Chapter 13
Lily Greene and William raced down Gotham City in their police cruiser. The engine growled underneath Lily's heavy foot, and she wrought screams from the rubbers tires by twisting the steering wheel to its uppermost limits. They were at the head of the police chase, behind their cruiser a caravan of police vehicles. Helicopters flew overhead with their blades chopping wind. The siren wail of the massive police force made for a tremendous battle cry in the night air.
"I want every bridge out of New Gotham raised—no, better yet, barricade them all!"
screamed Lily Greene into her radio receiver. With one hand she clamped down on the steering wheel with her knuckles white and the other hand she had the radio in her hand. "Stuff each bridge with roadblocks and spikes on the Old Gotham entrances. I don't want to see any sirens—keep a low profile. We're gonna maroon him on this side of the city."
They were chasing the motorbike – what looked like a motorbike. It's two tires were mammoth, and its chassis carved out of ebony fiberglass. There were two riders. The passenger was Commissioner Gordon, with his mouth duct-taped and his arms bound behind him. He sat backwards on the bike, facing the police, his ashen trench coat flapping around him. The driver wore sleek and fitted gear: matte black armor, a brooding cowl, and a glittering mesh cape.
The motorbike, and the two riders upon it, darted through alleys and sub-streets with unimaginable daring. The motorbike was fast—must faster than anything that big should have been. The motorbike's engine, unlike the grueling growl of the police vehicles, hummed with a cello string's precision, gaining higher and higher in pitch as the chase went on.
"Shoot him, dammit!" screamed Lily again into her receiver. "You have a clear shot at him."
"Are you crazy?" yelled William over the cacophony of the chase. He was holding onto his seat, terrified and exhilarated by the chase. "The Commissioner is in line of sight!"
The voice on the radio agreed with William. "Negative. SWAT cannot obtain a clean shot."
"Then shoot the bike!" demanded Lily. Her fury was boiling. "He's right there,Dispatch! What the fuck are we waiting for? The Commissioner is kidnapped and we're just sitting around waiting for—oh you got to be fucking kidding me!"
The motorbike maneuvered into a perpendicular alley at an impossible 90 degrees. A moment before the inevitable impact, the motorbike's mammoth wheels spun on their axis and glided into the 90 degree turn with gyroscopic grace. Then the wheels righted themselves again, and the motorbike throttled down the alley.
"Hold on," said Lily. She was going to attempt the turn, and she was bracing her body in anticipation.
William grabbed onto the passenger handrail. "Lily, are you out of your fucking mind!?"
She tried the turn. The police cruiser lurched to its right, the tires screaming bloody murder, and William smacked his head against the passenger window. Lily was spilling out of her seat, sitting nearly on the gear console. Then the cruiser banged against the alleywall and this shuttered the cabin and pinballed the two of them back into their seats. Now they were flush with the alley.
"Jesus!" yelled William. She had never stopped accelerating—the motorbike was ahead; its mammoth tire was chucking up newspapers and pieces of litter and garbage. Their cruiser drove through these falling debris and was gaining on the bike. William felt a little speedsick—the alley walls were shooting fast beside them, like on a space ship making a jump to lightspeed. William looked into the rearview mirror. No other police tried the turn at that speed. They were all slowly pulling into the alley, while other police cruisers simply raced along, no doubt hoping to cut the motorbike off down the city grid.
"Where the hell is he going?" said Lily lowly. She was holding onto steering wheel the way you hold onto a barbell at the gym. "He can't outrun us."
As they raced behind the motorbike, William caught the blur of the streets and skyscrapers falling behind them. The skyscrapers seemed to be spinning like turnstiles on a crazy circus ride. William caught the green neon GothCorp of the chemical factory at the far end of the city—it lasted for less than a second, and then they were out of sight. The green sign looked so far away, forgotten, isolated. Unprotected.
William felt himself shrink smaller into his seat. He knew quite a bit about the Batman—partly out of his own interest, and partly because Emma was obsessed with the stories. The Batman was supposed to be a tactical genius. He always was several steps ahead of you.
So why tonight? thought William. Twenty years, and you pick this night, of all nights, to kidnap the Commissioner, when every single cop—from beats to off-duty to retired—would be at attention.
