Cold. It was always cold, now. The War had left thick ashy clouds in its wake, blotting out the sun for years. Now, during the day at least, the sun peeked through wanly, casting a grey haze over the city. Warming it ever so slightly. At night, it still typically dipped near freezing, even in the summer. And the winter… well. The winters were hell.
Jason and I waited on a rooftop near Dupree Chemicals, bundled up against the frigid wind. Focusing, I counted the Enforcers as they patrolled the perimeter. Twenty. And probably more inside. Too many for a smash and go. Which was really unfortunate, because that was Jason's wheelhouse.
I leaned against his ear and whispered, "Back window is our best bet. Covert, got it?"
Jason grunted in disappointment. Or acknowledgement. Probably both. I glanced at my watch. 1:40. Time to move.
For once I was grateful for the howling wind. It whipped through the alley beside the warehouse and made our hasty entrance seem silent. Any banging or rattling would be chalked up to the draft. Once inside, we ID'd our target. A large conical mixing vat. If this stuff was half as unstable as Tim let on, a chunk of plastique detonated on the bottom would level the complex.
We waited a beat until a patrol passed by, then slipped behind. With Jason covering my back, I set to work. Normally plastic explosive was idiot-level simple to use, but without a remote detonator, it was a little more complicated. I jammed a long string of fuse into the side of the clay and wound it around a bolt on the bottom of the tank. With a final glance and a nod to Jason, I lit it. We moved.
Back out through the small window, into the alley, up onto the roof of a building nearby, behind the mortar around the edge. We huddled up, clasped our ears, and waited.
I saw the blast before I heard it, felt it. The starless sky lit up brighter than it had in years, and the firelight reflected back against the permanent fog. And then the wave of sound and force, reaching us even tucked away behind cinderblocks. Next, a klaxon, dull over the ringing in my ears. Jason tugged on my arm. Was he yelling? I couldn't tell. The explosion had been massive. We had been too close.
"We gotta go, man!" He was white faced, pulling on me frantically.
Distantly, I nodded. I couldn't focus. I sat up.
Pain. Bright and sharp, it tore through my shoulder. Jason slammed his hand over my mouth to stop the scream as it was forming.
"I know. I know, buddy. Hurts like fuck, I'm sure. But we can't stay here." He spared a glance behind him before heaving me to my feet. I looked out over the edge at the damage - three city blocks were leveled and on fire. Civilians and Enforcers alike were running frantically. Children were standing in the street, shivering in spite of the blaze.
"We have to help them." I was very aware that my heart was pounding with the effort of standing, that I couldn't quite feel the fingers on my left hand. But none of that could matter. People were in danger. We had put them in danger.
Jason shook his head, "We have to help you." He motioned to my shoulder, and I looked down to find a length of rebar, bent and rusted, sticking out of the bloodied joint.
"Oh." There was no surprise, no urgency in my voice. Probably because none of this seemed real. That wasn't my arm. We didn't kill civilians and destroy their homes.
I nodded, and Jason scooped his arm under the other shoulder. I leaned against him, surprised to find him trembling, too. "You hurt, Jay?"
"No. But we're gonna be dead if we don't stop talking and get the fuck out of here."
The trip back was a haze. Injuries be damned, we still had to double around, take precautions, make sure we weren't followed. We wound our way down the stairs, past our limited security, and into the bunker. Home.
Bruce and Selina were already back, waiting. Worried.
"Report." Even though he had to leave the cape and cowl behind years ago, Bruce would always be Batman. And that growl made every single one of us stand at attention.
Jason jutted his chin towards Tim, accusing. "Boy Genius neglected to mention that the chemicals could level half a goddamn neighborhood. We were too close. Dick took shrapnel. But the target was destroyed. Mission successful."
I shook my head as Alfred guided me back to our cobbled-together medbay. Mission successful? Bullshit. We destroyed a government installation without any consideration for the collateral damage, the civilian lives lost. The children, orphaned and terrified, standing in the streets.
Alfred washed his hands in a pot of too-hot water, then set to work, cutting away my clothes (damn it, did I have more cold-weather gear?) and examining the entry point.
"I'm afraid I'll need to remove this in order to properly assess the damage. Are you ready?" He braced his hand on my arm, and gripped the rebar with the other. I closed my eyes and nodded, sucking in a deep breath.
Slowly, relentlessly, he tugged at the metal, twisting to loosen it, doing his damndest not to make everything worse. The agony of it was nauseating, but I'd had practice with silence under duress. At last, the bar cut loose suddenly and a cascade of blood poured out of the wound.
"Ah, Fuck!"
For once, Alfred didn't chastise my foul mouth. He was too busy rinsing the bloodied maw out with saline, then packing it with gauze.
"We're out of sutures, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, sir."
I was the one who got my stupid self injured and he was the one apologizing. I was sure we were running low on everything else, too - medical supplies were the hardest to come by. He finished filling the wound, then covered it with more gauze and tape.
I slid off of the table to my feet, steadying myself for a moment before joining the others. Even before the world went to hell, there wasn't time for malingering. Now, a hurt soldier was as useless as a dead one. And we couldn't afford any more dead soldiers.
Jay and Tim had gotten into it by the time I made it over to our makeshift tactical area.
"You think you underestimated the payload? Dick could've been killed! And we're not exactly winning hearts and minds if we're blowing up fucking kids!" Leave it to Jay to lay out the facts without the bullshit.
"It was a tactical error. But it will be worth it if we get even a partial retreat of the Enforcers. The civilians will be even safer if we can manage to keep them out for longer." Tim was flushed, justifying. Hoping Jay would let it slide.
Things like this happened more often, now, without our tech to back us up. But even so, we all stood, feeling the unspoken reality. This wasn't a success. We weren't rebels, fighting the good fight anymore. We were terrorists. Striking out and killing innocents if it meant we might further our cause.
God, when did we become the enemy?