Chapter 12

Diana turned off her cellphone. Clark was watching her.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Everything is fine. Just some problems I've had with Emma—pray your child is a boy," she added darkly.

"Funnily enough, I was hoping for a girl," said Clark fondly. He pantomimed a baby in his arms. "I'd take her out to get ice-cream."

"That only lasts until they become teenagers, Clark."

He frowned. "Emma loves Steve, though. As do I."

Diana sighed. "It's different for men. Dads. They love their little girls. Mothers and daughters, on the other hand . . . Lois will know what I'm talking about."

They were at the GothCorp factory grounds. The factory comprised of a main building with several extending steamstacks, and adjacent to the main building were several tankards and silos. At the far end of the grounds, opposite the main building, were a row of delivery trucks parked rear-side first into a wall. The space in the middle was the main parking lot, and it was lit by a dozen phosphorescent lampposts. Clark and Diana waited in the parking lot. It was quiet and the factory's huge face was shadowy. They both seemed to understand the factory was empty.

Clark leaned against a lamppost. In his flannel shirt and boots, and against the chiaroscuro contrast of the dark factory, he looked like a model for some strange urban photoshoot.

"So what about William? Do you get along better with him?"

"I used to," she said honestly. "He used to be the sweetest boy in the world."

"I think every parent says that about their child, Di," laughed Clark. It was a pleasant, non-offensive laugh.

"But it was true," she insisted. "He opened doors for me and Emma. He always hugged me around the thighs and shined up his little face at me. And then when he started to get older, he changed as well."

"I think that's just teenage angst, Di," said Clark. He scratched his head. "Lois told me about this rebel phase she went through at fifteen."

"Maybe," said Diana softly. She was looking out at the city. "But they're supposed to grow out of angst, Clark. What William has . . . I don't think that's just angst."

Clark's silence was an invitation. He was breathing inward, which gave Diana the beat to exhale outward. To keep talking.

"He's jealous of his sister, of me," continued Diana. "He's been like that for five years now—ever since they got into high school. That's when Emma really started to, you know, show. And then one day I overheard William talking with Steve. Will asked 'Dad, when will it be my turn?'"

Her voice was small and it had the quality of vulnerability to it—like an injured animal limping along the forest. Clark's broad features softened. He was a large man, but he looked several times smaller, more fragile. Diana had a sudden, but almost objective realization—Clark was now seeing her differently. He was seeing her as a mother.

"And sometimes I worry, Clark," she admitted. She was still looking out at the city. It was easier to talk this way. "Sometimes I think this family thing is a million times harder than anything we ever did—back in the day."

"I understand, Di."

Diana smiled bitterly. "No, you don't. Not yet. But you will. When that baby comes. You will."

Clark pushed off from the lamp post. He did this so quickly after her comment, Diana thought she had offended her friend. Her bitterness vanished off her face, replaced by sincere regret.

"Clark, wait. I didn't mean to—"

"Di," said Clark. He was staring beyond her shoulder.

His tone of voice had shifted entirely—he was no longer participating in their prior conversation. Something was happening. Diana turned around in the direction of his stare.

Two figures were materializing from the dark face of the factory. And they were dressed blacker than shadows around them—they wore leather boots, black fatigues, and what looked like plated armor over their chest. Masks covered their face except for their eyes and lips. This was the only part of the attire that was not black—their emerald eyes dancing within the slits of their masks.

"Unbelievable," said the shorter of the pair. This was clearly Talia. Her curves and strutting hips were hard to conceal behind the camouflage of her disguise. Her green eyes inspected them disdainfully. "I suppose you two misunderstood what we meant by 'reconnaissance.'"

The taller of the pair, clearly Ra's, came up beside his daughter. "Normally I'm loathe to agree with my daughter on such trivial concerns, but she is right. Why are you two dressed as if you're out for a night on the town?"

Clark shifted nervously but quietly. It was clear he was going to leave the explaining to Diana.