The motorbike turned onto the Main Avenue. He was no longer cutting corners or swerving. The motorbike drove straight ahead, following Main Avenue's direct path to the Gotham Bridge. On the other side of the bridge, Old Gotham's dilapidated factories stood in dark, dusty relief.
"He's on Main Avenue, currently crossing Lincoln," said Lily Greene in a sudden whisper, like a hunter closing in on prey. She turned on the receiver again, her eyes never left the chase. "How's the barricade?"
The radio cracked with static. "Set up and waiting, LT. Waiting for command to spring it."
It was hard for Lily Greene to mask her excitement. Her eyes narrowed, and they gained something of a glossy sheen, like if she had taken some kind of pleasure drug.
"Lieutenant," said William suddenly, nervously. "Hold on a minute. Don't you think this is all too perfect?"
Lily Greene kept driving ahead, her attention so enraptured Will was unsure if she had even heard him.
"He wants us to chase him," continued William. "Think about it—twenty years, and he picks tonight? When every cop is working? And then he takes us on a merry goose chase around the city—"
"DAMMIT, TREVOR. SHUT UP!"
Her voice rebounded with fury and excitement—the police cruiser growled with fury and excitement. They were closing in on the motorbike. They could see the rims of Commissioner Gordon's glasses. Lily Green clutched the receiver to lips, her eyes glossy, a white-knuckled ecstasy ready to overtake her as soon as she issued the command.
The motorbike approached the first column of the Gotham bridge. The police barricade on the otherside was barely visible in the dark face of Old Gotham.
William saw it now. He saw what was happening like a boxer seeing the incoming counter-punch. But it was too late to act, too late to dodge the blow. Lily Greene, the entire GCPD, had walked into the trap as pleasantly as prospect buyers walk into a home.
This scene with the motorbike was a distraction. The Batman had not returned. Roland was using it to draw attention from the factory. Which meant that the attack on GothCorp was already underway.
The motorbike was now on the bridge proper. Up ahead lay Old Gotham.
"NOW!" thundered Lily Greene. She downshifted the cruiser, and their cruiser fell back, the engine whining gratefully. The dark side of the bridge exploded with light—the tall, mounted floodlights like some rudely awakened robot-giant; the bleary suddenness of the police high-beams; and the undulating waves of redblue redblue redblue swimming underneath. A literal wall of light, so bright and imposing it seemed like an angelic guardpost. Divine intervention coming to detain to the demonic force riding the motorbike.
The motorbike came to a stop several yards away from the barricade.
Behind William and Lily Greene, the rest of the police units were coming onto the bridge. The motorbike was now cut off on both sides. The police lights caught the motorbike at a cross-section—this illuminated the motorbike and the riders clear, painful clarity. The Commissioner blinked miserably against so much light. He looked annoyed. But the Batman sat on the seat. He did not move.
Lily Greene kicked open her driver door and stepped out with the swagger of a runway model. She dragged her a loudspeaker behind her.
"This has been a long time coming for me," she boomed in the microphone. Her voice was so maniacal and cocksure. "It is my pleasure to tell you that you're surrounded. Step away from the bike and the Commissioner with your hands up!"
The Batman did not respond. His situation was quite clearly—every single police officer on the bridge had their crosshairs trained on him. But he was perfectly calm and unmoving on the motorbike, seemingly disinterested in the show of force. The police, meanwhile, stood behind the doors of their cars and the shelter of the concrete columns. This was standard procedure, to take cover, but all it did was give the Batman an increasingly air of danger—it was one man, against hundreds. Yet there was a genuine wave of uneasiness washing about the police force. The more youthful faces of the police looked hesitant and alarmed; while the older veterans, the ones who had most likely seen the Batman in his hey-day, were neutral-faced and at-attention.
Everyone seemed to be waiting for the Batman's slightest movement. But it never came. The Commissioner meanwhile was irate underneath the blinding police lights. He glared impatiently at them.
"This is your second and final warning," thundered Lily Greene. "Get your ass out of the bike and move away from the Commissioner. Now!"
The police looked uncertainly between them—now that there was an ultimatum, they would be forced to act. And they all looked miserable, fearful.
"One," said Lily Greene, her eyes livid with light and excitement. "two, three—!"
