around and re-entered the discussion. "You have my attention, but very limited."

"Imagine the repercussions, 'Stalin Allows Massive Leak Inside His Own Walls.'" Anya painted the picture. "Wouldn't it be something to know you played a hand in that?"

With an intense gaze, a smile of hubris returned. "You always did have a knack for appealing to my pride."

Following a deep breath, Anatoli thought it over, petting the ends of his long beard. "Tell you what. Because I am a good sport. How bout we let the cards decide. In a game of chance."

Bruce let out a sigh. Somehow he knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

Anatoli wiped his hands, and before a yes or no could be given, he was already on his way, out the door and upstairs toward his little casino.

They had no other choice in the matter, but to go along and follow.

To the nearest occupied table, Kynazev's gargantuan sidekick gave the card dealer a pat on the shoulder, to which instantly cleared the table of all players.

Anatoli offered Anya a seat, while he took the one across from her. Bruce and the others stood closely by.

"What's the game?" Anya asked.

"I think, Durak will be quite fitting, given the situation. Do you remember how to play?"

Also known as 'Fool', the alternative name for the popular Russian card game originating sometime in the 19th century. The objective; to rid oneself of all his or her cards, thus, making the loser, the Durak or, 'The Fool.' Very telling as to why Kynazev chose it, the game requires not only skill and probability recognition, but a mental component of psychology; knowing how the other will think. Suffice it to say, the game could go one of two ways; very short, or very long.

The cards were shuffled, cut, and shuffled again, then dispersed to both Anatoli and Anya.

Six cards to a player, consisting of 6's and higher, the game is played with a deck of 36 cards, instead of the traditional 52. Alternating turns through a series of attacks that can be warded off with a card of the same suit or a trump card; a card determined at the beginning of the match by a particular suite, which can ward off any attack card. An unsuccessful defense results in the loser adding cards to his or her pile.

Anatoli smiled. "Shall we begin?"

Bruce Wayne could only observe as a spectator in the backdrop.

I didn't quite understand the finer details or intricacies of the game, as much as I tried to figure it out. Durak wasn't just a straight higher or lower type game. The game and how to play, however, was not my prime interest, my attention was more on Kynazev and the other fiendish looking blokes that made up the rest of the casino. My guard was way up.

The progression of the game went on. Anya was out of practice, and quickly became frustrated and out maneuvered by Kynazev. Her pile of cards built up fast. It took a few losing hands before Anya was able to get her bearings as the game slowly came back to memory.

"Are we wasting our time here?" Bruce whispered of Henri.

"She can beat him. She has to." Henri had the utmost confidence in Anya and her capabilities.

Two hours in, the grueling match of wits neared its conclusion. Both Anya and Anatoli had a single card left. It was Anya's turn and she was in a good position, she had the advantage, the odds in her favor with a 60% chance of winning. The only card in her possession; the queen of hearts. If Anatoli was unable to produce a card of the same suite, the game would be Anya's as would his assistance. There was just a 2% chance Anatoli had a trump card in his grasp; a club card. And a 10% chance he had a card of the same suite.

Confidently, Anya threw out the queen of hearts. Honed on one another, Anatoli took his time. He smiled, and instantly, everyone felt a pit in their stomach. It wasn't a good sign. Anatoli laid an eight of hearts on the table.

Disappointingly, Anya shut her eyes.

"What?" Bruce asked. "What does that mean?"

Henri smacked his lips. "Draw."

The laborious, time consuming game had ended in a tie.

No one had a suitable reply, waiting on Anatoli to speak first, who simply grinned.

"Well done." The words of applaud from the Cossack threw everyone off. "You have proved yourself."

Slightly surprised, as was Bruce and the others, Anya responded. "So, we have a deal?"

Anatoli gave the proposition one more, final thought, his chest rising from the full inhale and the pride he had to swallow.

"You get caught..."

"Right. We never met." Anya finished his thinking. "Hopefully it won't come to that."

"Where are you staying?" Anatoli asked.

"Tverskaya Street Apartments."

Anatoli tapped his fingers. "Two days. Two days, you will have what you need." Anya nodded to her old counterpart, giving him a smile.

"Dos Vedanya."

Chapter 39: Comrade Scapegoat

Tverskaya Street Apartments. Room 6F. Moscow, Russia. March 3rd, 1947. 9:03am.

Two days later, as Kynazev promised, a package arrived at our doorstep. And even I had to admit, I was pleasantly surprised that he had followed through.

We didn't quite have a plan of action yet, shifting through the supplies given to us, which were vague, at best. Kynazev was helpful in delivering us what we needed, to a point. He offered no explanation as to what we should do with the items given. That was on us. Should've figured. One thing was for sure though; it wasn't going to be easy.

The weather was hazy, overcast, with a bitter chill in the air, just outside Red Square and the Kremlin walls of Communist Moscow. Cars roamed the streets, visiting tourists captured the sights with photos, while the Kremlin served as their backdrop. The bright patterned facade of the Kremlins constructs glistened ominously in the waining smog above.

Bruce Wayne gazed outside the window of the old twenty story apartment building along Tverskaya Street, watching people come and go, while getting a good look at the stronghold awaiting them across the way. He had never been to Russia before, but the view he had, made the term 'Iron Curtain,' more than appropriate. He sturdied the intimidating structure while the others moseyed around rather uncomfortably, cramped inside a stuffy nine-hundred square foot apartment, laying down plans and their itinerary while some static jazz annoyingly crackled from a radio atop a windowsill.

"It's absolute suicide, I'm telling ya. Even with all this." Referring to the task and the materials Knayazev provided them with, Arthur, still unsure, tried explaining to Henri just how burdensome the undertaking was.

"This is our only option, we've been through this" Henri reaffirmed.

Kynazev's obscure package consisted of eight, even obscurer items; a Kremlin Regiment Guard uniform, a blank passport and ID, a ticket for a guided tour of the grounds, a pamphlet detailing the Kremlin tours, a bronze key, a piece of paper with the numbers, 75041 hand written on it, and an old drawing of the catacombs underneath.

Arthur shook his head, trying to force himself into un-acceptance. "There's gotta be a back end way we could get into that room without risking exposure. A ceiling, a ventilation shaft, something."

"200 feet below ground? I don't think so." Anya confirmed in a semi-facetious tone.

Morgan shared in Arthur's apprehension. "Seriously. This place is a God damn fortress."

Exchanging a collection of carps, forehead strains, and eye squints, the four arrived at the same conclusion.

"Alright." Arthur was the first to say it. "So, whose gonna do it?" He looked over everyone. "Hmm? We only have one uniform. Clearly this has to be a one man job. Sorry Anya."

"Hey, I got you all here."

Scanning each other, no one jumped in to take the initiate. No one wanted to. Anya was out right off the bat, which left the four men to jump in.

"Should we draw straws?" Arthur offered up a suggestion.

Henri let out an exhale. "I don't think it can be that simple."

"How do you mean?" Morgan questioned.

"Technically, we're all still employed by Interpol. And If anyone one of us is caught, we're screwed. The Reds will be able to trace us right back to Europe. And then we'd have a serious problem of treason on our hands."

Anya walked away for a split second and then came back. "Henri's right. Russian Intelligence will quickly be able to figure out who we are. They'll undoubtedly have all our files on site. What they won't have, is information on a young American citizen."

"What!?" Bruce turned around and finally joined in. Every pair of eyes were on him.

"She's right." Henri replied.

"You can't be serious." Bruce said in a slight panic that the idea was even on the table.

"If one us is caught, it's international espionage. And more than that, it could be considered an act of war. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not start World War III. You're our safest bet."

The explanation Henri offered didn't put Bruce anymore at ease, in fact, it gave him more anxiety.

"If you get caught, there'd be nothing linking you to us or Interpol. You'd just be a clumsy American tourist who was ballsy, or just got lost."

Bruce nervously laughed, looking down to the ground.

"You're the only one with no ties or affiliations to any agency." Arthur added, which didn't help either.

Bruce let out a breath. "I dunno."

"You said it yourself. You weren't going anywhere, right?" Henri reiterated Bruce's notion from just a few days ago.

Bruce bit his lip, starting to regret that he had said that.

Anya approached. "This is what it's gonna take. You pose the least amount of risk. Unfortunately, for this to work, it has to be you."

Playing scenarios in his head, Bruce took a second, digesting the stressful news of the situation. "Alright. Let's say I do get caught. Then what?"

Another question without an answer. At least not one Bruce was going to want to hear, as everyone's body language tightened.

"Great."

"Send a postcard."

"Shut up, Morgan." Henri took Bruce aside. "Look, for us to even have a chance at this."

"Yeah I know, I know." Bruce let out another deep breath, liking his lips.

"Then you know we have no other choice."

Bruce scorned at the Kremlin again from the window. "I just hate that it has to be me. That I have to be comrade scapegoat." Aversion aside, Bruce knew they were right, mulling it over for one last time. "Ok. What do I have to do?"

Hours drifted as a foreboding Bruce Wayne was remodeled into an American tourist visiting the Kremlin, undercover, and in disguise. He had the American part down. Outfitted with a heavy, tan bomber jacket, a matching drivers cap, and a small travel bag, he gradually took on the appearance of just another tourist taking in the sights of Moscow. In conjunction to complete the look, Bruce was given a pair of spectacles, the blank passport and ID pasted with his mug shot, and a familiar name; Frank Dixon.

Overseeing the whole process, Henri smirked. "Looks like that name is going to be of some use after all."

Bruce's transformation was painstaking, with no detail left unattended. Anya completed the process, placing the final piece; the laminated tour ticket, which Anya strategically wrapped around Bruce's neck, giving him a reassuring wink.

The Kremlin runs guided tours of its museums and cathedrals during business hours, as a way to drum up revenue for its development and research into Atomic energy. Their way to keep up with the West. The larger groups are positioned between the hours of 12pm - 3pm. Of which I will be a guest in, making it easier and less noticeable for me to slip away while inside. I'll have until 5pm to get in, get what I need, and get out. Hopefully, it will be more than enough time.

"Now, these drawings are probably a few years old, so we can't be certain of its accuracy." Arthur got right down to business the second Bruce was dressed and ready, showing Kynazev's loose sketch of the underground catacombs. "Stalin has likely made some adjustments since the war. You may run into some snags along the way. So it won't be a walk in the park."

"Well, where would the fun in that be?" Bruce still had his sense of sarcasm about him, taking the drawing from Arthur, who chuckled.

"Your target, is The Grand Kremlin Palace." Anya explained, laying a large travel map of the Kremlin down on the table. "Here." She pointed out the exact location. "It's the largest of the constructs there, you can't miss it. Maybe two, three hundred paces from the entrance. Once inside, you'll need to locate St. Alexander's Hall on the first floor. There's supposedly an entrance to the catacombs somewhere within. I've never actually seen it myself. What I know, is that it wont be in plain sight, so you'll have to do some digging."

"Fantastic." More unknowns Bruce thought.

"Beyond that." Anya inhaled. "You'll be on your own."

"Remember," Arthur jumped back in "These catacombs are used solely for intelligence purposes. Even once you get down there, you're going to have to be discreet. This uniform is only going to get you so far, then it'll be useless."

"Good to know."

As if there wasn't enough to be worried about.

"There's an elevator at the far end of the tunnels that only goes down to the archive room. Uniformed guards are not allowed past this point." Anya threw more fright and more instruction at Bruce. "It's absolutely imperative that no one see you get in that elevator. Russian Intelligence is highly strict when it comes to their secrets and privacy, only one occupant at a time is allowed within the walls of the archive room to ensure security. And you don't have a huge window, so I don't have to tell you to try and be quick."

"Any pertinent information regarding Leviathan, Deathstroke, and anything in between, is down there." Henri said, checking his watch.

"Any idea what I should be looking out for if I do make it down there?"

"I wish I could tell you. But we simply don't know."

"Great." Bruce striped at his head.

Henri peeked at his watch again. "How much time?"

"Less than five." Morgan let him know.

"Get ready." Henri motioned.

Briefly, Bruce's adrenaline soared. He tried like hell to absorb everything being thrown at him, reciting it to himself with the mere five minutes he had left to spare. "Wait, wait!" He called out. "What's the story with the key and those numbers?"

Patiently, he waited for someone, anyone, to fill him in.

"We don't know." Henri delivered the bad news.

Groaning at the continued uncertainty into the unknown, Bruce could only drop his head.

"They must be needed for something." Arthur commented.

"Any idea?" They all gave Bruce a half hearted smile, along with a head crook. He already knew. "Right. You don't know. Dumb question."

Bruce adjusted his coat. Suddenly it felt hot in that apartment.

"Hide them on you as best you can." Anya got right back into it. "The guards at that front are going to frisk everyone in the tour group before entering, and check credentials. Put them somewhere no one would look."

The Reds must be awfully paranoid to go to such great lengths to keep their secrets intact. Or maybe it was just in their nature to be so distrusting. Who could blame them? A group of unlikely strangers were about to break into their most important temple and steal their shit.

Anya handed over the key and the piece of paper containing the strange set of each, Bruce folded them into the map of the catacombs, before placing the map into the heel of his boot, praying he'd be able to figure out what they were for.

"You got this. You'll be fine." Nodding into Bruce's eyes, Anya gave her utmost confidence in him.

Easy for you to say.

"Hang back in the group, alright?" Arthur offered one final piece of parental advice. "Don't draw any unwanted attention to yourself. That way when you break away, no one will be the wiser."

The team didn't want to leave anything unsaid.

A few more last minute details followed, that I tried like hell to retain. All I could focus on were the quickly dwindling seconds before I had to leave.

Bruce let out one, last, huge, deep breath as Henri looked him over one final time like a worried father. Henri nodded. "You ready?"

"As ready as I'm gonna be." Bruce stammered.

"We're counting on you."

"Hey." Morgan came on over. Bruce felt an asshole comment to give him more anxiety coming. But, to Bruce's surprise, Morgan simply handed over one more item of use; a flashlight. With a nod, Morgan said it. "You might need it. Good luck."

Chapter 40: Red Scare

A Half Mile Outside Red Square. 11:32am.

I can't believe I agreed to this.

I had never felt myself unable to control my own body more than I did as I walked from the apartment towards that massive piece of architecture in the sky. No matter how much my mind told me to stop shaking, it wouldn't listen.

The slow, nerve riddled walk from the Tverskaya Street apartment building through the busy streets of Red Square, toward the Kremlin outer walls was anything, but casual for the apprehensive Bruce Wayne. Clammy hands, and a steady shake in his bones that he could not subside, he was careful to appear ordinary while avoiding the motor vehicles passing through. Time seemed to glide at an unusually rapid pace that he was powerless to curve.

The Kremlin; a massive achievement in Russian architecture, was the political equivalent to the White House in America, with its name literally meaning, 'fortress inside a city.' The impressive Medieval fortification had stood the test of time, having been part of Russian history since the early 12th century. Serving as the focal point of the country, the citadel has been home to every Czar since Ivan The Great. Today, it housed all the top members of the Soviet Union, from Premiers to the Politburo, all the way up to Stalin himself. Consisting of twenty towers, reaching up to the sky in all its majestic limestone color and glory, its center piece was Cathedral Square, which was encompassed by six other buildings, three of which were chapels.

Bruce's trepidatious stroll slowed, unable to divert his eyes from extending up toward the monstrous minarets that continued to climb into the overcast afternoon heights above. Ahead, a large crowd of people gathered, waiting to be let inside, just outside the main entrance gate at Spasskaya Tower. A large gold plated clock sat at the top of the tower, and above that, a bright red Soviet star that gleamed ostentatiously.