"Because this small skirmish does not merit our full attire," said Diana. "And we'd like to keep a low profile—in case you didn't know, vigilantes were banished in this city twenty years ago."

"'Banished,'" repeated Ra's Al Ghul. He was smiling wolfishly. "I believe we have a certain Dark Knight to thank for that, don't we?"

Talia continued to scrutinize them. She had her hand on her sword. "Did you two at least brings weapons?"

Clark and Diana looked at eachother, a little sheepish. A painful silence ensued, and Talia stood there, waiting for an answer. Diana felt like she was a child who had forgotten to bring their backpack to school.

"Brilliant," scoffed Talia. "Father, please. They are going to get us killed. Let us abort this stupid alliance."

"My colleague never used a weapon," said Diana, a little defensiveness in her voice. "And this operation does not merit my sword and shield."

"Oh, you stupid, arrogant—" snarled Talia.

"Alright, then!" said Ra's suddenly. He thrust his gaze around the factory, in a grand sweeping gesture that clearly took control of the night's momentum. "Let us take our position. Talia will sweep the grounds, while the Princess and I will take guard the main building. Mr. Kent, you shall be our overwatch. I would like you to take position on one of the steam stacks and alert us of any potential threats. And if you do see anything—"

Ra's suddenly stomped his foot onto the ground, most emphatically.

Clark shook his head. "No, we don't kill people."

Ra's blinked, as if he had never heard something so ridiculous. "But what if they're trying to kill you?"

"Then we detain them, and we put them in jail."

Talia laughed nastily. She was walking away, strutting. "Oh yes, I can see this is going to be very easy."

They took their positions. Diana and Ra's stood on a metal grate balcony attached to the main building. They were directly underneath the glowing lettering of the GothCorp insignia. The two of them had a direct view onto the main parking lot. Clark was above them perched on a steamstack. He drifted in and out of sight with the camouflage of the steam. And Talia was out of sight—no doubt patrolling the area with cat-like aloofness. All they had to do was wait.

But nothing was happening. There was only the empty parking lot; Diana's mind was far from empty. Thoughts rolled about in her mind like clothes in a drying machine. Her children, her husband, her home, her city, her family. She was anxious for something to happen and take her mind off her anxiety—where was this blasted Roland? Why was he taking so long?

Behind her, Ra's Al Ghul snickered. He was reading her emotions on her face.

"Perhaps you've never been on a surveillance mission, Princess?"

"I have," snapped Diana. "And stop calling me Princess."

"But it is what you are, no?"

Diana threw him a dirty look. "Not anymore."

"Right, I forget. You are now Diana Trevor, homebody. Should I call you 'Mom' instead?"

"You can call me Diana," she said curtly.

Ra's leaned against the railing of the balcony, he was watching the parking lot. "I suppose Bruce fulfilled this part of your organization, yes? The pre-ops and recon. I'm sure all you and the Kryptonian had to do was show up and punch the evil villain."

Diana remained silence—partly because she didn't want to speak to Ra's, but also because he was absolutely correct. Back in their day, Diana and Clark were the heavy hitters of the group. It was Bruce who provided them with intel. It was Bruce who planned their operations.

"Gotham City," said Ra's in a loud, mocking tone. He had turned his attention onto the city beyond the parking lot. "I suppose Bruce got what he wanted in the end, didn't he? He saved this city while ensuring it forever hated his guts. Ironic."

Ra's was baiting her. He wanted to disturb her, get underneath her skin. But she wouldn't play his game. Diana kept her eyes focused on the factory grounds. But Ra's continued on.

"Still, look what he's achieved—twenty years of relative peace. No more need for superheroes. A pleasant façade built on a lie. Very well-done."

Ra's sounded proud. Diana couldn't help but look at him side-eyed.

"Oh I know what you're thinking," said Ra's, grinning. "But would it surprise you that I knew a Bruce Wayne that you never got to see? When I first met him, he was an angry, volatile boy. He happily accepted our 'morally-ambiguous' culture. He became my greatest student. But by tempering his anger, we also tempered his amoral inclinations. Suddenly, Mr. Wayne became quite preoccupied with ridiculous notions of 'justice' and 'due process.'"