The Batman, at the last dramatical moment, brought his hands over his head. The police seemed to exhale collectively. The tension was dissipating. The Batman stood up and swung his leg off the bike. He stepped to the side.
"Easy. Go easy there." Lily Greene's eyes never left the Batman. "Step away from the bike—slowly."
He complied, walking with a crisp, totally relaxed patience, as if he was humoring Lily Greene's commands. Lily Greene made a motion with her hand and pointed to the motorbike. "Trevor, secure the Commissioner," she said quietly. She was still watching the Batman.
William came around the police cruiser and stepped into the cross section of light. He was blinded, and his hand came up instinctively. He ran to the Commissioner, quickly but calmly, making sure to show no weakness, because his back was now exposed to the Batman, it was like turning your back to a tiger.
The Commissioner's eyes were watery from so much light, but they were grateful. He nodded dutifully as William got to work untying the ropes binding him to the bike.
"Keep your hands behind your head," said Lily Greene's cold, hungry voice. "Now, very slowly, get on your knee—actually, remove the mask."
William worked furiously on the ropes. What was Lily doing? Standard procedure was to tell the suspect to get on his knees. But she was letting her personal vengeance get the better of her. It felt like more baiting. And Lily kept taking it, unable to see herself clearly.
"Easy—slowly, that's it. Don't make any sudden movement—"
The entire police force made a shucking, shuttering sound. Like they all inhaled too sharply. William couldn't resist it himself—he left the ropes for a second and looked over his shoulder.
The Batman stood with his cowl in his hands—his face was grotesque. His lips were purple, and his skin blotched with bruising and swarthy veins. Now William knew what death looked like—it had to be this man's face.
There was suddenly a loud beeping coming from the bike. It was high-pitched and slowly increasing. Gordon struggled mightily against the ropes.
The Batman suddenly twisted his lips. It couldn't be said to be smiling, but what looked to be a sneer. A total arrogance sense of satisfaction. He dropped the cowl and kept walking, towards the end of the bridge.
William threw the last loop of rope off the Commissioner. The beeping increased its frequency.
"That's enough!" demanded Lily. "Get on your knees with your hands up—I SAID STOP!"
"Everyone get back!" screamed William. He had the Commissioner. They were running back to behind cover. The bike was beeping furiously now.
Lily Greene threw the speaker to the side. "FIRE!"
The night broke in a hail fire of shooting. At this range, nobody missed. The Batman staggered like an electric current rushed through him.
William threw the Commissioner behind a cruiser door and jumped in after. There was the explosion; it shook the bridge and for a moment there was no sound except the horrible compression in his ear. His entire body ached, but especially his chest like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his chest.
Car alarms were ringing. Police were sighing, getting to their feet. Everywhere was the crackle of boots on broken glass—the explosion had taken out all the cruiser windows. William poked his head out. The motorbike was blown to pieces—flaps of the rubber tires lay adjacent, and a black crater lay underneath the twisted, blackened chassis. It was smoking, too.
"Call ambulances and the fire department," commanded a tired, achy voice. "Take care of the wounded. I want the C.O.s on me. We got a lot of work left to do."
It was Commissioner Gordon. He was getting to his feet, brushing the glass off his trenchcoat. He had a jagged cut along his forehead, and his cheeks look red and wind-bitten from the joyride. He looked slightly dazed but at calm with the situation.
Lily Greene suddenly appeared from behind her police cruiser. She had ducked behind cover as well. "Where is he!" she demanded immediately. The explosion had knocked her hair backward, and had drawn soot and grime across her cheeks. She looked like a crazed car mechanic.
She was scanning over the bridge, her eyes wide. "I want coast guard and boat patrol on my position. Helicopters search the water. I want him found!"
"Lieutenant," said a miserable, grime-faced cop. He was just getting to his feet, knocking the glass out of his cap. "It's a hundred-foot drop. We shot him. There's no way he—"
"Then where the hell is he?! Either you produce his worthless ass in front of me, or let me do my fucking job."
The gunfire stopped.
"Lily!"
"Dammit! It's a stupid trick. He's hiding WHERE ARE YOU?"
The police slowly fanned over the area of the bridge. They found no trace of the Batman. Underneath the bridge was the swashing and black ocean. It was a hundred-foot drop.
Lily screamed into the receiver.