Almost 12pm. The next tour will be starting soon. Better hop to it.

Men, women, and children were among the crowd, dressed very similar to Bruce. Most, British, and maybe a few others American. They all spoke English, which in a subtle way put Bruce just a little more at ease. The silver lining somewhere amongst the fear that was so near.

Bruce fell in line, bundled between the array of people waiting their turn to get inside. Like Anya said, each individual was being frisked by one man as another checked passports and ID's.

Maintaining what little composure he presented to have, Bruce watched the line between him and the guards slowly diminish as his turn approached.

The guest in front of Bruce, finishing his body inspection, was allowed on through. Bruce locked eyes with the Russian guard deciding who could pass and who could not. He was up.

This is it.

In Russian, the guard said something to a nervous Bruce, who looked back, confounded, unsure if the dialogue was directed at him or not. Again, the guard replied with the same Russian banter.

"Ugh." Bruce stuttered, tensing. "English, I'm American," presenting the ticket draped around his neck.

The guard, less than amused, removed Bruce's cap from his head, handing it back with a thrust to the chest.

"It's a tradition." The tourist behind Bruce exclaimed. "Anyone passing through the gates has to remove their headgear before entering." The tourist smiled, giddy that he had hit Bruce with a rather interesting historical fact.

Of all the shit they told me back at the apartment, this, they decided to leave out.

The guard scowled at Bruce's ticket. "Passport, ID?" He said with a bold, Eastern accent. Without hesitation, Bruce handed both over. With a questionable gaze, the guard took his time studying Bruce and his credentials. "Wait here."

That clammy, shaking feeling inside Bruce's bones returned, further accentuated.

Damn it.

Bruce's hopes of blending in to the crowd were quickly thwarted before he even entered, his fear of standing out, coming to fruition. Heavy, cold breaths followed by a quiet panting took Bruce over in the frigid Russian air. A few uncomfortable moments passed before another, older Russian guard was brought over to inspect Bruce and his credentials.

Shit.

Bruce's mindset shifted, searching the area for an escape.

As with the first guard, he also studied Bruce, top to bottom with intimidation. That red scare was setting in. A few more awkward stares and glares, the officer handed Bruce back his passport and ID. "Enjoy your tour of the Kremlin, Mr. Dixon. Good day."

"Thank You." Instant relief swarmed over Bruce like a million pounds being lifted right from his shoulders. However, the time for celebration was way too premature, the hard work had yet to begin.

Bruce stayed close to his tour group. The clocktowers doors creaked opened, granting entrance into the Soviet Unions fortress of solitude.

Chapter 41: A Needle in a Haystack

12:23pm.

"The Cathedral of Dormition. Built in 1479, is considered the most important church in Russia." An enthusiastic, English speaking, Russian tour guide relayed some history and facts about the Cathedral Bruce and his tour group occupied. "Every Czar from the Imperial Period of Russia was crowned right here on these grounds." The tour guide went on as the other tourists looked around in awe at the golden walls and ancient Christian reliefs. Bruce did the same, trying to enjoy the history lesson, even if just for a little bit. Like his father, Bruce did enjoy learning about the history of the world, it was one the few classes from his youth he actually passed. "Now if you'll join me, we're going to head on over the next part of the tour; The Cathedral of Annunciation."

Everyone followed, briskly in the direction of the tour guide.

Alright. Here we go.

Silently and stealthily, Bruce dangled back. This was as far as Frank Dixon was to go. Waiting patiently for all the commotion to exit the church, Bruce remained.

Once the doors shut and the commotion subsided and Bruce was sure he was alone, he made his move. Fast acting, he found a secluded spot behind a golden pillar, crouched down and unzipped his bag. Inside; the garments of a Kremlin Regiment Guard.

Finding privacy in one of the empty confessional booths, Bruce discarded himself of his street clothes and prepared to don his new attire and identity; black pants, black boots, a long, grey furred overcoat with golden piping and decor, and one fuzzy ushanka cap.

With a snarl, Bruce removed his flat cap and then examined the ushanka hat with a puzzled look and laughed. "What the hell?" Ignoring the cultural differences, he continued the job.

After a few confining minutes, and item exchanges, Bruce revealed himself from the confessional, decked out in his flashy new wardrobe. He was a Russian Guard now. Playing the part, he straightened up, stood poised, and proceeded outside the Cathedral as a member of the Red Army.

Exiting onto Red Square, Bruce blended right in with the rest of the guards around him. He stood tall and started to strut with a strong demeanor about him while some of the other outfitted men performed the famous goose stepping march. With his stocky build, Bruce easily filled out the thick coat, he could hardly be confused as a teenager.

Crossing the road of Cathedral Square, Bruce kept to himself, passing by other Russian soldiers, who didn't even give him a second glance. Cathedral Square was beyond impressive, stock full of tourists and a rich history, it was hard not to stand in awe of the pristine, cream colored homes of worship. Each one elegant, with arched awnings, bell towers, all were topped with golden spires. They were beautiful, but Bruce had no time for sight seeing. His next stop; The Grand Kremlin Palace.

Easily the biggest building of the fortress, as Anya had said, The Grand Kremlin Palace was impossible to miss. And one of the only buildings that didn't take on the shape of a church. Reminiscent of Byzantine architecture, the palace looked more like an oversized library, dressed in gold, green, and beige. The royal edifice formed a perfect rectangle, that surrounded an inner courtyard. The Cyrillic letters, CCCP were perfectly embedded into the upper arches.

Sizing it up, Bruce watched patrons come and go, some in suits, some in military attire, and others in street clothes. Pressing the height of his cap further down his head, Bruce proceeded, entering the sandy colored palace through a side door from the east, confidently, and with intent.

Opulently designed, each room and adjoining passage beamed with golden doorways, spotless furniture, and shimmering floors that were so clear, Bruce could see his own reflection. High, arched ceilings pulled every corner together, with white walls so crisp, it put Wayne Manor to shame. The palace was a house of royalty for sure. It was hard not to gawk and be amazed by it all, and the expansive history that came along. Those on tour were able to appreciate the antiquity, snapping pictures, able to document the affair.

Bruce did his best to walk on with both ease and haste, quickly, but with patience.

Ascending up an enormous red carpeted central staircase, the ground beneath his new knee high black boots altered from carpeting to an incredibly, yet beautifully detailed, parquet floor that gleamed with luster. With walls of stucco, decked all throughout, in of course, golden trim, every small stride echoed through the enormous hall that sprawled half the length of a football field. St. Alexander's Hall was one of the many halls of the Grand Kremlin Palace. Five main halls and reception rooms encompassed the bulk of the palace. Along with St. Alexander's, there was George's, Andrew's, Vladimir's, and Catherine's. Named for the orders of the old Russian Empire. Chandeliers and lightning statues brightened the majestic paintings while gilded bust columns, and plaques denoted the rich history of Alexander Nevsky, for whom the hall was named for. It was a scene fit for a fairytale. Every detail and inch of the hall, perfectly immaculate from top to bottom.

Bruce took a second to admire and marvel at some of the architectural engineering of the East. He was standing within over five hundred years of history, it easily distracted. He would probably never step foot inside such a place ever again.

Various other tours commenced as Bruce inconspicuously scouted the area. With one eye on the patrons and another on the intricacies of the hall, Bruce resigned by, waiting for the area to clear, and make his move.

"The Order of Alexander Nevsky was founded in 1725 by Catherine The First." Another guide relayed the hall's history. "The entirety of the cupola carried Alexander's insignia, depicted by his initials, here. And above the doorways here, you can see the Imperial Coat of Arms in the form of a double-headed eagle with the Imperial Crown. The hall was meant to bring the achievements of Alexander to the forefront, with paintings by Moeller, denoting the Saint's life and history."

As some of the guests broke off to take a gander at the halls paintings and columns, Bruce readied.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, take a couple of minutes before we move on."

With an ear on the crowd soon heading out, Bruce played ignorant, pretending to be interested in one of the murals on the wall.

Gradually, each tourist filed out, until there was nothing, but emptiness and one sole occupant; Bruce Wayne.

Ok, If I were a secret passage, where would I be?

With an extensive amount of ground to cover, the entrance could've been anywhere. At first glance, nothing seemed out of place or out of the ordinary. At least not that Bruce could see in plain view. There were no hollow spots in the flooring, and no seems or separations that be could identified. He checked the edges of the paintings, which were solid. Then the golden fixtures plastered on the walls, each was firmly secure.

The traditional, old fashion way of snooping; his sense of sight and touch, wasn't going to get the job done. The scope and size of the hall, it was as if trying to find a needle in a haystack. He would have to implore more creative methods, an outside the box approach if he were to discover the entrance into the catacombs with the time allotted.

Bruce ignored his vision, closing his eyes to drown out the scenery. Steady breaths, still and quiet, with no distractions, the ambient noise cleared. Something very faint, very indistinct flew into Bruce's ear, almost like a rattle, or a vibration.

Voices?

Re-opening his eyes, there was still no one, but Bruce in St. Alexander's Hall.

Ferreting the source with an itching ear, Bruce crept with short steps toward one of the smaller adjacent rooms off to the side. The room could easily be missed upon an initial scan. Within, an ornamented marble fireplace, gold plated wall fixtures, and sconces. The voices were a touch louder now, as if coming from inside the walls.

Where is that coming from?

Palm out in front of the fireplace, Bruce could feel a delicate, cool breeze flowing between his fingers. There was a draft.

Crouching, he leaned his ear in. Then, with a gentle knock, a hollow echo followed.

There's something back there. This has to be it.

Touching the marble and the fixtures that surrounded, Bruce traced the seems from bottom to top, trying to discover where the draft was originating. Pushing and pulling, he tried to open up the wall to whatever was behind.

Damn it. Damn it.

Frustration continued as Bruce tried to unhinge the hidden passage. Before anymore attempts could be made, a crackling shutter bounced through, the fireplace slowly separated from the wall.

Shit!

Taken aback, Bruce stepped away, slipping behind a nearby floor to ceiling, thick curtain drape.

Two men dressed in suits appeared exiting from the recess, bantering back and forth in Russian. They walked through, undisturbed, focused on their business as Bruce spied unseen.

This was his chance, if they could just create a little more distance.

Annoyingly stalling, the two stood in place, and chatted while Bruce continued to eyeball the entranceway. Hidden passage ajar, it began to close back up on its own, making Bruce perspire. Finally the pair carried on, walking away. With mindful urgency, Bruce stealthily snuck out from behind the curtain and ever so casually, squeezed himself through the narrow passage before it barricaded up. Access granted.

Chapter 42: A Thief Among Thieves

Grand Kremlin Palace. Underground Catacombs. 1:06pm.

Every turn I made had to be done so with the utmost care. I had no idea who or what could be waiting for me around the next bend. It was agonizing. I tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible with the suits and decorated officers that roamed every square inch of the lower grounds. It was a game of cat and mouse, except the cat didn't know the mouse was right there in disguise; a thief among thieves.

The lower catacombs laid out like an old hotel floor, a hell of a lot different than Bruce expected, complete with dingy carpeting and tacky wallpaper. Russian decor and art encompassed the area in the form of statues, busts, and urns, which sat atop stone pillars and wall units. Portraits of angry Russian leaders hung on the walls, grilling Bruce with their malevolent eyes. The Reds were certainly passionate about their history.

The floor swarmed with activity in just about every corner and connecting room. Men could be heard between the walls consorting amongst one another, or communicating via two way radios as phones rang and typewriter keys clicked. The halls continually roamed with personnel holding documents, either entering or exiting rooms. Bruce thought about his first step inside the Chateau, and how that intelligence hub compared.

Following the French Invasion of Russia in 1812 by Napoleon, which destroyed several areas of the Kremlin, the underground tunnels and passageways of the palace were trenched out and built into. All in an effort to prevent a similar fate from befalling the fortress again. Intelligence and information gathering centers were created so that if a war needed to be fought from underground, it could. Since the dawn of the spy and espionage era, the lower hub has been pivotal, becoming the official HQ to Russian Intelligence.

Casually sauntering, Bruce took slow steps as not to look like a lost rat caught in a maze, but rather as someone who belonged. Although, the former was his true self.

Around the next bend, two sets of eyes suspiciously met with Bruce's, following him, as the intolerable, uncontrollable distance between them shortened.

In a hasty panic of avoidance, Bruce plunged himself into the nearest room as if that was his destination. He hoped he could gather and collecting himself for a minute without anyone looking his way.

On the other side, hand over chest, Bruce's heart pulsed viciously.

I could've sworn I was experiencing the onset of a heart attack. Light headedness, throbbing, and shooting pains all over. I needed at least an hour to feel like myself again, but of course, time was not my friend at the moment.

The secluded room, thankfully void of any occupants, did provide Bruce a reprieve. However, he knew that could change on a dime. A single overhead chandelier, scattered with spiderwebs and three of four bulbs lit, gently illuminated a long table, draped in cloth, piled with maps and stacks of papers. Chairs had been pushed off to the side against the back shelves, where books and dust had taken up a long residence.

Time to breathe, Bruce examined some of the papers and maps, some displayed the Western Hemisphere and some only showed Asia. Much like the maps from the Chateau, certain areas were circled in red. There was particular attention to an in the very southern tip of Russia, several red circles had been drawn and redrawn.

As anticipated, the time for catching a breath did not last very long. Creaking, the door's handle turned, ending Bruce's short lived pardon.

Shit.

Bruce slipped under the table, losing his ridiculously oversized cap in the process. Swiftly, he stretched out his hand, grabbing the bushy hat, pulling it under with him before the room became occupied.

Two voices abruptly entered, with more intent than Bruce, violently rifling through the maps and papers, rocking the table from overhead. Conversing back and forth in Russian, the pair sounded angry and agitated at one another. It was hard to tell for sure if they were just talking, or if they were actually pissed off. Perhaps, to an American, that was just how Russian came across.

Heavy beads of sweat trickled from Bruce's hairline, the burden of his thick wool garments hitting him hard. His whole body burned, smothered by so many layers.

The new inhabitants continued their debate while one started slamming some of the papers atop the table. They were indeed mad, increasing Bruce's misery, as all he could was watch the tips of their black boots linger.

Whatever they were looking for wasn't in that room, and after several annoying, and agonizingly sweaty minutes, they finally left.

Awkwardly, Bruce crawled out from his hiding spot, replacing his hat and carefully exiting back into the halls. He had already wasted forty-five minutes. There was no more time for screwing around.

Bruce traversed, deeper down every winding turn, taking refuge inside vacant rooms when the halls became too cluttered. It was never ending; every new corridor, Bruce secretly prayed was the last to venture, and the elevator Anya spoke about would present itself. On a bright note, the occupants of the hallways did seem to dissipate the farther he went, to where the blare of chatter and communication equipment became more or less background noise.

Peering around the next corner, Bruce got his wish. At the end of the corridor, at the far end, thirty feet down, just as Anya said; a single, steel elevator door. And no one standing between it and Bruce.

Atop, a rectangular sign read, "только авторизованный персонал." (Authorized Personnel Only). And over that, a circular light, that was not on.

I was hesitant in approaching. The area surrounding the elevator was way too quiet. It didn't seem like there were many occasions to come to this end of the tunnel, and travel down to whatever was hidden below. I hoped for my sake, that was the truth.

I didn't want to rush it, I checked my front and my backside once more before I very, very lightly made my way. With my luck, someone would come right out as I got close.