"Yes, he sounds like quite the radical, Ra's," she muttered.

"It was. He spent nearly ten years waging an unfruitful assault on crime and corruption with useless means. And what did it take to finally achieve his goals? He had to set aside his pride and do what must be done. In the end, he did exactly what I would have done. And I'm proud to say that."

This time Diana turned to face Ra's fully. Her face was pure loathing. "Let us get something straight: Bruce Wayne was nothing like you."

Ra's returned her hate with an obnoxious, knowing tone of voice. "No? Where do you think Bruce got his Bat motif from? Where do you think he learned his intimidation tactics? And why do you think he dressed as he did? Bruce based his own designs off our battledress. You can see that clearly from the exposed area around the mouth."

"That doesn't make him like you, Ra's," she answered coldly. "He didn't mimic your moral codes."

"He killed a man to ensure this city's future. Sounds suspiciously like me."

"You have no idea what you're talking about—"

Just then the sound of police sirens wailed in the distance. That brought an immediate halt to their debate. The earpiece in Diana's ear vibrated with Clark's voice.

"That's coming from City Hall. There's something going on."

"It is the first move on the chessboard," said Ra's, without hesitation. "Roland will be here soon."

Diana's mind went to her family. William was working at City Hall, and Steve would also be in attendance. They were both in danger.

Ra's suddenly was looking at her. "Something on your mind, Diana?"

Diana threw him a look. "I'm fine, Ra's."

The smile on Ra's face was entirely too knowing and sinister. "Of course."

The truth was that she was thinking of abandoning the plan. Her gamble had not paid off—why hadn't she stopped William from leaving the house? Now he was at the center of whatever danger was happening at City Hall. Her husband, too. The nervousness was coming back to her from the morning of the birthday party—that sensation that caused her to break the mug. It slid up her stomach, up her esophagus, and lodged there, choking and suffocating.

She knew what she needed to know. She needed to get to City Hall. Her family was more important than Roland, than this city. It scared her to admit it, but it was true.

"To hell with this," she spat. She stepped onto the rail of the balcony, ready to leap into the air. Ra's was looking at her. "I need to protect my son." She grabbed the railing with her hand, lifting herself up. "I need to protect my family—"

For a moment she was sure her eyes were playing tricks on her. One second ago, the parking lot was empty. Now there was a lone figure standing at the center of the parking lot. She froze on the guardrail. Somehow, she knew who the man was. It was too obvious.

"Roland," said Ra's. His lips hardly moved as he said the name; the sound came from his throat.

Roland stood directly underneath one of the lamp posts. He was perfectly illuminated—an easy target. He had a sword on his hip, like Talia and Ra's, but he wore a grey hood that concealed his face. He had a grey sash tied to his hip. His feet were planted, his shoulders squared. His arms hung loosely at his side, almost like a gunslinger.

Diana slowly climbed off the railing. Beside her, Ra's put his hand to the sword at his hip. Neither of them took their eyes off Roland.

Roland's hood suddenly shifted upwards. He was looking at them on the balcony. Then he swung his weight onto one hip, and he brought his hands up in a shrug—well? said the gesture.

At the far end of the parking lot, Talia's slim silhouette drop in behind. She was coming slowly, unseen, upon Roland.

"What do we do?" whispered Diana. Roland was now folding his arms, an obnoxious pantomime of impatience.

Ra's started walking down the balcony. "Let us go chat."

Roland's hood moved and tracked their descent while the rest of his body was quite still. It was like a lazy king on a throne watching beloved servants come in his court.

Ra's and Diana stopped at the edges of the lamp post's light. This way, Roland was still fully exposed at the center of the light, and it gave Ra's and Diana a certain comfort feeling of camouflage.

"Roland," said Ra's in a calm, careful tone. "You know why we're here."

Roland's grey hood nodded. Underneath that hood, they saw not even a hint of a jawline.