Lily Greene went to the railing. Her eyes darting over the ocean for any signs, but there were hundreds of oceans swells.
The Commissioner was now standing at the center of a dozen police officers. "I'm fine, I'm fine," said the Commissioner gruffly. "A dumb joyride, that's all. I'm fine, really, Gonzalez. Get those paramedics away, don't be silly. They're for anyone who is seriously hurt."
The Commissioner met William's eyes. He motioned over to him.
"What's the situation, Trevor?"
"Lieutenant Greene gave the order to fire on the 'Batman.' He fell over the side of the bridge."
The Commissioner eyed him. "Why do you say it like that?"
"Like what, sir?"
"In that skeptical voice—'The Batman,'" repeated the Commissioner.
"Sir," said William. "I—"
The Commissioner nodded very carefully. "He was too showy, right? And he didn't use guns."
"I—I thought the same, sir."
The Commissioner watched him approvingly. "What else are you thinking?"
"Well, I," began William, but instead of finishing his sentence, William turned and nodded to the city behind them. Main Avenue was completely empty and vulnerable. On the other side of the bridge, Old Gotham's dusty, dark face looked the same.
The Commissioner suddenly held his arm out. His face was sallow. "Give me your radio, Officer Trevor."
Lily Greene finally came back from the edge of the bridge. She was looking at them all curiously.
"This is Commissioner Gordon speaking. I want eyes open for potential BnEs and robberies throughout the city. Eyes open, people. Someone just made sure every cop in Gotham would be distracted. I need sitrep on every section of this city." The Commissioner lowered the radio from his lips. He turned to Lily with a determined fury. "Lieutenant, you're with me. We're taking a dozen patrol vehicles and combing New Gotham – the priority is the financial district. We need to cover the banks."
"Sir," said Lily. Her face was shining with fury and duty, but also a bit of humility. She realized what had happened. "I take full responsibility—"
"Relax, Greene," said the Commissioner. "This is my last night with any real authority. Let it fall on me."
William made to go with them but the Commissioner put his hand on William's shoulder. "You're staying here, son. I can't put Steve's Trevor in danger. Not after today."
The surprise and anger was evident on William's face. Lily Greene saw this but kept walking, pretending like she hadn't, or maybe she didn't want to risk any further abuse of her power.
The Commissioner sighed. "Your father tried to warn me something like this would happen today. I didn't listen. I can't have you falling into danger on top of that. It wouldn't be right."
"Sir, you can't just—"
"Stay here, Trevor," said the Commissioner, calm and commanding. "That's an order."
The police cruisers began backing out of the bridge, but there were so many vehicles packed into the narrow throat. Everyone was honking indignantly, their sirens wailing uselessly.
"Jesus," said Gordon, shaking his head. "What a day for Gotham's finest."
They left him on the bridge. Now all William had was the resentment to accompany him. No matter what he did, he was Steve and Diana Trevor's son. William walked across the bridge over to Old Gotham. It was unfair.
Down on the bank of Gotham, near the dark shadows, there was a sudden flourish of movement. It caught William's eye for a second, thinking it was some odd contouring of rushes or reeds. He waited for a second, to see if the movement would strike again.
It was only a flash, but the shadows moved in the same manner. William's heart raced. This time, he was sure he had spotted a silhouette.
He raced down the remainder of the bridge and turned out onto the slope. There was not much footing except sedge grass and weeds. He saw no trace of the silhouette.
"Hey Trevor!" called a police officer from the bridge. "What are you doing!?"
"Nothing," called William back. "I thought I saw—never mind."
"Get your ass back up here. We're leaving back to Division."
William kept scanning furiously, but there was not even a footprint or an oddly bent twig. Nothing to justify what he saw. He dejectedly turned back and started back up the slope. Of course it had been silly to think otherwise. The grotesque man posing as the Batman was surely dead—they had shot him straight in the chest repeatedly, and then to survive a hundred foot drop and swim to shore? Swim with a chest full of lead? It was beyond ridiculous. It would take somebody with immense strength, someone not even human to survive that.
It was that final line of thinking that paralyzed William. He suddenly felt very cold to his stomach, because a hundred yards away, underneath a dinky streetlight, was a sewer manhole. And it was partially open.
There were still a few men on the bridge. William raised his hand to flag them down. He would need their help.