The elevator was without a call button, but what it did have, off on a side panel was a keyhole. Bruce tightened his eyelids, glancing behind him once more, to make absolutely certain. Removing the mystery key, now confined in his coat pocket, he proceeded with caution. He felt that heat again, permeating from the inside out, he could barely keep a grip on the piece of brass. His body numb, he took a very long, drawn out breath, praying he was right.

Ok. Here we go.

Lining up the teeth of the key with the indent on the panel, Bruce shook, pressing it in.

Please work.

Closing his eyes, he made a clockwise turn.

With a single beep, the light above lit, and the elevator doors slid open.

Sensation returning to his body, but again, the time to celebrate was far away. Bruce entered. Slowly he turned, facing the outside before the doors closed once more, sealing him within. When next that door opened, he'd be 200 feet below ground.

Chapter 43: The Secrets That Lie Below

Kremlin Archive Room. 1:57pm.

I counted the unbearable seconds, hoping the racing in my chest would somehow stop. It was as if time had froze. The anticipation was indescribable, making the anxiety I already had even worse. Every breath I took staggered without control, unable to subside the unusual amount of blood and adrenaline pumping through my veins. I rubbed my hands along my pant legs without end, trying to dry the condensation endlessly collecting on my palms. I didn't want to admit it, but I was absolutely terrified. I had never been more tense in my entire life, confined in that tight space to myself, inching deeper underground. With no indicator lights above to offer me some sort of estimate, there was no telling how much longer I had to go.

I had made it into the Kremlin undetected, found the entrance into the catacombs, and successfully navigated through the lower tunnels. I began to wonder, if the hard part was behind me, or ahead of me.

The confined, slim box, Bruce narrowly occupied practically drove him mentally mad, victim to the cruelty of its descent. Soon he would be two-hundred feet below the surface of the earth, in a room where none, but a select few were allowed to venture, into the secrets that lie below.

All to accompany Bruce during the descent were the elevators humming, and its attached cables grinding above his head. Bot perpetuated without end compounding the frailty of his mental state. It was easy to get lost in his own mind, and play the what if game, sorting through every possible scenario and outcome, both good and bad.

A sudden shift in the elevators momentum snapped Bruce out of his negative internal thoughts. The elevator decelerated, until the slowing descent came to a complete standstill.

Bruce braced. The doors re-opened to cold, stark, shadowy stillness. Ahead; a thin cement hallway extending fifty yards that swayed from black to grey as one overhead light soundlessly oscillated.

The hair along his spine stood at attention. Bruce studied the eerie path, fearful of the shadows jumping out at him. Forging on, there was certainly no turning back now. His steps were even paced and slow. He ran his hands along the side wall, it was dead cold to the touch. Watchful of every square inch, his boots echoed vibrantly along the way.

To his right hand side; a single entrance door, hexagonal in shape stood, fastened to the wall. It barred secure access into whatever was on the other side. Attached to the doors handle was a mechanical numbered pad. He stood face to face with it. Entering his coat pocket once more, Bruce removed the piece of paper containing the not so random set of numbers now.

Using the five digit code provided, 75041, Bruce was almost one-hundred percent sure. He keyed four of the five numbers in, and then, took a pause.

With a heedful press, he couldn't look, keying in the number 1.

The door clicked.

Two for two.

Unfastening his eyes, Bruce turned the handle ninety degrees, counter-clockwise. The lock had been released. He was in.

In pitch black darkness, a musty, old, attic-type stench along with a ghostly howl surrounded an atmosphere of the unknown.

Bruce snapped on his flashlight; a last minute gift from Morgan, which he did need. The gentle beam hit obscured objects a few paces ahead, none of which could be accurately identified. Searching around the sides of the door frame, Bruce located a light switch panel. Lifting the lever, a series of fifty foot high flood lights stuttered on, illuminating everything; several dozen rows of storage racks, with shelves upon shelves of filing boxes that almost hit the ceiling. Each box was perfectly stored, not a single one was angled wrong or misaligned. The place spotless. Every row was numbered chronologically from 001000 - 020000. What they contained; one could only speculate.

The floor rested out in poorly laid, bumpy cement. The ceiling, a couple stories high, consisted of steel beams to support the floor above. Ladders had been randomly placed around the room so that the towering upper shelves above could be accessed.

Bruce took a daunting scan of the entire room, trying to digest all of it, thinking about how he could get lost in the mass of information that presented itself. He had his work cut out for him.

Jesus Christ. This is gonna take a while.

With the amount of boxes Bruce had to sort through, he could be there for days trying to find what he needed. And with a time limit pressing down, that only exemplified just how tedious his current undertaking was. Not to mention, he also had another minor problem to deal with; being surrounded by the entire Red Army, in the middle of Communist Russia, inside the Kremlin walls, within a room no one was supposed to be in. No pressure.

Happilyremoving the heat infused ushanka cap and wool coat from his person, Bruce swiped some sweat, rubbed his palms together, picked a row and began his formidable task.

Fifty minutes went by in the blink of an eye and I had barely made a dent. I was going nowhere fast. I had gotten through a row and a half, sifting through every single box I came across. I couldn't make heads or tails of half the shit I was looking at. So far, most of what I found were plans about some kind of Russian space program. A little far fetched if you ask me.

Frustration filled as Bruce threw another box of items and papers back onto a shelf, scoffing.

Ugh! I don't even know what the hell I'm supposed to be looking for.

God damn it! Why in the hell did I say yes to this?

Still in front of him; about ten plus rows. He no longer viewed his task as daunting, it was impossible.

Despairingly, he checked the time, knowing he shouldn't. In the back of his mind, there was Henri and the others, counting on him to come through.

Rummaging and rummaging, two hours in, Bruce had still come up empty. His window of time was dwindling. He tossed another box back onto the shelf.

This is ridiculous.

Bruce kneaded his eyes.

I couldn't get through all this even I had a whole day.

He banged his fist on the shelf. And just as it made contact, vibrating the rack, the door leading into the archives clicked.

Oh shit!

Bruce immediately dropped what he was doing and got himself as far away from the door as possible, while keeping an eye on it.

Creeping with just his eyes, Bruce spied through the slender spaces between the shelving units at a military personnel with many garnished medals on the breast of his green jacket, nonchalantly waltzing in. The officer's strides were far too casual to warrant any suspicion. If he were aware of Bruce's presence, he would've been moving with much more purpose. Bruce relaxed, but only slightly. He'd still need to remain quiet and out of sight.

The military personnel made a steady walk for the fourth to last row on the west side of the archives. He knew exactly where he was going, passing Bruce's path, who slimmed himself up on the edge of a shelving row, making sure to obscure the soldiers line of sight. Bruce grinded his teeth in frustration. With subtle facial expressions, he mouthed curse words to himself.

About a quarter of the way down the row, the military officer stopped, gave a glance over each side, and then pulled a box, taking his time.

I wonder. Maybe I can get a closer look.

While the officer had his attention held, Bruce made a move, and a risky one, halving his size, he crept, slinking into the next row over, facing the backside of the officer. Parallel, Bruce soundlessly shifted one container box to the side, acquiring a clear view. Bruce watched his prey flip through some unseen items within the crate, lifting out a rack of test tubes. When he located an empty space in the rack, the officer reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a familiar looking vial of green fluid.

Holy shit.

Bruce's eyes lit up.

You son of a bitch.

The officer filled the empty space with the new vial, then removed a file folder from the box that accompanied the rack of vials. He analyzed a few of the file's spages, roughly skimming each one before deeming it acceptable. He replaced everything exactly where it was, returning the box to its sealed, straightened position, just as he had found it.

Bruce retraced his steps, back and away from plain view, until he heard the footsteps of the officer disappear and the outer door click.

Alone again, Bruce briskly, yet apprehensively dove into that same box and began to scope out the contents. It was stocked with vials full of Ezarium, much like the one he uncovered at the Fisherman's Wharf in Mariette; the substance Sommers claimed to be of the utmost importance to Leviathan. Unlike the one Bruce had snagged though, these had been cataloged, each was plastered with a serial number, hand written out on a piece of tape.

He removed the paper documents inside, reading over all the pertinent information it contained.

Item # 225. Ezarium.

Several subcategories presented themselves, each with a box to reference for further information.

Specifications. Components. Formulation. Use And Production. Special Projects.

Bruce scrolled across the Special Projects line. On the right hand side of the page, it simply ready, 'Reference container # 0041986.'

Hustling, Bruce ran over toward the eastern side of the archive room, reading each label that past, in search of the corresponding row.

012000 - 011000. 007000 - 006000. 005000 - 004000. Here!

Down the aisle, Bruce's head went back and forth from the left side of shelves, to the right side, reading all the numbers tapped to each box, hell bent on finding the referenced container.

Come on! Come on!

He gave himself whiplash with the amount of times he had to torque his head from one side to the other.

Nearing the end, impatience grew.

Come on!

And then with wonderful surprise, there it was.

Gotcha!

Box # 0041986; Special Projects. Removing the carton, on a high, Bruce opened the container top to a sea of file folders, all with their own label and title. Boundless project names appeared.

Whoa!

Bruce didn't have the time, needing only one.

His fingers moved with ferocious speed, reading each label he turned. The Herrenvolk Initiative, Project Titan, Operation Black Demon, etc, etc. The names went on and on.

No. No. C'mon.

Ten folders deep. His was still a no show. He flipped the eleventh. There it was; The Deathstroke Project.

Yes!

He lifted the dense folder, the word classified was stamped in red, diagonally onto the front of it. Bruce, curious, double checked his time status before turning the cover page.

Professor's Notes. H.S. MD.

January 14th. 1941. Warsaw, Poland. After researching the substance provided to me, it appears the unusual chemical compound contains some sort of, dare I say, supernatural healing abilities. The compound will need to be studied more thoroughly and broken down in order to properly diagnose and refine. The big question still remains; can this natural elixir be used to create something more?

February 28th. 1941. Following months of tests and re-testing, I have finally succeeded in my research. Deriving a Beta-Serum from the discovered substance. Truly a day I never thought possible when I was first approached in Eindhoven for the project, almost a year ago now. I can say with certainty that we are ready to begin advanced testing.

May 2nd. 1941. Initial stages of testing to commence. Starting Monday, first series of injections will be administered on a test group of lab mice and then studied for analysis.

May 5th. 1941. Injections have been administered on five field mice. Upon first glance, the mice seem to be receptive, demonstrating zero signs of rejection. A good start. Now, it's a waiting game.

Twenty-four hours in, injections prove to show hopes of a favorable outcome. Will continue to update.

72 hours in, all five test subjects were unable to handle the dosage and began to experience brain trauma. Within the next day, all five die. Adjustments will have to be made to see what went wrong.

September 12th. 1941. After a series of alterations and modifications to the serum's original formula, that take me over four months to refine, outcome is, regrettably the same, test subjects all die within a matter of 72 hours. I'm certain I can make the proper adjustments with enough time and resources. The truth, unfortunately, is that these injections are not meant for the physiology and genetic makeup of mice, our tests must be conducted on a species closer to that of man. Permission and approval pending.

October 1st. 1941. Project and further experimentation to be moved to a larger facility in Bergenz. With Germanys expansion further spreading, The Führer is demanding the project be moved so that he can keep a close watch and be given constant updates on our progress.

October 21st. 1941. Bergenz, Austria. Project has officially been moved into Austria and approval has finally been granted and approved. Modified serum B-2 to be tested on various species of apes next week as stage two into our research.

November 8th. 1941. Preliminary results are a resounding success. Of all eight ape species tested with serum, 90% display levels of improvement in all key areas; stamina, strength, and pain tolerance. If results continue to show signs of life, the project can continue into its next stage and what it was truly meant for; homo sapiens.

The apes have superseded the dreaded 72 hour mark where the field mice had failed. Improvements continue to flourish. With our DNA 96% comparable to that of apes, this proves that a similar result will indeed occur within humans and perhaps more receptive when administered. We are closer than ever. Stats to be monitored for a period as per the boards request to ensure a 100% success rate will be possible.

May 28th. 1942. Six months into injections, we have hit our first hiccup. Four apes have begun contracting various symptoms of degradation, dropping rate of success to 75%. Will continue to monitor vitals to see if the ramifications are long term, or merely a brief side effect.

Two more apes have now succumbed to similar symptoms as those before. Blood pressure and BPM's have severely dropped. I fear that these seven will not make it to the end of the week.

As I feared, five of the seven apes who have shown signs of serum failure have now passed. If rate of deaths continue, the whole line of serums may have to be taken completely back to formula for a second time, taking our research back by years.

July 15th. 1942. The apes that have gone on to survive the experiments are now showing newer symptoms; signs of mental disease and breakdown. They've become extremely violent and unstable. Their synapses, firing at an unusual and uncontrollable rate, becoming a danger to themselves and our lab. Experiments have been deemed a total failure by the board, all subjects will need to be put down, they say. I will begin a new series of formulation in the coming weeks, against the wishes of the big wigs upstairs.

September 4th, 1942. After months of deliberation, the project has been placed on a standstill. Many are demanding that it be scrapped due to heavy costs and the failure to bring about a favorable, lasting result. While I am close to refining a new compound, I wait for approval to resume experiments.

October 12th. 1942. We have officially been shut down. All our work is to be seized and handed over. I can not allow this, we are too close, I can feel it.

Measures have been taken to secretly move the project to Berlin, in the heart of the lions den. The Good Doctor, The Führer, and I have concluded, that what we are doing is far too crucial for the betterment of man and this war, and thus, our work must continue without approval from the higher ups. Further experimentation must commence, and more aggressively, I do not want to waste time on these prefatory experiments, we must begin human trials right away if we are to be successful in this endeavor. Human Augmentation. We are officially calling our research, The Deathstroke Project.

January 2nd 1943. On special directive, the first series of volunteers has arrived. We will try a more progressive injection at a far higher dosage so that we may bypass any mishaps, and weed out the weak. For the purpose of keeping our work eyes only, my notes from here on out will be brief and infrequent until I have something to report.

June 29th 1943. Our truculent approach is yielding many horrid and brutal outcomes to our unfortunate volunteers. Most instances cause severe mental illnesses and a complete internal breakdown at the cellar level. However, all necessary costs. I cannot concern myself with those who are too weak to handle the inoculation. We are at war, and war requires sacrifice.

December 2nd. 1943. We've done! it I can hardly believe it. The first successful human augmented soldier is a triumph, and, he is perfect. Truly, a joyous occasion. The Führer and The Good Doctor will be pleased. We will celebrate tonight, the champagne is on me.

April 12th 1944. While I still regard our achievements as a success, Mr. Wilson does still display symptoms here and there of mental distress, as his predecessors did. Hard to tell if it is actually from the serum, or from a past experience.

July 30th. 1944. With the tide of war changing, and our work on the upswing, we can no longer stay in Europe, lest everything we have accomplished will be lost. We are moving to a new, larger, undisclosed location. Phase 2 is already underway, with Phase 3 close behind.

That was the final note provided by the mysterious professor. Flipping some of the other pages of the file provided Bruce with nothing else, at least nothing he could understand. Some information on the serum's basic components and structure. Chemistry and bio organics were not exactly his strong suite.

Flipping the final page of the folder caused an object to slip out from behind. Pinging onto the cement by Bruce's foot, was a slightly rusted bronze key. Diverting his attention to the dropped key, Bruce crouched, retrieving it. The obscure numbers, 1408 were etched into the surface.

1408?... 1408?