Diana stood next to Ra's. It was clearly her turn to speak, and when she spoke, she tried her best to sound authoritative but assured. "This city is under my protection. I don't know who you are, nor why you are here. But I'm asking you, politely, to leave. This is your only chance."

Roland's hood cocked to one side. And although she couldn't see his eyes, she felt the weight of his gaze. It was like a coldness had been laid upon her. The void of the hood stared at her.

Now she was uncertain. This didn't feel right. Roland was one man. They had him outnumbered; out-gunned; and out-matched. But she felt like that was the whole point; Roland wanted to be the center of attention. To draw the focus. That way, they would not see things happening around them.

Quickly, discreetly, she stole a glance around her. But there was nothing happening. The factory was quiet and unstirring.

Underneath the hood, there was the slightest, faintest snicker of breath. He still had not moved.

Now Diana felt a little foolish—that discreet glance had cost her dearly. In the eyes of Ra's and Roland, she no longer looked composed and confident. Now she looked skittish. Anxious. And Roland still hadn't done a single thing, physically.

Ra's was right—this was a chess game, and Roland was winning before they had even started. He was reading and anticipating movements. Now the fear was growing in Diana: there was only one other man who drew this kind of reaction from her. And he had been dead for twenty years.

Talia, meanwhile, continued to move upon Roland's exposed back. She moved in complete silence, making no more noise than a shadow would. It was impressive.

Roland suddenly jerked a thumb over his shoulder. The movement was very loud and surprising, considering he had not moved for such a long time. "Tell your daughter to stay right where she is, Ra's. Otherwise, I'll be forced to do something rather unpleasant."

Roland sounded nothing like what Diana had imagined. She expected a deathly rattle, or a chesty deepness to go with the void-like quality of his hood. But his voice was rather lush, throaty, and tropical. English was clearly not his first language. And he sounded bored.

"And please tell the Man of Steel that there's no use hiding up so far away. Let him come and join us. We have much to discuss."

Diana and Ra's hid their reactions with silent, neutral faces. But it was useless. Roland had the upper-hand, the momentum. He had already exposed Talia without even turning around, and now he had exposed Clark. To deny this was foolish. It would be like trying to sweep away the rain.

Ra's was first to break. His face split with a surrendering, displeased sneer.

"C'mon, Ra's," boomed Roland in a pleasant tone. "Do you think I have no surveillance of my own? We've known about you since the minute you stepped into the city. Now please, let the big man come down."

Roland made a big waving gesture to Clark up on the steamstacks. It was like a man inviting his neighbor to a barbeque. Clark remained on the smoke-stack.

"No?" said Roland. His waving hand fell to his side. "How disappointing. But I'm sure Mr. Clark Kent would like to hear what I have to say next."

He pulled out what looked like a large phone from his belt. He held it out before them. "Do you know what this is?"

"Let me guess," said Diana through gritted teeth. "Some sort of explosive switch?"

Roland chuckled again. "Not exactly. It's a phone with a projector attached. Would you like to see a movie? I love movies—they transport you to another world, make you care about imaginary people who you'd never meet. You cry for them, cheer for them, like if they were your own family. Although in this case . . . "

Roland pointed the projector onto the parking lot wall. The picture was grainy and too blurry, and Roland was working the lens on the camera.

"Raul, enfoque la camera," said Roland in flawless Spanish. He seemed to be speaking into a radio in his ear.

Slowly the projection on the parking lot wall came into focus. Diana's blood froze. The life she had built, that she held close to her chest like a framed photograph, was crumbling.

Roland chuckled underneath the hood. "Don't look so bad. It wasn't difficult deduction. One only had to read the signs. There's nothing like a family, would you agree? The bonds, the camaraderie, the intense emotions they arouse. One minute we want to pull their hair, the other we want to exchange hugs. I've always loved family – its poisonous, weak, impractical, but at the end of the day, necessary."

Now Clark was slowly making his way down from the smokestacks. Diana recognized the shocked, disbelieving look Clark's eyes.

