It's official: School sucks, one of the reasons it took me so long to update. Sorry.
This is the second to last chapter, folks, and then it's official! "Face to Face, Mask to Mask" is OVER! For some reason, I feel happy, and yet quite sad…Hmm…one or two more plots twists in this chapter, and then I'll give you all a break…that is, until I post the sequel… Heh, heh, heh… FYI: Pirategirl89—I saw that movie too (and liked it for the most part)! And I noticed your point on how the plot is a tad bit similar. Funny…I just realized that you're going to see something else that will remind you of it…any—hoo. New chapter.
Chapter Twenty Six: Aftermath
Jump City, 11:50 p.m., 17 hours and 50 minutes after the attack—Gotham Police Department Report.
Most of the police officers had departed by now, positive that they had found located al the survivors; tomorrow, there would be more teams, designated to clear the rubble away so that they could start rebuilding…but for now, the demolished streets were clear of livings souls, not including the few guards that had stayed behind to keep watch for unlawful activity—they had long since fallen asleep in their squad car, snoring loudly.
It wasn't a surprise that nobody saw the man.
He was clean shaven, dressed in an immaculately black suit and red silken tie, and he put on bored airs, even as his cold gray eyes glittered as they took in the destruction. The stranger had emerged from the darkness barely a few minutes following the time that the guards had dozed off, almost as if he had been watching them, waiting for the chance to get a better view at the city's remains.
Black, highly polished shoes squeaked slightly as he stepped this way and that along the crunched automobiles, blinking with interest as he frequently stopped to observe random corpses.
"Fascinating…honestly Slade, you certainly have outdone yourself this time…"
"Hey, boss!"
The man stood up straight, smirking visibly as he adjusted his body towards where the voice was coming from; moments later, young woman stepped out behind what had once been a bank and was staring directly at the gentleman, looking perfectly enraged. She, unlike the other, was clothed in only a simple trenchcoat, a battered scarf cast about her shoulders.
"You know, it's funny," She snapped, placing her hands on her hips. "I didn't think you were the kind of guy who made shitty deals like that."
"I beg your pardon?" The male asked politely, humoring her.
"Master, forgive me, but what the hell are you doing? What are you playing at? Yeah, yeah," She interrupted rudely, as the man opened his mouth to speak. "You made a bargain with Slade, I know that much. But why, for one thing, did you make me pose as something that was…was…" She winced, and then whispered the word.
"Good…"
The female shuddered and glanced over her shoulder, as if she expected someone to strike her down for merely uttering the word. Her friend watched patiently, waiting so that she could have the opportunity to finish her rant.
"And the second thing—why did you let him go! It was perfect—the kid had been feeling miserable and guilty since the incident with his dad and the gun, he'd been stealing, and he had just committed murder…and you made me send him back to this insipid, rotting world so that he can 'redeem himself.' Master," She whined, pouting. "Why?"
"You forget yourself, Vanora," The other said with a small frown. "If you continue to be impulsive like this, you will only end up like Holocaust."
"…Yes, sir…"
"Now, you asked me why. I shall answer you: It is true, letting that particular one go was much against my better judgment—I absolutely abhor releasing people, as you well know. But I had made a particular promise to Deathstroke the last time that we talked…he suggested sending the boy back, should the child ever die…and do you know why?"
"…No," The girl grumbled, as if she didn't like the thought of not knowing something. However, the man gave a purely evil smile.
"Because the boy has no chance of redeeming himself in five years—or perhaps a thousand. Why not?" The stranger cackled, and a roar of thunder echoed in the sky, thought he storm had long since passed over. "This one is different, as Deathstroke has informed me in the utmost detail. It is futile…"
Vanora paused, taking this in.
"You mean…" She said slowly, a grin coming across her pale complexion. "The kid is on the balance?"
"Correct."
"Oh—" The woman let loose a cruel laugh. "You're joking—you're serious! Ha! This is better than I thought."
"Slade has promised me that the child can sin only too well; it is in his nature, and the darkness in his soul is everywhere. No matter where he turns, it will always be there, countering his behavior."
"And lemme guess: Ol' One Eye knows how to turn him and shove the balance out of order?"
"That is exactly it."
Vanora chewed her nail, appearing still a tad bit uncertain.
"What if Wilson can't trip him up?"
"Relax, my dear. He has five years, and he is a genius…I put immense faith in his abilities."
"But—"
"If anything should go wrong, you will definitely be informed to…move the pace along."
"…Here's what's bothering me: The kid's a hero. As soon as he gets better, he's just going to go back to saving the day, and BAM!" The woman clapped her hands suddenly, for emphasis. "We lose him, just like that…"
"We shall see…"
"What…did you see something?"