Checking the last page again for an explanation; where it was from, what it was for, provided nothing. 1408. Bruce repeated the numbers in his head, numbers that could've meant anything. He didn't know why, but it gnawed at him with a strange sense of importance. There had to be a reason for it. Bruce pocketed the key.

Respiting, the next, and final file behind The Deathstroke Project caught Bruce's eye. He stared at it long, and hard. The label along the top read, 'Untitled Phase 2 Projects.'

Like the key, I couldn't explain what compelled me to grab that file. But, something about the professors notes, and his mention of Phase 2 stuck out in my mind. Maybe it was the title, the uncertainness of it, and whatever Phase 2 was. It scared me. That fear, well, it made me want to know.

He drew it out. And just like the file before, a classified stamp had been plastered onto the front. Only difference, this folder, was quite thin. Opening to the first few pages, Bruce was received with little to nothing. Much of what was recorded was in the form of numbers and calculations, totals and projections. All of it, indeterminate. Beyond that, the periodic table of elements, various marks, chemistry symbols, and bonds along with some scattered notes.

The next and last page of that folder, however, validated the fears Bruce felt from reading the label. Drawn out in very specific detail were designs and schematics for weapons. And there were several, page after page Bruce saw were drawn out with chemical, biological, and worst of all, nuclear bombs. It was now that Bruce realized what those projections on the previous pages were; death tolls, some, numbering in the millions, far beyond the destruction in Mariette and the capabilities of any Atomic or Hydrogen bomb before it.

Oh My God.

The proceeding page contained a fuzzy, black and white satellite image of southern Russia. Ridges in the image depicted what appeared to be a group of small mountain ranges surrounding an area with an arc shaped body of water to the west. A cluster of white spots just to the right of the river had been very specifically circled several times with a red pen, just like the map Bruce had seen earlier upstairs.

Bruce tightened his forehead, giving the few pages provided another distorted glance, unable to process all that he was seeing. He checked his watch again. He had exactly twenty minutes until it was 5pm. He tried to read through every page, but before attempting to do so, there was that click of the door once more.

God damn it! Again?

He froze, just when he thought he was out of the woods. With no more time to spare, he needed to get back before it was too late. Bruce seized both folders, burying them into his shirt, then turned back around and disappeared from view.

The same highly decorated officer crept inside the archives again.

What the hell?

Perturbed by the second visit, Bruce watched again from an undisclosed spot. The officer walked, but this time, there was nothing nonchalantly about it. It had that purpose, that intent Bruce feared from the first visit. With a healthy distance and all the information he needed, Bruce waited in angst.

The officer reached the fourth row from the right hand side of the archive room, and with a glare of perplexmxent, stopped. Immediately, Bruce's stomach sank. He forgot.

Shiiiiit!

Down the aisle, the officer spotted something that did not belong; a wayward ushanka cap and a long dark coat. He grabbed them both. Now he knew. He wasn't alone. Turning sharply, his eyes went everywhere.

In a panic, and no where to hide, Bruce had no choice, but to get somewhere out of sight. There wasn't time, he had to get back upstairs and back to the streets. Locating a nearby ladder, he grabbed the rungs. He'd be harder to find way up top. Without making a peep to concern the officer, he scaled up with silent precision to the very top shelf, where the inventory was more sparse. As high as the room would allow, Bruce found partial cover behind one of the larger boxes.

On a manhunt, the decorated officer began his trifling search for the owner of those garments, traipsing up, down, and around every row.

There was now just a measly thirteen minutes till 5:00pm. Bruce knew he couldn't hide forever. With his window narrowing, he had to make his escape soon.

It wasn't long before the officer came upon the row Bruce occupied. Thirty feet above the the ground, inaudibly perched, Bruce fought to stay like a stone. He glanced at the exit door across the way. So close, but yet so far, he had to wait for his moment. Watching the officer inch closer and closer, Bruce readied himself to sneak down and make haste for the door when the annoyance walked on by and had his back turned.

Bruce clenched, the anticipation to start moving ate at him.

Evaluating each side, the officer left nothing to chance, trying to be thorough. Passing on by the Special Projects box, he made it another two steps, before halting.

Son of a bitch.

Bruce tried to make himself even smaller.

Neurotic, the officer backpedalled. The box of files was not placed back appropriately. The corner tip was leaning, just slightly over the edge of the shelf. Certainly, he did not leave it that way.

Fixing the box back to its straightened position, the officer's state of suspicion went on high alert. Directly below Bruce now, he looked left, then right, over, and around his immediate area, he saw nothing. And then, he turned around. He saw the ladder. Bruce's whole body, from his pinky toe to the tip of his cowlick tensed. The adrenaline swelled.

The officer slowly arched his head upwards, following each rung. Time, tension, it all dragged. Bruce knew he couldn't move without making a sound, so he held. And for a split second, their eyes met. The two of them went aghast. And without any thought, Bruce came soaring down from the top shelf along with two other boxes. Momentum carrying him, both he and the boxes slammed into the officer, taking them both off their feet, causing a noise rattling clang upon the aluminum rows. Bruce rushed up, reclaiming his coat and cap from the officer, panting, as he made a mad dash to the exit.

Stoy! The Russian officer screamed.

Shutting off the lights on the way out, Bruce escaped the archive room into the hall. Hands shaking, he fidgeted to grab hold of the brass key top operate the elevator. Repeatedly, he trying like hell to insert it into the slot, misaligning it several times. Once he got it, the doors couldn't open fast enough for the terrified Bruce Wayne that would soon have a tail.

Plowing inside, Bruce pounded on the up arrow, practically breaking it.

Come on! Come on! Come on!

His mouth ran dry, his breathes, swift and diminutive.

The officer emerged from the archive room in serious haste, running towards Bruce just as the doors to the elevator pinched shut.

Chapter 44: All Bets Off

4:51pm.

Replacing his cap and coat with shaky hands, the ascent back up to the surface went much took what moments he had to himself to come back to an even keel, gathering what little wit he had left about him. His heart raced so much he could feel his pulse in his head.

Doors opening, he was back inside the upper catacombs and luckily into an empty hall. He sauntered carefully, yet fast, but not too fast. The elevator was already on its way back down, which meant the officer he left behind could be right on top of him at any moment. No time to dawdle.

Turning the corner, he brushed shoulders with a suit heading toward that elevator, who gave him a funny look. Bruce paid no mind, continuing to walk away, one thing on his mind; freedom.

"Privet!" The suit called out.

No. Go away.

Bruce kept his back to the man.

"Privet!" The suit said again, louder.

Bruce refused to turn, increasing the pace of his stride. If he ran, then that was it; All bets off.

"Privet! Stoy!" The suit screamed. The slip of metal separating from leather snapped.

Bruce sharply turned the next corner in a full on sprint. A loud bang followed, chipping the corner wall behind him as he now charged through the halls.

The fired shot alerted everyone. Men exited from every door to the sight of a man in a guards uniform running for the hills. Hands out, signaling him to stop, nothing was goin to hinder Bruce, fueled by sheer terror now. Like a linebacker, Bruce barreled through the men who couldn't draw their weapons fast enough. Art work, vases, decor, furniture, anything caught in Bruce's path became collateral damage.

Whistles bellowed, followed by a rasping, ear wrenching alarm. It caused a huge commotion and hysteria, and the awareness to Bruce as more tried to swarm him.

Bashing, punching, stiff arming, and shoving his way through the halls of the catacombs, Bruce struggled with every breath. He could see the stone false door entrance, back into St. Alexander's Hall.

Pure instinct and survival on his mind as well as a blatant disregard for any pain, Bruce slammed into the stone with a hard shoulder in a flurried panic. The impact of the force shifted and separated the stone, opening its path to the other side. Outrunning an impending army, Bruce sprinted across the glistening floors of the hall, toward the first door he could spot. Galloping toward it, Bruce was quickly greeted to an opening packed with a flock of armed soldiers. Hitting the brakes, Bruce bolted in the opposite direction. The clicking of loaded mags behind him, Bruce ran harder, gaining momentum. Shots fired. Bruce leapt, bracing his arms over his face and went crashing through one of the glass panned windows.

Shards sprinkling over and around him, people screamed in terror as Bruce plunged from two stories up, scrapping his wrists and knees onto the pavement, without breaking stride, back on the outskirts of the palace. The entirety of Red Square's occupants now had their attention on The Grand Kremlin Palace, the siren echoing, and the lone man running from like a bat out of hell.

Weaving in and out, through a full crowd, Bruce quickly become the highlight of everyones attention. Russian soldiers emerged from every corner of the palace, rifles in hand.

Dashing, cold air infiltrating his diaphragm, Bruce discarded bits of his disguise in the frigidness, while the shouting and screaming ensued. It wasn't long before the outdoor guards noticed the commotion and joined in the pursuit. He had the entire palace chasing after him.

Tourists moved aside in fear, grabbing hold of their children, staring at Bruce like a criminal or some kind of terrorist.

The Cathedral of Dormition was in sight. The mob behind, shouting incessantly, Bruce had to force himself not to look back, knowing if he did, the dread he already had would triple. Lungs and feet in agony for a break, he couldn't stop.

A single gunshot erupted into the air. People cried out, immediately scattering. More gunshots followed, Bruce ducked, dodging bullets coming from God only knew. The turmoil and panicky swarms of people played into Bruce's favor, allowing him to blend and lose himself temporarily from the soldiers.

Able to find his way back to the Cathedral, Bruce snuck inside, in search of refuge, where his adventure all started.

The fleet of soldiers lost the wayward intruder in the shuffle and hysterical crowds. Cutting through hordes of people, while shoving others out of their path, guns in hand, the Red soldiers and officers fanned out, checking nearby constructs for the one evading them. A handful entered the Cathedral. Some scared citizens inside remained, praying in fear to themselves at the pews. The officers and soldiers inspected everyone, removing folks right from their prayers.

One of the officers, rough in his handling, snagged a young man from his backside, grasping him by the collar of his brown jacket, aggressively turning him around so that his face could be seen.

With a flat cap, a pair of spectacles and a ticket wrapped around his neck, Bruce Wayne stared back into the eyes of the same decorated officer whom he barreled over in the archive room.

"Yes?" Bruce replied, doing his best acting, surprise in both his tone and body language.

With a studious gaze, the officer stared deeply, but recognized nothing of Bruce in his glasses and street clothes. And so, shoved Bruce back to the pew.

Bruce turned his head back around to the front altar, and although he was about to piss himself, he gave a snide look out from the corner of his eye, and let a tiny smile slip from his face.

Chapter 45: Out There

Tverskaya Street Apartments. Room 6F. March 3rd, 1947. 5:17pm.

Bruce plopped the dense file folder labeled, Deathstroke Project onto the center table in the living room, right next to the vial of Ezarium, exhausted and completely drained.

"Next time, you're looking for the secret files in the secret room."

With a laugh, Arthur gave Bruce a friendly swat on his shoulder along with a big smile. "Welcome back."

Bruce arrived back at the cramped apartment to a warm reception and an enormous burden off his back. His mission, his arduous, impossible undertaking, was an implausible success, albeit, a messy one, it ended in victory. The team could barely believe it, most of all, himself. He had actually pulled it off, but not without a few snags in between.

"Run into any trouble?" Henri was the first ask.

Raising an eyebrow, Bruce replied. "You have no idea."

"Care for a game of gin?" Arthur offered to deal Bruce into the next hand, of which he, Morgan, and Anya had already played several of, nervously waiting for him to return. "Or maybe a glass of gin, instead?" Arthur took wise note of the distress upon Bruce's face and person, knowing what the proper remedy should really be.

Bruce un-objectively nodded as Arthur removed the bottle from a grungy kitchen cabinet.

It had been a long time since I had a nice hard, stiff drink. And if ever there was an occasion that called for me to break my streak, this was it. I had always preferred to get myself lit with a cheap blended scotch. Scotch was fast acting, quick to numb the pain, and it didn't require me to think. I had never indulged myself in the spirit of gin though. And to be honest, it wasn't the most delicious, but in that moment, over ice, it was the most refreshing, nerve calming thing to ever hit my lips.

Bruce took a seat at a corner desk and leaned back, getting his legs back from under him. They had gone numb about twenty minutes ago. Everyone else moved around, overly anxious to get their hands on the contents of the folder while he enjoyed his drink.

"What've we got?" Morgan began the conversation, as the analysis of the stolen goods was about to commence.

Each of them, except for Bruce, hovered over the table, while Henri started from the beginning of the folder, grazing and skimming over what Bruce had already read.

Seriousness on is mug, Henri's eyes glided and scrolled, across and down. "Son of a bitch." He chuckled. "Sommers was telling the truth about the whole God damn thing. The experiments, everything. Unbelievable." Henri read some more. "Leviathan had been working with the Nazis, using Ezarium to create an advanced human soldier since the war broke out."

"For the purpose of what?" Anya had to ask.

"Does there have to be one?" Arthur replied. "Why did Frankenstein create his monster?"

"According to these notes, that assassin was the first successful product of the work that went on." Henri pointed.

"There's more." Bruce stood, stealing their attention, shelving his glass of gin. Sauntering over, all eyes were on him. "Ezarium. What Sommers said. What he was trying to tell us. It's not just about Deathstroke, and creating soldiers." All of them, instantly had a nerve struck, the ease and apprehension at which Bruce spoke was severely off-putting. "There's a whole box full of folders down there like this, labeled, Special Projects." They all followed Bruce in his approach. "I didn't get a chance to look at all of them, but." Bruce stopped, locked onto his ally, his friend. "You were right, Henri." Bruce slowly pulled the Untitled Phase 2 Projects folder from the inside of his shirt, placing it atop the table, over The Deathstroke Project. "Leviathan's going to use Ezarium to make weapons. All kinds."

Henri opened the bonus folder Bruce was able retrieve from the archives. Together, he, Arthur, Morgan, and Anya all studied the figures and numbers. Bruce hung back, giving them all a chance to properly digest the terrifying contents. And just as Bruce reacted when he first scanned the numbers, so did his team, wide eyed, shocked, and at a loss for words.

"If Leviathan releases something like this. It'll kill millions." Anya spoke in a shaky voice. "Maybe even more."

Everyone took a steady breath.

"What the hell is this stuff?" Arthur spoke in a concerned tone, motioning toward the Ezarium.

"I dunno." Bruce answered. "But, whatever they're creating." Bruce flipped the file folder to its final page; the satellite photo. "I think, this, is where they're doing it."

Each leaned closer, the fuzzy image at the center of attention, glued to their eyes, closely inspecting the area of white dots circled in red.

Without speaking, unfolding a world map from a duffle bag, Morgan made some room on the table, laying it flat, the satellite image off to the corner as a reference.

"This is the southernmost part of the country." Henri replied.

"And this looks like the Podstepka River." Anya pointed at the body of water. "That's just off the coast of Kazakstan's eastern border."

"And these white spots?" Arthur chimed in, asking of Anya.

She looked, and then looked closer. "I have no idea."

They all took a good hard, close look at the rather vacant, barren location on the map. Bewildered, uncertain gazes were shared between each of them, before Morgan shook his head and asked. "What the hell is out there?"

It was a question on one in that room had an answer to. But, what each of them did know as they glanced over the other's facial expression, was that it was time to find out.

Chapter 46: The Final Hand

Russian Airspace. 3,000 Miles Over Astrakhan Oblast. March 5th, 1947. 11:37pm.

This was it. The final hand, our last play, to find Leviathan, and put an end to whatever it was they were planning. We weren't quite sure what we were going to find when we touched down onto the surface, thousands of miles beneath us, or what we were going to run into. But, if this place, this location, those spots on that satellite image held all the answers to everything, then this was something we all had to do, had to see with our own eyes, no matter the cost.