The projection flashed with images of Alfred and little David at their home: David was sleeping soundlessly in his crib, whereas Alfred was in the kitchen, reading a paper while drinking tea. The projection switched to another home, another scene of innocent domestic bliss: Lois was sleeping on a sofa, the TV blaring silently. Her pregnant belly moving up and down underneath the couch blanket.

"I have men trained outside your family homes," said Roland as he commanded the projector, like some sadistic weather reporter. "They're hiding in the new garden you installed, Mr. Kent. Would you like to see?"

Roland switched the projection again. Clark was trembling.

"Tell me, is it considered double homicide if the child dies in utero?" asked Roland quietly. "I've always wondered—that's one of those 'grey' areas of the law, no? I argue that is double murder -after all, the child, at this stage of pregnancy, is already developed, no? can feel pain? I suppose we could ask your son, Mrs. Diana Trevor. Is he not an officer of the law?"

The projection jumped again—William was standing in the banquet hall of City Hall. He was talking to a portly black man. They both watched the stage.

"Do you see that man standing behind your son?" asked Roland. "He's posing as a state assemblyman. At my orders, he'll cut your son's throat. Nice, eh?"

"I swear," hissed Diana. She was trembling now, furious and cold and outraged. "If you hurt my family—"

Roland extended his arm out the side. The other arm he had the phone trained on the wall. "Do you not possess the means to destroy me? Do it –right here. I am defenseless."

Roland stood there in the middle of the lamp posts light—vulnerable; obnoxiously so. But neither Clark nor Diana moved. Roland's arm fell back to his side.

"That's what I thought. You may hate me, but in reality I am David and you both are Goliath. You two are much stronger, much faster. I simply have put more effort into my chosen weapon. Maybe you should next time do the same."

She wanted badly to hit him. To yank that hood away and reveal his smug, arrogant face, to make that face bloody and beaten and make him scream for mercy, to make him beg forgiveness, to make him scream that he'd never threaten her family ever again.

But she couldn't. He had them. Diana knew it. Clark knew. And Roland definitivelyknew it.

"It seems like we understand each other," said Roland, very carefully. "Good." He turned off the projector. He put the phone away. "Now, inside this factory are precious chemicals I need for my work. I would like the group of us to go inside, and obtain these chemicals."

It looked like Talia had heard enough. She unsheathed her sword, coming within striking distance of Roland's exposed heart. "I am under no oaths to their families. I'll kill you right here, where you stand, Roland, if you think we're going to help you steal these chemicals."

"Talia," said Roland heavily, the way he might address an annoying sister. "Diplomacy never suited you. If you strike me down, their families die."

Talia raised the sword high. She was sneering. "I don't care about their families."

Talia took one step forward with her blade. That's when Diana came forward, blocking off Talia's path.

"I can't let you hurt him," said Diana in a low, tamed voice. "I'm sorry."

Clark stepped forward as well. He didn't say anything, but his big, bulky figure stated the obvious. Talia's eyes were wide. Her face registered with the cold understanding. She looked like she wanted to laugh and scream.

"I knew this was a mistake," she said coldly. Her sword went back into her sheath. "I told you, Father. I told you they would be a liability."

Ra's, however, did not respond with a trademark quip. He watched Roland with careful, fascinated eyes, as if he had never seen a man like him before.

Roland put his phone away into his belt. He cleared his throat, as if giving a speech. "Now, if there isn't anything else. Mr. Kent, I'd like you to help with our entrance. A ten-by-eight hole in the side of the factory will serve nicely as an entrance—this way, we do not set off any alarms," added Roland. He was speaking to Diana, as if he was a tour guide and the rest of the group were his party. "And don't you worry, Mom Trevor, I will not harm a hair on your children's head, as long as you follow my rules. It's ironic, is it not? Think of yourselves as children, and me as the parent—" he started gesturing with his finger, like a parent making a point, "as long as you follow the rules, nobody gets hurt. Easy, eh? Like kindergarten—follow the leader!"