"Perhaps…"
"But how can you—"
"Am I the sort of person who makes mistakes?" The male asked in a deadly voice.
The girl sighed, shoulders drooping in defeat.
"Fine. If you're sure, I'm sure. Forgive my doubt, Master."
"Of course my dear."
The bizarre couple ceased their conversation as they examined Jump. Then the lady murmured:
"It really is a marvelous sight…"
"Indeed…indeed, it is…"
Bruce-
Leslie had departed awhile ago, yawning so often that most of the words that came out of her mouth had been incomprehensible—but she had worked long and hard, taking advantage of Robin's heavy slumber and stitching up the cut in his chest, as well as binding his arm and ribs…
She deserved the rest, Bruce thought kindly as her car wound its way out the front gate and down the road.
"Sir?"
Batman dabbed the tears from his eyes hastily.
"Yes, Alfred?"
The old man was smiling broadly, and his own tears fell freely down his wrinkled face as he sank onto the couch wearily.
"Bruce…I just can't believe it…Dick…I was…"
"I know…" The hero whispered, joining his friend on the sofa to watch the logs crackle in the fireplace. "I just—I thought—when I saw him—but he's…he's…Leslie—she was—he—"
Bruce could not speak as sobs arose in his throat, choking whatever he was about to say; his eyes brightened and streamed, and the mighty Dark Knight placed his head in his hands, shoulders trembling.
"I was so—so…" He searched for the right way to describe the sensations that had been in his heart when he had found the body, or when Richard had woken up, and failed.
"Sir…" Alfred started, reaching out to grasp the other man's hand. "I—"
He forgot all manners however, when his employer began to weep, from relief, from stress, from pity for his son…the butler couldn't guess. And it didn't matter, he concluded mentally, circling his arms around the hero's broad shoulders in an embrace, much like he had done when Bruce had lost his mother and father…amazing, how such a godlike figure like Batman, how a person who had seen the savage, heartless side of life daily was now just another man as he cried, long and hard.
My poor boy…my poor son…
"He's all right, Bruce," the soothing British tone that the billionaire had grown to love during the many years mumbled compassionately. "All of us are quite all right…the three of us, just like old times, and he's going to be okay—" Here the voice became tight and faltering, as if Alfred were crying too.
"—He's right here with me, and neither Dick or myself are leaving you…"
"I left him…" The Bat said, when he could talk again. "I left him with that monster, and because of me he almost ended up dead…it's not right, that he should stay, when I betrayed him. He was probably waiting for me…and I let him down…"
He stopped, devoting his energy to containing himself, and Alfred took it upon himself to speak at that particular time.
"Now, you listen to me, Bruce," He said firmly but caring all the same, and the Knight was distinctly reminded of his father.
"He loves you, and you love him. Both of you have your up and down moments…and sometimes you get into some terrible rows…you have to keep in mind that, though he does not say it, he actually attempts to hold onto you. He doesn't want to lose you…"
"And he never will," Batman said resolutely, standing.
-----------------------
Richard was drifting in and out of sleep when Bruce came into the bedroom and pulled up a chair beside the bed.
"Hey, kid," He said with a note of rare tenderness, and Robin smiled and opened one eye. He didn't say a word—Leslie had confirmed his throat had taken some damage ("What's weird," the woman had said, frowning, "Is that these bruises on his neck look like they're fingerprints!") but he was listening.
"How are you holding up?"
The boy nodded to show that he was all right. Bruce grinned and pushed some dark hair out of his son's face.
"That's my boy…"
Robin looked as if he had been ready to flinch at those three words, but then beamed to himself—it was different when Bats said it, instead of Slade.
"Les says you'll live…"
The kid bit his lip, as if he wanted to speak, but changed his mind and gripped Bruce's hand tightly.
"This is your new home—Wayne Manor."
"It's…it's kind of big," the child admitted, intimidated by the size. "Mr. Wayne…maybe this was a mistake…"
"Now, none of that!" Bruce cajoled cheerfully and pushed the doors wide open. "Come on…it's okay—you can come in…"
He held out a hand to little Richard Grayson, who studied it with a good amount of sophisticated skepticism for someone his age.
"O—okay…"
With faith, he placed his hand in the man's palm, who folded his fingers over it, as he led him into a new life…
"Br—I—"
Batman left that memory—a particular favorite of his to reflect on—and focused on Robin.
"Don't strain it, if you can't talk…"
Richard looked annoyed and pushed himself anyway.