The area circled resided in the city of Astrakhan Oblast, a place, we unfortunately couldn't physically get into through traditional methods. The war hadn't been over for that long, and since, The Reds had been shutting down access into certain cities since. Some were closed to just foreigners, and some, like this area, required a very high level of authorization to get into. Something we sure as hell didn't have. According to Arthur, the Russians were trying to safeguard their arms plants from impending attacks. Which made sense, given all that was going on around the world these days. But, that line was bullshit, in actuality, they just didn't want people to see what they're up to. And that made much more sense.

They're protecting something down there, and we intended on finding out just what that was.

With Arthur at the helm of a Potez 650 French military aircraft transport, Bruce and company occupied the belly of the two engine monoplane, decked in wool lined, snow-camo grey attire, gathering gear. Wearing layer on top of layer, gloves, hats, scarfs, their bodies needed to be prepared for the sub zero temperature about to hit them. Southern Russia in March wasn't going to be at the slopes. A slew of weaponry adorned the side walls in military crates. Some contained extra mags, hand guns, assault rifles, and satchel charges. Everything they'd need.

It's good to have friends in high places. No sooner then we left that apartment in Moscow, Arthur was already on the horn, reaching out to a fella who flew planes during the war.

Propellers flapping spastically around, it was obvious the bird wasn't up to code. A whipping, vibrational hum hit the plane each time the slightest gust of wind passed through. It gave new meaning to the word, turbulence. The fifteen year old aircraft wasn't Arthur's first choice, full of bullet dents and rust, but circumstances what they were, there wasn't much of a debate in the matter. If it could get them to the location circled on that satellite image with enough fuel, then it would do.

"Alright, so, we can't land anywhere inside the city, and we can't enter through the border because of the military enforced checkpoints." Anya shrugged, asking the question each wondered. "How the hell are we supposed to get down there?"

Placing the aircraft on autopilot, Arthur strolled back, wobbly holding on to the sides of the iffy plane to keep his balance.

Searching for ideas, Henri took a breath, looking toward the rear hatch of the plane and at the rack of parachutes hanging up. "Well, I had one idea in mind." He glanced over at Arthur with a subtle smirk.

"Un Uh. No." Arthur replied sharply, shaking his head. "Not gonna happen."

The rest looked at the back, and Bruce asked. "What?"

"Are there any other alternatives? Cause I'm all ears." Henri indicated with the slightest amount of sarcasm.

Arthur pointed his finger at Henri. "You're insane," walking away.

"I'm sorry. Someone mind filling me in?" Anya butted.

"It worked, didn't it?" Henri tried to get his old pal on board.

"Yeah, and half of us were shot down or killed before we even touched the ground. And this would be a hell of lot different than that was."

"What the hell are you two talking about?" Morgan joined in.

Henri briefly broke away from his and Arthurs argumentative banter to answer Morgan and everyone else. "Normandy."

Bruce's entire face expanded with a head droop. "You want to." He cleared his throat. "Parachute down?"

Henri gave a crooked nod.

"Yeah. You're insane." Morgan concurred with Arthur's previous comment, laughing nervously while pacing away.

Nothing surprised me anymore. Not at this stage in the game. It was fitting, in a way. It seemed the farther along we got, the more insane and more dramatic our tasks became. Why not go completely batshit crazy over the edge by jumping out of a God damn airplane.

"Well?" Henri waited on a consensus.

Hands on her hips, Anya stared blankly ahead. Bruce sighed toward Morgan, who threw his hand up and said it. "Where else are we going, right? We're in."

"Arthur?" Henri said.

A frown-full half smile, Arthur considered. "What the hell. If I'm going out, might as well do it in style. I'm going with you."

"Whose gonna fly the plane?" Morgan inquired.

"This thing's a piece of shit anyways, be a blessing for it to crash and burn."

Laughing, they were all crazy, soaring on adrenaline.

This is nuts. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die down there.

The time passed as Bruce prepared, trying to psych himself up for the maddening stunt they were about to perform. To himself, seated on a weapons crate toward the corner, he stared intently at the wrinkled up envelope in his hands while holding onto his father's pocket knife. Like he had done so many times before. Only now, he had a very strong feeling that right then and there in the that plane, would be the last time he'd ever set eyes on it.

I thought real hard about opening it up. I may never get the chance after tonight. The odds were not in my favor. And I could die never knowing what my father left for me.

Bruce's thoughts were interrupted when Henri came into Bruce's peripheral sight. The seasoned Hunter and father took a seat next to Bruce.

Tapping the envelope in his hand, Bruce faked a smile to his ally. "It's as good a time as any, right?"

As Bruce began to take a corner, Henri stopped him with a palm atop his and the envelope.

At first, Henri said nothing. "Save it." He replied, with two gentle taps on Bruce's hand accompanied by a head nod. That was followed up with Henri giving Bruce a reassuring squint. "Save it."

That was the extent of the short exchange as Henri rose and carried on getting his gear together.

Watching Henri walk away, Bruce let out a long sigh. Taking the very subtle advice, Bruce pocketed the note deep into his interior shirt, saving it for another time, hoping there would be one. He buried the pocket knife into the heel of his boot, between the double layer army issue socks, thinking that maybe it would come in handy.

"Alright, listen up!" Arthur shouted. "Forgive the term, but you're about to get a serious crash course in paratrooping."

Henri already knew what to expect, so the lesson was really intended for the three younglings of the operation.

Arthur held up a demonstration chute. He pointed to each important part. "Straps, pull lever, emergency reserve."

The three of them glanced around, waiting for more instruction than what was provided.

"That's it?" Anya retorted.

"Why complicate things more than they already are." Arthur grinned, handing Morgan the demo chute as he headed back to the cockpit.

"Great." Bruce muttered.

Looks like this is gonna be a trail and error kind of thing. Except that error in this scenario is dead.

Pulling the harness straps to his chute extra tight, securing and re-securing them at least five times, Bruce was leaving nothing to chance. If he could help it, he'd try to bring the rate of failure to zero.

"I can't believe we're actually doing this." Anya said to Bruce, just as panicked, equipping her chute.

"Yeah, you and me both."

"Come on. It'll be fun." Morgan walked between the two, headed for the rear hatch. Either he was ready, or he was just masking the same fear with extra enthusiasm.

Bruce motioned toward the back. "Ladies first."

Arthur dropped the plane down to one-thousand feet, safe enough to jump from.

"Ok!" Arthur yelled back from the cockpit, placing the craft on its final autopilot. Instantaneously, Bruce's stomach dropped. "We're two minutes from the drop point. With any luck, we'll land a few miles outside our target point. Get ready."

In line, grabbing a chute, Arthur joined Bruce along with everyone else, strapping his bow and quiver firmly to his side.

"Listen up." Henri acknowledged the whole team. "We do this. We do it together. As a team. No one enters without the other. Agreed?"

Nodding, that's exactly what they were; a team.

"This all goes up in smoke, and we..." Henri paused. And the reality of just how dire their situation immediately smacked them all. It was clear, even Henri was doubtful "Head for the river." He continued, hesitated in his words. "And disappear."

With that sentence, I realized, this was a suicide mission. And if, by the grace of God, I did make it out alive, there was good chance those standing next to me right now, wouldn't, and this would probably be the last time we all saw one another.

Poised at the rear hatch of the plane, each pressed a pair of goggles to their face. Chutes secure, Arthur slapped the hatch door switch, releasing the back exit like a garage. A tunnel of rip roaring, windy snow blazed through the hollow bodied craft as soon as the air pinched in, pushing everyone back. Ear-deafening, nothing could be heard over the forceful, precipitous gale mixed with the struggling chop of the planes propellers.

A hold on anything that would keep him grounded, Bruce contracted to keep from getting knocked over.

Grey, opaque clouds and sporadic twinkling stars dusted the night sky.

Henri was the first to inch toward the edge, one hand clutched to the interior. With a glance at his crew, he gestured out. "Let's go!"

One by one, Morgan first, letting out a disturbing, enthusiastic woo as he jumped, Anya was second, a little less enthralling in her leap. And then Arthur, who gave his old friend a pat on the side of his neck before disappearing into the night.

Gulping his stomach back in to submission, Bruce stepped up.

One, last reassuring stare, Henri nodded to his young friend. "I'll see you down there! God speed."

Bruce took a peak down into the abyss of darkness.

Here goes nuthin!

Chapter 47: Project Control

Russian Airspace. 900 Miles Over Astrakhan Oblast. March 6th. 1947. 12:00am.

Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!

The sensation of skin peeling from his cheekbones and clothing being suctioned to him, punctured Bruce's body while a terrible squall of wind pulsated in his ears. Gravity had taken hold. Soaring down, the others below in the form of specs, blended with the falling snow. Bruce uncontrollably swayed, weightlessly through iridescent clouds one by one while an invisible target, an unknown construct, lied, less than one-thousand miles from contact.

Vision askew threw his fog collecting goggles, land slowly began to form. Tiny formations and striations in the topography were next. And then, all at once, there it was, a gray, shadowy rectangular edifice, narrow in width, approximately five miles long.

Almost simultaneously, three chutes opened below Bruce. The specs he indented his team as were now replaced by a circular white curtain, gliding slowly.

Bruce steadied. It was time.

A hard yank down on the silver handle attached to his harness deployed Bruce's parachute, jolting him upwards with a hard thrust. Grunting, his stomach returned to his throat once again.

Legs dangling, the breeze's strength diminished as did the descent down. Gentle flapping from the chute above him collecting air, Bruce kept his focus on the others beneath, paying close attention to their course.

He could breath a little easier, swaying with gravity, instead of against it. The structure increased in size with every subtle drop in altitude. All he had to do was patiently bide his time, and allow his chute to guide him.

Strangely and rather suspiciously, bright yellow beams of light soundlessly emanated from the ground up. Widening, expanding, getting closer.

Hundreds more followed before Bruce could realize what was occurring. Gunfire. They had been spotted. Projectiles whizzed all around him, his chute quickly became tethered, boring a huge gash in the thick cloth as he struggled to shift away.

Precariously plummeting in a horrible back and forth spin, Bruce fell victim to the elements again, violently, and harder down. Swaying and rocking, struggling to reagin control of the chute, he fell faster and faster. Yanking and pulling on the brake loops, Bruce desperately tried. The snowy surface was coming up quick. Before a plan could be formulated, it was already too late. The landing was going to hurt. Stiffening from top to bottom, Bruce's feet drove with terrible force into the snow. Knees bucking, the rest of him faltered, slamming belly down as the wind was completely knocked from his lungs. Out cold.

Bruce was only out for a few moments before the frigid, snowy temperature awoke his body. Gasping, he awoke in a panic. Slow moving, covered in frosty white snow, his torn chute draped over him, he was alone, separated from the rest of the pack. Cautiously, he arched up from the numbing cold. Groans and grimaces followed the whole way up to his feet, removing the chute.

His mind immediately went to the others, fearing the worst. That they may not have been as lucky as him. Although he had missed the mark and gone completely off course than originally desired drop point, which would require a hike on foot, the unexpected fall did bring him closer to their target destination than originally foreseen. In sight, the construct sat, hazy with the flutter of snowflakes that fell diagonally, unintentionally guarding the mystery. A disheartening trek would be required, a mile, maybe a bit more to reach it. Again, better than originally planned, but he also planned to have four others with him. The debate now, was weather to go and search for the others or, to find shelter and safety.

Bitter, the temperature well below freezing, it'd be dangerous, perhaps life threatening to walk within the horrid conditions for an extended period of time. If his option was to look for the others, the downside would be him not making it very far.

Shielding his eyes from the winding snow that altered direction with every shift in the wind, Bruce shuffled ahead, reluctantly choosing shelter, the harsh weather leaving him little choice.

Fighting the snow, he finally came upon a cement structure, peaking up from underneath the snow. Ice sickles hung from the awning, just over a steel door, a turning wheel in the center, much like those on a submarine, barred entrance in and away from the frigidness. The door could've easily been missed in all the sprawling snow that surrounded.

Cleaning the moisture from his rosy nose, Bruce slid toward the side entrance, feeling guilty about doing so alone. They had all agreed not to enter without one another, but they couldn't have anticipated being shot down from the sky and separated. His desire and action to go in was fueled by sheer survival.

God, I hope they made it.

The turning wheel was nearly frozen stiff, covered in frosted ice. It took some gripping and force to generate some torque. With a deep breath and a teeth clenching groan, Bruce's strength was able to unhinge the door, creaking like it had been closed for years. A jet stream of wind mixed with snowflakes was sent rushing inside that barely opened entrance way enough to fit Bruce. Fighting the heavy snow on the ground and the wind in the air that continued to resist, Bruce squeezed his way into the dark recess, sealing himself in. Silence; a stark contrast to the madness he just came from. Breathing steadied as his first steps echoed through the hollow tube he occupied. The click of his flashlight bounced off the walls, its beam brightening some of the area.

In close proximity on either side of him; the walls, not even five feet apart from each other. With outstretched arms, Bruce could feel the cold surface of both at the same time. The enclosed path extended down to a door frame that glowed ominously in bright, white light.

Bruce's paces, un-rushed and calm, were ironic, given how he felt internally.

Perfectly parallel to one another, steel doors lined either side of the hall. Bruce examined each, all latched off by a metal padlock. Stamped on every door; a set of four numbers, printed in yellow.

When Bruce reached the fifth door on his right hand side, he stopped. The numbers, 1408, imprinted upon it, gave him cause. Taking his time to review the familiar set of numbers, Bruce combed through the various pockets of his thick winter garments, knowing he took that with him as well. It took some digging, but eventually, buried deep in his coat pocket, he found it: the key he retrieved from the Kremlin archives.

He scraped the surface dirt from the brass finish.

1408.

Up into the padlock, Bruce placed the key, and with a single turn, it unhooked. A stiff turn of the doorknob pinged lightly off the tightly confined hall space.

A beeping, steady, and constant was the first sound to come into the atmosphere. But, that soon became mere background noise, dwarfed by the unimaginable contents of the room that rendered Bruce immobile.

Oh my God.

Arranged in two rows of six; twelve, five by five tanks filled the room, each occupied by a man laid in a comatose, fetal position. They rested there, dormant, suspended in water, hooked up to a breathing apparatus being regulated by some kind of computer off to the side of each tank.

Bruce blinked, as to make sure his eyes did not deceive him. Entering with the utmost caution, he walked between the two rows, glancing side to side at every individual who had fell victim to the hands of Leviathan's experimentation. Past the tanks, straight ahead, along the back wall, a clear, double doored, cooling fridge sat. Lights illuminated the four shelves inside, stock full of test tube racks, much like the one from the archive room. Every tube, to the brim with that all too familiar, peculiar green fluid; Ezarium. On a side table, next to the fridge, neatly organized over a white cloth, arranged in a zig zag pattern; five empty capped syringes.

A closer look at one of the tanks, and the computer next to it, Bruce inspected a screen full of binary code. Just a string of one's and zero's. Next to that, a clipboard hung, holding together some papers. Bruce checked it out. The first words to stand out; Deathstroke Project Control.

He flipped over to the next page.

Subject 7. Name: Gibson, Ricky. DOB: 5/18/22 Height: 6' 3" Weight: 220lb's.