"I…'m…s—sorry…"
Bruce blinked.
" 'Sorry'! For what?"
"I…al…most h…hurt…y—"
"Stop," his father nearly commanded, not wanting to hear this. "Don't you even think of apologizing to me…I'm the one who's sorry."
"B—"
"No…" The Dark Knight grasped Robin's hand harder. "I…I left you. I told you to get out of the very house that you'd grown up in…and because of that, that…man got to you…and abused you…"
Silence stretched over both of them; Bruce pushed on, mastering all his will into steadying himself.
"I thought I'd lost you, and I didn't want you to remember me as someone similar to Slade…"
"Dad…"
"I abandoned you when you needed me most…you put your trust in me, and I broke my promise to raise you right…but I won't let you get hurt again, no matter what happens; I swear to you that. I am always going to be there…"
"…Th—thank…you."
Now all that comes is the hard part…
"Um—" He bit his tongue so fiercely that the taste of blood was strong before long.
"I need to ask you to do something for me."
"Anything…"
"Well…"
Gotham City, 1:20 am—City Morgue.
David Norris was not happy at all.
As if working the night shift in the morgue (Yeah sure, it was just loads of fun hanging out with dead bodies from midnight to whenever, according to his boss) wasn't enough, now he was stuck having picking around in a dead guy who'd got a pole jammed through his head somehow.
The corpse had been wheeled to him a few minutes after his time had started by a bunch of police people who'd recently come from Jump City; they'd claimed that they'd gotten an anonymous phone call from an old, British man who'd given the exact location of where the guy was.
And he cared…why?
David had been hoping to become a doctor (pushed often by his parents) when he'd left college. He had the brains, of course, but his professors had recommended using his summers to further evaluate human anatomy, so that he might know more when it came to surgery. So here he was…when he could've been out partying with his friends, having a beer or two…
It was official: This was the worst job he'd ever taken, and that included the fast food restaurant one or two years ago that had had all those rats running around in storage.
Well, no use whining. He'd be able to quit soon—that was probably one of the few thoughts that kept him going now, even as he stuck one of the pointy, metal tools in the hole in the dude's head, poking for further evidence of what had occurred.
"Subject seems to have taken critical damage during his life time," David muttered into the handhold recorder that he used to keep track of the body's history. "There are several scars on his limbs, which show a possibility of a rough life…possibly an army man…"
Norris examined the face closer.
"He appears to also have been shot in the eye…it's an old wound…ouch."
Who is this guy?
Norris sighed and clicked the recorder off, bustling to the counter where he placed his tools on a steel tray, wiping them clean of blood. Tomorrow, he'd try to place a name with the cadaver, then most likely embalm him, so on and so forth…
Behind him, the table creaked, as the weight on it was shifted.
"Huh?"
David turned in surprise and nearly screamed as the hole in the dead man's head began to shrink, and the flesh surrounding it slithered eerily.
And then the stranger sat straight up, gray eye flickering open to gaze apathetically at his surroundings. David heard his mouth gasping for something, probably words or air, and the man whipped his head in the college student's direction.
"Oh, my—"
It's impossible, this is impossible!
The one—eyed guy gave a tiny smile, and then launched himself agilely, landing in front of David. Before the kid had time to draw enough breath to yell for help, the male roughly grabbed his neck and twisted.
Slade-
There was a sickening crack, and the young man slumped out of his grasp, onto to the floor, dead.
Slade, not sparing the fellow another glance, examined his hands and flexed his fingers, to be positive that everything was in working order; the villain, satisfied, began searching for the clothes that the morgue had removed, placed in a drawer that was labeled, "Personal Belongings."
Dressing, the mercenary reflected—taking time to examine the flaws in his latest scheme was beneficial to his work, as it presented an opportunity to tie everything together the next time. So Robin was…still alive? He should have died from the wounds that Slade had delivered…
Had his plan worked?
Only one way to find out, he thought, and smirked, and examined his forehead in a small mirror; yes…there was definitely a scar there, from where the bo—staff had been stabbed…
Well, he was used to it.
With a snap, Slade strapped the orange and black mask on once more, and strolled through the doors, out into the night.
It was time to find an old friend of his…
To be Continued…
Rebel: There you have it. I know that some of it may not have made sense…but all of you are pretty smart, so I'm sure you're already making highly educated guesses. Anyway, this was short—I'd probably have written more, but what with my homework crap, and Tae Kwon Do, and being on the volleyball team…yeah. I'm whining; blow me off. The last chapter's going to be somewhat long because it's the conclusion and everything. I'll see you around.
Later:
Rebel