Subject appears to be responsive to first stages of serum injections. Protein synthesis and cell regeneration remain steady and stable. Hyper awareness and tolerance to physical distress operating at 45% above normal, near optimal capacity. Serum, unfortunately limited to improvements concerning the nervous and muscular system. Ailments effecting the internal organs have thus, yet to be curtailed. As with original subject, mental distress, still questionable. Remains to be seen if stress is due to injections or past trauma. New variable will need to be tested immediately, which may aid in suppressing the activation of the brains limbic system, an area responsible for memories, thus creating emotion. Contingency already in place if unsuccessful and scenario should arise where subject continues to display signs of mental instability and restraint to program. First batch to arrive in two weeks from Paris, along with new formulas.

Bruce continued reading, absorbing every bit of information those notes had to offer.

A crucial thought in his mind, Bruce turned his attention now toward the back wall where the cooling fridge full of Ezarium resided, approaching with determination. Sliding one of the glass doors open, a cloud of coolness against his skin, Bruce carefully removed one of the racks, setting it aside on the nearby table. Into his thick, wool lined coat, Bruce removed the sample he snagged from the warehouse in Mariette. He had never removed the outer steel casing, afraid of compromising the glass vial inside, and rendering it that much more fragile. But, no he needed to know. Carefully, he unscrewed the cap, undoing the outer steel enclosure. Removing the inner glass vile, Bruce then took one of the experimental serums out from the rack, labeled as Ezarium Serum 146. With both resting in the palm of his hand, he compared them, intently examining each with a careful eye. Glancing back and forth, over and over several times; they were different. Bemused, but only at first, Bruce began to understand what was in his possesion. Pocketing the original deep within the sleeve of his coat, Bruce kept a hold of Serum 146, placing that within the steel canister. Replacing the rack back into the cooling fridge, he flipped back through the clipboard of notes once again, just to be sure.

In a state of extreme focus, Bruce kept at the notes, when from the corner of his eye, he saw the occupant in the tank closet to him shift position. He nearly felt the skin leave his body, shifting away as his heart pounded erratically. Distracted, unsure, and on edge, his mind and eyes did not deceive him, the man inside turned himself over again within the water, staying asleep.

Bruce held quiet as not to disturb. He was about to walk over, but before he could inspect further, a hard thump hit the base of his skull. Falling forward over the tray of syringes that dropped with him, Bruce dropped to the floor. He kept his consciousness just long enough to unravel the red herring and get the last item he needed.

Chapter 48: The End of the Line

Unknown Location. Unknown Time.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing when I had finally awoke and came to. Nothing, but darkness. Unable to see, the taste of wool in my face, all I could hear was the faint sound of my own nervous breathing, accompanied by a constant hum that surrounded me in every direction. I was alive, but who knew for how long. Laying on my side, I tried to raise myself up, but hands upon me stopped the attempt. Shifted, I was forced to my knees. I chose not to resist. Waiting there, I felt whomever had just adjusted me step away, but close enough to keep me obliging. I awaited, in sheer terror, for my executioner.

"I must congratulate you on making it this far." A voice from beyond entered. Afar, deep, disembodied, and freighting, but yet familiar, it invisibly taunted from the unknown. "However, this, is the end of the line."

That resonate humming again followed. Long, drawn out. And with it, an uncomfortable, ambient silence that stemmed. The kind that lingers, boils with trepidation, just before something horrifying is about to occur.

Indefinite, and steadily, three steps approached from behind, stopping right near Bruce. He could hear the individuals easy breathing.

Aggressively, Bruce felt a hand wrap around the base of his neck, crushing him. He tensed. Terrified, about to meet his maker, he squeezed his eyes tight. Forcefully, the cloak from his face was removed, nearly ripping out his hair.

A collection of bright, blinding lights beamed everywhere.

Eyes struggling to adjust and adapt, vision was blurred. When the aura cleared, Bruce looked to his right, astonished. There was Henri, Anya, and Morgan. And to his left, Arthur. All, stripped of their weapons, on their knees as well, and like him, beat up, equally surprised to see the other alive.

Bearings slowly returning, they looked around, in search of the presence, that voice.

"Now that we're all here." Monotonously, it spoke again, emotionless, as if coming from the heavens.

Bruce and his team, hostage to the discarnate, God-like intonation, were all at the center of a hollow, cylinder shaped dome. The ceiling extended several hundred feet up, reaching its apex at a pointed tip. The area was completely comprised of solid metal plates, top to bottom.

Two steps softly patted. It came from above, at the midpoint of a steel walkway, echoing everywhere. A hazy apparition appeared, scorning down on them, hands leaned on the railing. A bright light behind the entity clouded his appearance. Others on either side of him came into view, shrouded in black, just as statuesque. Easy paces behind the team in very close proximity, again taunted, keeping the quintet on edge. The time to try anything funny was most definitely at an end.

"Impressive. Isn't it?" The hazy silhouette began. The more it spoke, the more Bruce was sure he had heard the same man speak before. "Ten years ago, this area was all desolate. Nothing, but snow and dead land. Now, it holds one of the world's most extensive research facilities, devoted to the future of mankind." They stared up, listening to the ghostly phantom. "Here, we can develop anything. There are no limits to the heights we can achieve. All made possible, with this." The mysterious figure held up a vial of Ezarium toward the light. "A substance, you, erroneously have come to be in possession of, Mr. Wayne." He turned it back and forth between his index and thumb finger, playing with it, as well as with the minds of Bruce and the others. "I must thank you for returning it to us."

Bruce checked his pockets. It was gone.

The man, shrouded in secret above, moved from his perch and gently strolled across the walkway, interlocking his hands behind his back while the others around him held. He was much shorter than those he crossed, but stockier. His path, blocking and allowing light to pass through, provided brief glimpses of his appearance, enough to keep him concealed.

They all watched each insouciant step. From the very little that could be made out, the specter wore a white lab coat that extended past his knees, making him appear more like a ghostly spirit.

"Who are you?" Henri was the first to talk back.

The apparition halted, unsettled by the interruption. He strode back to the middle of the railing. He rested over, finally revealing himself. The backdrop lighting glistened off the curve of his wrinkly, bald head. Dark shadows cast themselves upon rounded spectacles that sat on a prominent nose, just above a thick, jet black, chin curtain beard.

"I, am Leviathan. And this." Opening his arms, he gazed proudly at his creation all around. "Will be my legacy." A paralyzing grin stretched across the mad scientist's dimply cheeks. Proceeded by a low toned laugh. The voice, Bruce remembered it now, it belonged to the mystery man from that meeting at the lake house outside Paris. But, there was more, his face, he had seen it from somewhere familiar as well; Gotham City.

"Strange." Bruce mumbled.

The same laugh filled the air upon Bruce's recognition.

Professor Hugo Strange. Bruce remembered him. One of the worlds brightest minds, they all said when he became a resident of Gotham City, all those years ago. One of Oppenheimer's chief scientists involved in The Manhattan Project. He needed no introduction. The world knew who he was.

"What do you want with us?" Arthur was next to ask.

Strange grinned. "You are to be my witnesses."

"Witnesses to what?" Anya blared back.

He laughed again. "Let's start from the beginning, shall we." The methodical pace commenced once again."Thirty-five years ago, a team of German archeologists made a startling discovery, just off the coast of the Arabian Peninsula. Perhaps the most incredible find in all of human history; an ancient pit of unknown origin. Its contents; an energy-force with the capability to provide life."

It made him giddy telling the story.

"Imagine it. An energy source so powerful, its been said that a prince was able to extend his life for over 600 years. Truly remarkable. The Nazis were the first to begin conducting experiments on the pit, in an effort to harness that life-giving force. However, over the centuries, the pit laid in a dormant state, and unfortunately, so did its energy, decaying from inactivity, rendering its resources near useless. Leviathan partnered themselves with the Nazis shortly after the first world war, putting ourselves in a position with access to the pit. It took many years of trial and error, but using science and technology, I, was able to derive a serum from that life-force." He took a moment. "Ezarium." Gesturing behind Bruce and the others, Strange showed them. "Slade here. Is the first successful human augmented soldier, of many more to come."

The assassin from Luxembourg Palace and the super-human that attacked them in Switzerland came front and center for everyone to gawk at.

"Beautiful." Pride was all over Strange's face. "Those men you walked in on just a moment ago, Mr. Wayne, resting comfortably, that's just phase one."

Strange, keeping his poise, climbed leisurely down the walkway's stairs.

"However, with the end of the second world war, and Germany's defeat, so did our research. To go the way of the Dinosaurs. Gone forever." Strange shook his head. "Our work was far too important to let slip away, when we were just beginning to discover Ezarium's potential."

Strange, on ground level now, very slowly shortened the distance between, standing side by side with his solider, who waited for his masters command.

"The dawn of the Atom and Hydrogen bomb provided us a new, unique opportunity. One that could not be passed up. A chance not only to accelerate our work and advance it many years, but to revitalize it." He paused. "You see, what is truly unique about Ezarium, is not only its ability to give life, but its ability to take it. Through extensive analysis and numerous tests, made so by our governments ego, we discovered that when combined with the uranium core of a nuclear bomb, the effects of a blast are compounded. Hiroshima. Nagasaki." Strange presented the two, devastating, historical events as facts. "All made possible with Ezarium." He said it, boasting as he did. "The United States didn't end the war. We did."

He smiled again.

"Ezarium can do anything, from prolonging life to mutating a virus." Again, he smiled, impressed with himself. "You understand now? You see why something of this magnitude was meant to be kept secret?"

Bruce tensed up, his mind reverting back.

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. Mariette's bombing, all an effort to keep Ezarium behind closed doors, as I'm sure the late Mr. Sommers already informed you of. But, what he did not tell you. Mariette, was merely an experiment. An opportunity to test a new weapon, and further explore Ezarium's vast potential, supplied with just a small dose of a new formulation. The scope of Mariette's impact, far exceeded our expectations. And that, paved the way for this."

Hugo Strange removed a remote control from his lab coat. Pushing one button made the back wall behind him transparent. Another click. Dozens of lights shined, revealing a hangar room behind a barricade of tempered glass where a torpedo shaped bomb laid, positioned on brackets, next to an enormous B-29 super fortress airplane. Several teams of scientists huddled around it, working, ready to get it loaded into the plane. Strange gazed proudly at his creation.

"What the hell is that?" Morgan asked in fear.

"This, is our newest incarnation, a highly concentrated Ezarium bomb, outfitted with a lethal strain of influenza. For when this bomb touches down on the surface, it will release a deadly airborne contagion, creating a nationwide epidemic, infecting and killing thousands, immediately. And the effects of this blast, will spread long after it hits." He laughed. "When it touches down tonight, the world will wake up to a new dawn."

"Tonight?" Henri re-entered.

"Yes. Unfortunately, you're intrusion into our plans has forced us to accelerate the timeline."

"And where do you plan on dropping this?"

"The only logical place to drop it, Mr. Ducard. A nations capital; Washington."

To Strange, it was logical. To Bruce, Henri, and their team, it didn't add up.

"Why?" Henri asked.

"Progression."

Strange's metaphoric response left them unsure of what he meant by progression.

"Prior events being what they are, the United States will believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that the bomb was dropped by the Soviet Union. That belief will instill a fear like no other."

"You're insane, you know that." Morgan called out.

Strange took the insult as a compliment. "I am a visionary. You make enough calculated moves on a chess board, eventually you get, checkmate."

"So, this is what all this has been about? Those attacks, the assassination, and now this?" Bruce finally found his voice. "You manipulate both sides, killing thousands, infecting more, to what end? Just so you can start a war?"

Strange laughed, belittling the question presented to him. "Oh, Mr. Wayne, this has never been about starting a war."

They were confused at the seriousness in Strange's response. Questioning what his possible incentive was.

"This is about preventing one."

Each of them were beyond baffled, exchanging odd glances at one another. It was not what they expected to hear.

"Think about it." Strange went on. "Since the world's been spinning, conflict has dominated the history books. Empires rise and fall through it. Men become revered and are remembered because of it. And lives are saved because of it. Peace, as minuscule and as short lived as it is, can never be achieved without tragedy, turmoil, or death. The world is still reeling from the aftermath of its second world war." He emphasized, second. "The last thing it needs is another global conflict that spans another decade. Since the conclusion of the war, the United States and the Soviet Union have been at each others throats, in a silent pissing contest to see whose power and nuclear capabilities are superior. It'll only be a matter of time before their greed and arrogance engulf us all. And that war, that inevitable war, my friends, will be far more devastating than the one's that preceded it."

Strange continued his lecture, painting a rather intimate portrayal of how his future would unfold.

"With this attack. This, incredible, display of power. It will shock the world. There will be no retaliation on the part of the United States. One; because it will confirm what they have long feared; that Russia's nuclear capabilities outweigh theirs. Making a retaliatory attack of equal impact unachievable. And two; the fear of another attack greater than this one. The United States will have no choice, but to enter into a ceasefire. And with our help, bring about negotiations and ultimately, a peace treaty between two nations on the brink of war. I think you can figure out the rest."

It was odd to think about it in such a callous manner, But in some sick, twisted way, Strange's deranged plan made some kind of maniacal sense.

"This is the example that needs to be set." Strange said with the utmost conviction in his tone.

"You're playing God with a lot of innocent people's lives." Anya said, pointing out the obvious complex Strange had about himself.

"Their deaths will not be in vain, for their lives will be given for the greater good." Strange reassured, showing that he was indeed the madman they al perceived him to be.

The team of five, held hostage had no rebuttal. There was no reasoning with a man with an outlook such as Strange's. Men like him had no faith in man, or their capacity for good. Holding silent, Bruce wondered, and hated himself for thinking it; was Strange right? Was something so devastating the answer? And is that what it would take to make the world put their petty differences aside?

"You really believe taking the lives of thousands is worth the cost of that peace?" Bruce questioned Strange one last time, but already knew the answer.

"To save millions? If not billions more?" Strange shook his head. "Without question. And you all can either be a part of that peace. Or a catalyst in preventing it. Which, as sure as the sun rises and falls, will bring about the deaths of many more. In a hundred years this act will be nothing more than a blip on peoples radar. It's up to you. What side of history do you want to be on?"

Strange waited for their decision. A choice that was impossible to make, and no man should bare the burden to decide upon.

Bruce shook his head. "No."

Disappointed, Strange slumped his neck. "As I feared. Weak. Unable to make sacrifices for a better future."

"We can't let you go through with this." Arthur agreed.

"Well, you are welcome to try. But, Slade, is here to make sure you don't. A fine opportunity to test out Deathstroke's latest enhancement." Strange removed the Ezarium and a syringe from his coat. Screwing the top off the steel casing, he drew out the green fluid, giving the full syringe a tap. "This one, thickens the epidermis layer of the skin, providing a built in body armor. Slade wouldn't even feel a gunshot."

Deathstroke stood there, stone cold, while Strange beamed, injecting the serum into the assassins' neck, who didn't budge an inch.

"He's almost the perfect soldier." Strange remarked, placing his hand upon Deathstroke's shoulder, glancing at him as if he were a pet. "If we could only get him to stop smoking. But, every man must have his vice, I suppose. So, unless you plan on feeding him cigarettes for the next thirty years, I'd say you have your work cut out for you. Auf Wiedersehen."

Strange casually backpedaled and then walked away, disappearing into the shadows, making sure to seal the brief glimpse into his work back up from behind the glass.

Like a sentinel, the assassin held his stance. The serum administered was already kicking in. He reacted, closing his eyes as minor convulsions involuntary took hold, further accentuating the fear he already instilled. He shook as if possessed, like something inside him was forcing its way out. When his fit gradually subsided, Deathstroke re-opened his eyes and stared down at each team member. Strolling from one end to the other, and back, the assassin itched for one of them to make a move against his even more formidable capabilities.

Remembering how they fared in Switzerland, and its aftermath, none of them budged. Helpless, all they could do was watch from the invisible restraint Deathstroke had them in, and wait.

Hands behind his back, Bruce now knew with certainty. Very carefully, as not to draw suspicion, he reached inside the sleeve of his coat. Buried deep, they were still there. He slipped them both into the palm of his hand; a syringe of his own, and the original vial of Ezarium from Mariette. Feeling around ever so cautiously, Bruce pinched the needle end in the vile, and drew out the entirety of the substance into the the syringe on the sly, all while Deathstroke continued his back and forth pace.

The assassin rushed over and grabbed Anya by the hair, dragging her front and center, pulling his pistol.

"No!" Henri jumped up, but was quickly halted when Deathstroke aimed his pistol at him instead.

Deathstroke shoved Anya to her knees, and took aim at the base of her skull. She tensed, staring over at Bruce and everyone else, who was unable to protest or jump in. Her breathing staggered and slowly turned into a panicked hyperventilation.

Deathstroke glanced over each of them, he wanted to make sure they were all watching. It was if time had slowed, as all they could to do was witness the impending fate before them.

In a hasty move, Anya grabbed for the assassin's gun hand. Bruce went for it, leaping into action, taking the opportunity. Syringe in hand, he jumped over, hooked himself onto the killers back and with a sharp thrust, penetrated Deathstroke's neck, pressing the Ezarium inside, before he violently became thrown to the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Morgan leapt up and yelled as Anya crawled away, making distance.

"Just wait!" Bruce held out his palm.

Immobile, they held, intently on the assassin, whose demeanor slowly shifted. In a manner of seconds, Deathstroke's eyes began to twitch. He staggered, slightly losing balance. Gun, still in hand, he tried to take aim at his enemies. Hand shaking, he slowly unraveled.

Up on their feet, in fearful anticipation, Arthur was the first to break contact from the lone soldier's frazzled state, glancing over to his left at the wall. Bruce was next to look over, wondering what else had Arthur's attention besides the assassin. Then, he heard it; a low keyed, roaring propulsion hummed and vibrated on to the scene, only audible if listening closely. Arthur turned back, gave Bruce a whimsical smile and a wink. The thrum intensified, louder, its proximity closing in. Blatant now, everyone, even Deathstroke looked over.

Like a bomb about to explode, everything came to a suspended halt when Arthur's Potez 650 came barreling through the wall of the silo room. Everyone dove for cover all at once. Chunks of the plane broke off, flying everywhere. The whipping propellers chopped everything in its path, while the body of it shattered through the hangar wall, cracking the tempered glass, quickly igniting a fire.

Belly down, Bruce regained himself. The silo room was unrecognizable mess now with plane parts and destruction everywhere. Bruce spotted Arthur in front of him first, leaned up on a piece of the plane, part of its propeller welded into his side. Clamoring up to his feet, Bruce dashed over.

"Arthur!" Bruce shouted. "Jesus Christ!" The blade had penetrated the archer deep, through to his back. His intestines poured out in a dark crimson.

"Hey." Arthur whispered, with the little life he had left inside him. He smiled. "Told you I was going out in style."

Bruce forced a sad smile back. The humor was still there. Still grinning, Arthur took his last breath with pride and happiness, before his body slumped over. Bruce gave his ally the courtesy, closing Arthur's eyes for the final time.

Not a second to mourn, those same chilling footsteps pinched into Bruce's ear as he said goodbye to Arthur. Diverting his eyes slowly behind, there was Deathstroke, limping, but waiting in the wings.

On the other side of Deathstroke, Anya, Morgan, and Henri surrounded. Henri, a look of fury in his eyes for his fallen friend. His eyes boiled, clenching his fists, his face was a new complexion of red, fueled with vengeance.

Deathstroke's cavalier attitude and self-assurance was not so apparent anymore, there was now a hint of doubt. Unhooking his staff, he hesitantly prepared.

All four poised for hand to hand combat. Deathstroke awaited.

"Go." Henri said softly.

"What?" Anya replied, keeping her eyes fixed to the assassin.

"Go." He said again, a close watch on the killer. "We can't stop that plane from taking off if we're all here dealing with him."

Glancing over, there was a clear path now to the hangar housing that B-29, created by Arthur's plane.

"What about you?" Morgan asked, concerned for his father.

"I'll be fine, I can at least by you some time while you stop that plane."

With Deathstroke's weakened state, Henri had a chance.

With more than a nudge from Henri, Anya and Morgan went, while Bruce stayed. A terrible feeling flooded in his mind at the idea of leaving Henri alone. He didn't want to do it.

Henri assured Bruce with a nod. "Go."

Skeptical, Bruce waited a few moments more before he reluctantly left, following Morgan and Anya.

Chapter 49: The Ultimate Sacrifice

Five Minutes Until Launch.

Reaching, grasping, and climbing atop the belly of Arthur's aircraft, Morgan and Anya made their way through the broken tempered glass opening, toward the runway on the opposite side, dwelling the B-29, armed and ready to drop Strange's creation.

When Bruce began his ascent, Morgan and Anya had already pushed through. Hurrying to catch up Bruce trampled up the plane's fuselage, half his mind with Morgan and Anya, the other half on an unarmed Henri, facing Deathstroke, alone.

He looked back once he reached the top, knowing once he crossed over the plane, Henri would be out of his sight. Catching a glance of the two poised to engage one another, Bruce had no choice, but to leave Henri and focus on his end of the mission, hoping that counter-active serum would give his friend a fighting chance.

Through to the other end, Bruce met up with Morgan and Anya while scientists prepping Strange's creation had already begun dispersing, nervously shuffling about since Arthurs plane made contact with the base. They were in a hurry now too, trying like mad to get that B-29, already loaded with the bomb, up off the ground and in the air so it could carry out its world altering purpose.

The three of them stood together from the tail end of Arthur's Potez aircraft.

In one swift second, the B-29's four engines ignited, thunderously shaking the ground. Its propellers rotated on overdrive as the hangars rear doors started to open, letting in the cold, snowy air. Turning, the angle of the plane shifted ninety degrees, lining itself up with the exterior runway. Slightly gathering motion, the plane's wheels began to roll forward.

"Oh my God!" Bruce called out. A pit in his stomach, watching the B-29 get ready, they weren't going to make it in time.

No direction, neither knew what to do or where to turn first as bullets suddenly began soaring in their direction. Tightening, they all hopped down to the hangar floor and swung around behind Arthur's plane for cover. Discarded of their weapons, they had nothing to fight back with or to provide cover with.

"God damn it!" Morgan swore. More bullets pelted through, breaking the glass windows the remained aboard the crashed plane.

Helpless, Bruce peaked through, the B-29 was creating more distance between them, further enhancing the impending failure. He returned, shutting his eyes for a brief second before glancing at Anya, then to Morgan. Both shared the same look of despair.

Time was not on their side, if they exposed themselves and made a run for it they would surely be cut down before they made it ten feet.

Looking for anything, Bruce examined the interior of Arthur's plane. And that's when he spotted it; the crates along the sides of the back wall, they were full of explosive satchel charges.

Arthur, you beautiful bastard.

Without saying a word, Bruce dove into Arthur's plane and ransacked the crates, grabbing all the explosives he could carry.

"How's your trowing arm?" Bruce remarked, returning to Anya and Morgan, arms packed with explosives.

Instinctually, the pair took a two charges each as did Bruce. Six explosives would hopefully be enough to cause a diversion. Moving quick, they needed to arm each almost simultaneously, then run like hell. They'd have about seven to ten seconds.

Arming all six, grabbing a strap, the three wound up, launching a series of satchel charges up and over the top of the Potez toward the direction of incoming bullets.

The first went off, causing a chain reaction to the others that ignited a massive explosive, deafening burst, that shook the ground beneath them.

"Hurry! Now! Go, go!" Morgan yelled.

Out from cover, they ran, a wall of flames barricading them from the onslaught of gunfire. This was their chance, their opening.

"Go for the pilot! We'll try to get to that bomb!" Morgan shouted over the chaos, instructing Bruce.

Without hesitation, Bruce darted off for the cockpit, Anya and Morgan for the rear compartment holding the bomb.

Pushing and pummeling any remaining white lab coats aside, nothing was going to stop Bruce from getting to the front of that plane. Fleet on his toes, running like a marathoner, his legs chugged like a locomotive. Air pulsating in and out of his lungs, Bruce caught up, leapt up in the frame, ripping the driver side door open, lunging himself into the surprised pilot. A firm grip on the steering column, Bruce wrestled the pilot for control of the yoke, elbowing, shoving his forearms, thrusting his whole body, receiving blows of his own in an attempt to draw that plane off the runway. With grunts of struggle, the pilot had to not only fight Bruce, but also his ability to keep the plane on an even course.

The clicking of a gun cocking suddenly cocked. Eye's darting all around, looking to the rear for a split millisecond, Bruce saw an armed soldier at the rear, wobbly approaching, a semi-automatic in hand.

"Oh, shit!" Bruce yanked on the yoke, just as the gunman opened fire. The sudden jolt veered the plane left, scraping the side walls of the hangar, flinging the gunman while the spray of several rounds blasted all throughout the plane, dozens imbedding themselves right into the windshield.

Not a moment too soon, with the gunman tossed around the back and the B-29 losing trajectory and momentum upon the runway, the rear door swung open. Sprawled out across the entire cockpit, Bruce caught a glance at his counterparts, Morgan and Anya able to jump inside. Exhausted as well, they landed right next to the one kiloton monstrosity bungee strapped to the floor.

Immediately, the downed gunman arose, catching Morgan and Anya off-guard. They lunged for him, tackling him two on one. Occupied with his own assailant, Bruce continued to strafe off the pilot, feeling a touch more at ease that Morgan and Anya were now there with him.

Wobbling, the plane screeched erratically from left to right, right to left, accelerating, then decelerating, back and forth, back and forth. Bruce dangled, half inside the cockpit, fighting to keep from being tossed out. A single gunshot from the back of the plane went off. Bruce's stomach churned, unable to see what was occurring behind him, too focused on his own pressing matter.

"Try and keep her steady!" Anya shouted.

"How we doin back there?!" Bruce was able to grumble from under the pilots thick forearm, happy Anya was still with him.

"We're alright!" Anya replied as the plane now exited the hangar onto the outside runway, the icy blast of Southern Russia sweeping trough the plane while the drag-strip fast became shorter and shorter.

Bruce drove his gloved hand into his foes face, pressing him further away toward the passenger side, using his other hand to hold the plane even. With divided attention on keeping the plane stayed on course, Bruce kept the other half on keeping the pilot at bay.

Oh, God.

An adrenaline fueled fear stabbed Bruce's gut; the runway was ending, soon the plane would be rolling on snow, and after that, without liftoff, only the mountain would stop it. His mind drifting on the impending doom ahead, Bruce felt the wind abruptly leave his chest, the pilot had kicked him away. Hand slipping from the controls, Bruce nearly lost himself out the cockpits side door, barely holding himself from plunging down.

With a harsh turbulent bump, the terrain below finally shifted from black runway to white snow, launching the B-29 in every which direction.

"Anya!" Morgan yelled. The sudden shift off course flung Anya around causing her to fall out the rear hatch.

Grimacing, a hand slipping from his grip, Bruce fought with one arm, trying like hell to will himself back inside. The pilot climbed over the center switch panel, making his way back to the driver side, regaining control.

Swinging violently from one arm, bashing into the side of the plane, Bruce desperately held on. With a lucky snag, Bruce was able to grip himself back, latching both hands on. Using the exterior of the plane for leverage, Bruce hooked his fingers, swung his legs, tightened his feet and kicked the pilot square in the chest. The blow knocked the pilot all over, into the center console, off the passenger seat and back, accidentally causing him to fall forward on to the yoke, violently speeding the plane all the way up. Roaring, the engines fired on high. The tremendous velocity pinned Bruce back, inadvertently causing him to lose his balance and grip. He couldn't hold on this time. He faltered, out from the door, falling hard onto the snow. Every bone in his body cracked, rough impacting on the hard surface, tumbling around. Wailing out, limping up, Bruce couldn't run, try as he could. All he could do was watch now, and hope.

The bird recovered, leveled off, subtly began to rise, and slowly glided up, just barley clearing the mountain side as the front wheel scraped the tip of the mountain. It made it, and out into the night sky it went.

Grasping his hair in dire defeat, Bruce struggled for air in the frigid tundra. He didn't see hi in the back, but he wondered, was Morgan still up there? Was there still a chance? Resting on his knees, he dropped his head, he couldn't stop it.

"Morgan!" He heard Anya cry out from behind him, a stammer in her voice. Bruce turned.

Staring at his forearms and his chest, Morgan stood with his backside to Bruce before turning. He was covered in green fluid.

"No." Bruce muttered.

"It was the only way." Horribly fatigued, short of breath, Morgan dropped to both knees and fell over.

Bruce and Anya rushed over to his aid. Anya laid Morgan in her lap, Bruce right alongside him. Morgan's face, already starting to turn, weakened from the dangerously high levels of Ezarium he willingly breathed in and exposed himself to.

Both Bruce and Anya looked out over the mountains. Distanced in the cloudy night, the lights that were Strange's B-29 suddenly lit up and engulfed into a ball of fire. Peeling them back, they shielded. Heat on their skin, their faces shined in the darkness as the bomb erupted over a landscape of emptiness.

Anya looked to Bruce, and Bruce to her, and then both, down at Morgan.

The hysteria was over. It was calm now, all that could be heard was the snowy wind.

"It was the only way." Morgan said it again, whimpering.

"Morgan, just hang on, we're gonna get you out of here, ok." Bruce tried to reassure him, hopelessness in his tone.

Subtly closing his eyes for a second, Morgan shook his head, knowing the grim truth. "No. You two are gonna get out of here." He coughed.

Wishfully thinking, the three of them all knew, Morgan wasn't going to make it.

Bruce nervously scanned the area, the hangar behind them, desperately looking for a way to help Morgan. Anya tried to hold back her sadness.

Morgan placed a hand on a frantic Bruce's shoulder. The small gesture froze Bruce. Staring down, Morgan back up at him. Morgan, mildly shook his head. Speechless, at a loss, Bruce removed one of Morgan's gloves, and then one if his own. He took Morgan's hand, clasping his palm in his. Without words, they looked upon another with a lamenting smile. They both knew what it signified. And it was there in that moment, in the bitter cold, snowflakes grazing past them, the two finally became what they never even considered; friends.

Back toward the hangar's runway, a battle torn, bloodied Henri Ducard, holding his ribs, hanging on by a thread, emerged toward the snow, appearing as if he had been put through the fight of his life. He saw his son lying there, broken, inches from death.

Before Bruce or Anya could say anything, a katana sword impaled Henri from his backside, through to his chest.

"Nooooooo!" Anya screamed.

Whimpering, the blade forcefully exited back through Henri. The Hunter wavered, dropping to a hand. He held on for as long as he could, locking eyes with his son one last time, before succumbing to the end.

Deathstroke appeared, behind a fallen Henri, hobbled, blood streaks of his own across is brow and nose, having been taken down a few notches. He approached from the hangar into the snowy field, sticking his stained sword into the snow.

Rage inside, Bruce boiled with wrath, rising to his feet.

"Bruce, no!" Anya tried to stop him, but nothing was going to. The time for talking had come to an end. Bruce was going to kill that assassin, even if it meant him losing his life in the process too. He had nothing left to lose, all he had now, was pure vengeance.

Within that cold patch of snow, dead still, Bruce Wayne and Deathstroke slowly shortened the distance from each other, in a deep stare. The snow laden, howling wind brushed over them as pellets of crystal snowflakes glistened their faces, obscuring the view. The whistling wind in Bruce's ear, and Deathstroke, feet away, it was time.

Bruce clenched both his fists. He went for it, throwing the first punch that was thwarted, and then countered as Bruce took a shot to the ribs. Yelling out, Bruce missed his next attempt but, cleanly landed the second square to Deathstrokes' cheekbone. The clout, delivered with such ferocity and anger, it nearly broke Bruce's frigid hand, causing Deathstroke to stumble.

A man on the edge, Bruce threw punch after punch, yelling with each one, unconcerned where they went. Hitting Deathstroke bare knuckle in the cold felt as if punching a piece of solid iron. The assassin, on the defensive like a boxer, arms up, blocking, backpedaling, swatting, pushed Bruce back. But, that couldn't halt the antagonistic assault toward the terminator assassin.

Wrists, fingers, hands, arms, all in agony, Bruce couldn't stop. Receiving counter punch after counter punch, Bruce ignored the perpetual pain throbbing on his face and in his body, and the blood cascading down his nose. Ducking underneath Deathstroke's next hook, Bruce delivered two body shots, followed by a devastating uppercut to the assassin's chin. Drawing blood, the blow made Deathstroke retreat, unhooking his bo staff.

Bruce charged forward and dove away, snagging Deathstroke's katana sword from the snow. Before he could get ready, he turned, deflecting the bo staff from his face. Parrying for survival, Bruce warded off each sharp slash at him, desperately trying not to get hit. Tiring his opponent out, Bruce went for a upward strike. Deathstroke defended the attack extending his in front of him. The strike ripped through the bo staff like butter, ripping it in two. Deathstroke hardly missed a step, attacking with both broken ends. Bruce was unable to defend against the onslaught from each side. With a hard ping, the katana blade was flung from Bruce's hand rendering him weaponless again.

Halting, but for just a moment, Bruce dove away and crawled for the sword. He made it a couple feet from the sword before one end of Deathstroke's bo wedged itself into the snow, between Bruce and the weapon. He kept reaching for the sword until a sharp pain hit his hamstring, paralyzing his approach. Bruce blared out in agony. He looked back at the other end of Deathstroke's weapon rammed into his leg, and his enemy close behind. Dragging himself in the snow, one good leg to assist, Bruce struggled to reach the sword.

The crunch of snow behind him inching closer, Bruce ditched his crawl and instead turned his attention toward removing the bo staff end stuck in his leg. His face twisted in anguish as blood spilled from his leg, staining the white snow. Bruce yelled, trying like hell to pry the staff end from his skin. Forcing it delivered more torment to his already weekend leg. Deathstroke, slow in his walk, had Bruce pinned, reaching for his fallen katana sword. Screaming, Bruce put his pain aside, gripped as hard as he could, and yanked the staff from his leg just as Deathstroke retrieved his weapon. Hobbling up, Bruce backed away, but not before Deathstroke swung his blade, grazing Bruce across his chest, cutting through his thick garments. Blaring out, Bruce reached down, dropped to one knee, pulled his father's pocket knife from his boot. With one motion, Bruce stood, flipped the razor sharp blade up and with a savage thrust of that keepsake, penetrated the assassins right eye cavity. The impact of the blade stunted the soldier of superior skill, making him scream in pain, an emotion not so familiar. Bruce pressed the blade in, as far as Slade's ocular recess went. Bruce wanted to end Deathstroke for all that had happened and transpired. While Bruce groaned with all his might, the assassin mustered one more attack, throwing Bruce off and away, slashing his sword once more, shaving a gash across Bruce's back. Bruce fell away from his opponent, on to his stomach.

When Bruce rose, covered in blood and snow, a limping leg, ready to engage once more, a smoke pellet had been thrown to the ground, creating an ambient poof, followed by a clouded mist. Paired with the hazy snowstorm, it made the view invisible.

Silently still, Bruce could only scan the skewed area with distortion, hoping to catch the assassin somewhere in the snow. Turning every where, there's was nothing, only the howling wind again.

An arm reached from behind Bruce, gripping his forehead, pulling him back exposing his neck as that silvery katana pinched inches from his throat, ready to spill him.

In the strong clutches of Deathstroke, Bruce couldn't break free, wriggling to do so. A bloodied hole in his right eye, the assassin leaned in close to Bruce's ear. "Now, I end you."

The grip upon Bruce tightened a little more. Deathstroke then groaned in pain, dropping his sword to the snow. Bruce unhinged himself from the assassin, backing away, creating distance. In a near state of insanity, the assassin pressed at his head as if trying to hold something in. He shook, fidgeting in pure mania, the serum having its way again. Bruce seized the opportunity, knowing it may not last. He reached for the sword, but Deathstroke snatched him into a headlock, before he could grab it. Still shuddering, the restraint wasn't strong enough to immobilize Bruce completely. Bruce threw two elbow shots to Deathstroke's ribs. It released Bruce for second as he turned to face the killer assassin. Desperate, Deathstroke wrapped his hands around Bruce's neck, squeezing his airway. Bruce tried to fight back, pushing his hands into Deathstroke's upper chest. The assassin had enough wit left in him to maintain the upper hand. Deadlocked, the two tried to strong arm the other. Without options, and oxygen becoming sparse, Bruce made a hasty move, swiping a grenade from the assassin's belt. He pulled the pin, squeezing the lever. Deathstroke had no choice, but to grab on to Bruce's wrists and keep the two interlocked, preventing the grenade from going off.

Maintaining his press upon the lever, Bruce, along with his opponent struggled with every muscle fiber left in their weakened bodies. Face straining, using all he could to sustain that grip, Bruce knew what he had to do. And finally, he gave in, releasing his fingers. As if in slow stasis, the lever snapped free as the circular green grenade descended toward the snow. Bruce stared Deathstroke straight in the eye, emotionless, ready to accept what would happen within those next few seconds. Surprised by Bruce's move, the assassin released his lock on Bruce and threw himself away. Separated, and with only seconds left, Bruce dug into the snow with his hands and feet, trying to create as much distance as he could with the seconds allotted.

With a ground shaking boom, heat on his back, Bruce was launched off his feet and thrust several feet away, landing belly first into the snow.

Turning back behind him, there was a black crevice embedded in the white snow, emanating a dense smog of grey. Aches across his whole body, he carefully arose and approached. Ready to fight, breathing heavy, each step hurt. Limping toward the blackness, he waited for it to dissipate, expecting to see something. When the air finally cleared, there was nothing, but a black hole. Deathstroke was gone, as was any trace of him.

In the flash of an eye, emptiness returned to that secluded patch of snow. Reeling still from the altercation, Bruce slowly and yet, fearfully headed back in the direction of Anya and Morgan, losing sight of them in the white out to face the assassin.

Ahead a few paces, a shiny object protruding through sparkled. Bruce dropped to a knee; it was Thomas Wayne's trusty old pocket knife, stained with blood. Exhausted, Bruce breathed up toward the sky. He required that keepsake. It was over. All of it.

When he returned to Morgan and Anya's side, Anya, happy to see Bruce in one piece, was still, nonetheless, distraught. The Ezarium Morgan had exposed himself to had done its work on him. He slipped away in Anya's lap. Bruce closed his eyes, sinking his head. He sat down beside Anya, placing a hand on hers atop Morgan. He lamented for the loss of his friend. A friend who as unlikely as it seemed, was the one out of the bunch who chose to make the ultimate sacrifice for everyone. The exchange; his own life. There are no heroes, just those willing to do what it takes.

Chapter 50: One, Last Loose End

East End Slums. Mariette Region, South France. April 3rd, 1947. 2:07pm.

I parted ways with Anya shortly after the events from a month ago. I didn't need anymore reminders of what happened. Famished, dehydrated, and clinging to oxygen, we made it to the river with hardly anything left to keep going, but not before getting another surprise when we finally made it; a boat waiting to take us home, sent by none other than Anatoli Kynazev; an old, and now, a new ally.

My friends; Henri, Arthur, and even Morgan, they had each given their lives for the greater cause, as Strange would've put it, a cause no one would probably ever know. That was the shame and irony of it all, saving humanity with no one knowing it needed saving, or knowing the names of those who did save it. I mourned for them, heroes, as much as any man could over those who couldn't even receive a proper burial. Their memory was now mine.

As for me, I had arrived in Paris, grouped with people I viewed as enemies, and in the end, we all parted as a team, as friends. As for where I was going next, I couldn't decide that without first going back. I had one last, loose end to tie up.

After a life altering journey, Bruce Wayne, a changed man, and no longer a boy, returned to the small slum town where he had first encountered Charles and the people whose lives were selfishly cut short. Back to where it all began.

Like anything else in the course of life, that which is destroyed and taken away, is rebuilt, replaced, and made to move forward. The slums, as rundown as they were before, had begun that process. Life was returning.

It had only been a couple of months since Bruce last saw the East End slums. Winter had passed, with Spring upon the region, ready to start anew. The desecration that occurred was mere shadows and dust now, overcome by the regions people, those who had survived, who had persevered through, trying to make a life again.

Grass began to grow up from the soil, flowers bloomed, while pieces of wood shaped together to form new homes.

Bruce watched in both amazement and joy; even those with little to nothing, still had the strength to pull through and keep going, despite all they had endured.

"Hey!" A familiar voice called out, through the crowds of patrons, busy constructing.

Cassie.

Charles' daughter, waltzed over. "You came back."

Bruce nodded, and gave a grin that he didn't try to hide. He was genuinely happy to see Cassie. "How have you been?"

She smiled back, not big, but enough as she glanced around. "We're getting there."

And they were. Sam, Clara, and the rest of Charles' family were there too, hand to the ground, aiding in the build up of the slums.

As Bruce took it all in, Cassie asked. "Are you sticking around?"

Bruce had to internally laugh, reminiscing about Charles, and how he had asked him that same question, not so long ago, although it felt like it had been.

With a sigh, Bruce thought. "I don't know yet."

It wasn't a no, which would have been Bruce's natural response two months ago if someone had asked him whether he was staying or leaving.

Accepting the indecisive answer, Cassie had her priorities elsewhere. "I've got to get back. Lots to do," She said, raising both eyebrows.

"Right."

"It's good to see you, Frank."

Cassie turned to resume her obligations.

"Bruce." Hesitant to say it, Bruce called out, finally offering the truth. Looking back, Cassie half smiled, giving a confounded head tilt. "My real name is Bruce."

Fully smiling now, Cassie nodded. "I know. I always knew."

Bruce stared with both surprise and a smile. "Well, Bruce. I'll see you around." She said with near certainty, as she went on her way, talking one of the builders through the ideal construction process for one of the homes.

I couldn't help, but smile. It was the first time in a very long while, I had began to have faith in people again. That maybe, there is good in the world, and good people in it.

Bruce glanced over all the new homes sprouting up all around.

It was pretty amazing to witness. In the wake of such atrocity, how the survivors had come together, as a community, helping one another. With destruction, it had bred creation. Strange was right about that one. Life always finds a way.

Following a somewhat thorough walkthrough of the slums, the former projects, and parts of the city, slowly being remodeled, Bruce traipsed those same streets again, the streets that first put him on the path to discovery.

He stopped upon reaching a familiar alleyway, still piled with rubble, an alleyway he recognized almost instantly. It was the same one that placed a path before him months ago, recollecting his past, remembering his father, where he made the decision to pursue those responsible for Mariette. With a half hearted grin, Bruce found solitude within that alley once again. And again, it gave him that same comfort. A different man, he reached into the confines of his peacoat for that envelope. Henri's words and advice in the back of his mind. It was time.

Without second guessing himself, Bruce tore it open.

Folded in three, grimly rested a lone sheet of oak tag paper; his fathers favorite. Heart skipping a beat, Bruce lifted it, and slowly undid the stiff trifold crease. He took a long inhale.

It was a letter from his father. He read it.

For my only son, Bruce,

It has been my great joy in life being your father, and having you as my son. You brought a light into my life, a light I didn't know was missing until the day you arrived. You, above all other ventures, will always be my greatest accomplishment. And for that, I will always be thankful to you.

There are many things about my life, and my work that you may not understand, or may never fully comprehend. But, as you mature, know, that what I did, was, and has always been, for you. So that you could live in a world without fear, without need, without struggle, and instead, live in one where there is just a promise of hope. And that you, Bruce, will one day carry on that same promise.

In the event of my passing, I leave all my sole possessions and belongings to you. Our home, my company, all of my assets, now yours. My only wish, is that you honor the Wayne Family legacy and be generous with what you have been given. Give back to those less fortunate than us, and to a city that has given our family so much throughout the years. Today's world can be a scary place, Bruce, and it can be so easy to falter. We always have a choice. A choice to do wrong, and a choice to do good. Always do what feels right in your heart. And you'll never go wrong. Don't ever forget that.

Though you may just be a boy, there is no doubt in my mind about the man you will grow to be, and how proud I will be of you.

My trust, and my faith lie with you, my son.

Bruce held that letter close to his chest. Tight eyed, he couldn't subside the tears from rolling. The heartfelt words his father had written out to him all those years ago, it meant the world.

Smiling, missing his dad, Bruce folded that letter back up, just as it was, creased in exactly the same spots, in exactly the same shape. Placing it back, Bruce could feel with his fingertips that there was something else inside that envelope, stuck in the corner. With a shake of that old, raggedy enclosure, Bruce loosened the object. Fishing it out, Bruce placed a small, circular object in his hand. The letters, H.H. were engraved on the back. He turned it over. In an instant, life escaped his body. Within his palm; stained in blood, was the very last thing he expected see; a Leviathan pin.

THE END

Epilogue: An Imagining of the Past

A flash of lightning sparked an imagining of the past. A past that could've occurred in a number of different ways, he was sure of it. That letter, pen placed to that old fashioned oak tag paper, in only one place, and in only one spot.

Lightning again, snapped the past back to the present. Windshield wipers on high. Those old, backend roads, were not so recognizable anymore in the hard pouring rain. It had been years, perhaps a decade since he last saw them. Navigation only by memory, a memory unclear, distorted at best. He kept an eye out for that one, specific landmark.

A streak across the sky, the lightning crackled closer. There was his father, in his study, at that mahogany desk, glass of gin by his side, reaching for an envelope in the top drawer.

The roar of thunder, a strain in his forehead, trying to piece together days gone by, days he may, or may not have witnessed.

The thunder screamed at him, shouting, begging, pleading for him to let it go, to let it be, to let the past stay where it was.

Bang! Once more it yelled. That pin, stained in blood, taunting him like a bad omen, ominously left behind as some kind of message.

A blistering howl from the heavens shattered his subconscious mind, frightfully, full on into reality, causing that old heap's tires to screech and skid upon the rain slicked road. Violently swerving and jerking the wheel for control, the car veered off, up over the sidewalk, onto the grass. Perpetually, the lightning and thunder blinded and bellowed. The past blended with the present, obscuring the moment, halted only by the vicious collision into an impenetrable object, nearly ripping the front bumper in half. That familiar landmark, that ancient, grotesquely overdone statue, an eye sore of a lawn ornament; it had found him.

Out from the battered wreck, looking up, glistening in the foggy, pale grey moonlight; The Wayne Estate of Cambridge, just outside the outskirts of good old London.