And tell them what? That there's a gang of mutants down in the sewers? That a man named Roland is hiding an army down there? That the man on the bridge was one of Roland's mutated-serum fanatics?
He was running out of time. The options were dizzying in his mind: he needed to alert someone—his police officers, his sister, his parents. But would there be time? He knew that the sewers were a maze.
But there was also a new sensation ballooning in his chest. A cross germination between humility and pride. If he went to his parents, to his sister, they would thank him but then box him out; claiming it was too dangerous for him to continue. And yet it was he who had put it together. Shouldn't he take the credit?
He came upon the manhole and lifted clear the cover. It was solid iron, and weighed so much he needed to squat and heave. It fell with a mighty thud on the pavement. The hole was before him now – at the lip of the opening were half a dozen ladder rungs exposed by the light. Slowly, he lowered himself into the darkness. It would be foolish to deny his terror. He really did not want to go down the hole.
Behind him he heard the last of the police cruisers drive away. In the great shadow of the city he heard the banshee shrikes of the police. There was a cacophony of chopping helicopter blades. The harbor police boats were rounding around the city on the river. They were all leaving him. Or was he leaving them?
"This is stupid," he said tightly. A gurgling sound met him from the sewer's lower depths, like an invitation from a great underwater beast. He felt like he was climbing into a giant's mouth. He was scared—he knew it, objectively. He thought about that as he climbed down. He also thought about his father. This was the only time a man could be brave – when he was going into the unknown.
The chase took Emma around the city and back to the Main Avenue. From up here, it was clear to her that the Batman had taken the police for a messy circle around New Gotham. She saw the police forming silently on the Gotham Bridge, readying a trap. And the 'Batman fell for it in glorious, predictable fashion.
Emma Trevor landed, quite covertly, a few buildings away from the bridge, on the New Gotham side. From this distance, from her vantage point, she was the only one who could see the entire sham. The 'Batman' fell under the hail of gunfire and over the side of the bridge. And then, with quick, arduous agility, the 'Batman' climbed underneath the belly of the bridge. They headed towards the Old Gotham slope and disappeared into a manhole.
"So that's how it's done," she said to herself. What did she feel – disappointment? The allure of his infamous escapes lost their intrigue once the simplicity of the escape was revealed. She felt a little cheated, a little more 'grown-up.' A small part of her imagination had been sacrificed—and in return, she gained a better, less fanciful understanding of how the world 'worked.'
She had wait out the police—if she followed the 'Batman' down the manhole, the police would all see her, and in the bewilderment of the night's chase, they would declare her the perpetrator or an accomplice. Slowly—agonizingly slowly, the police started filing backwards out into the city. The majority of them ventured out to New Gotham, while a few stragglers, what looked like a pity pittance, went out into Old Gotham.
What surprised her, however, was her brother. He remained there on the city bridge talking with the trenchcoated Commissioner. He remained behind while the police scattered beyond him.
William suddenly started moving towards Old Gotham. He moved down the slope toward the manhole and stood in front of it for what seemed like an eternity. Clearly, he was enraptured by thought. Down at the slope, her brother tried lifting the manhole cover. It took him nearly a minute.
She wanted to laugh but she was also struck by a crude sort of realization. William was actually going to go down there—alone. Her brother was only a man, and from what they knew of Roland's army, they were superhuman.
But the police were still on the bridge. "Screw it," she said. Risky or not, William was going to get himself killed if he went down that sewer. She stood up and readied herself at the ledge.
Footsteps landed behind her—hard, heavy, and foreboding footsteps.
Emma Trevor turned around, slowly. There were six men standing on the roof. They wore gray uniforms—leathery and ragged, like some kind of second-hand military operation. Each of them wore gray masks to disguise their faces. It made them appear like some sort of homeless exterminator crew.
They began spanning out on all sides of her—they brought out their swords as they did so. One of them was holding a machine gun.
For a moment, Emma and the six men stared at eachother across the roof. Everything and nothing was being said in that exchange. Emma knew why they were here, and they knew she knew. It was just a matter of who would flinch first.
Emma dove to her right, making the first move, just as a hail of machine gun fire exploded on the spot she was previously standing.
A flash grenade exploded suddenly. A smoke grenade plumed. She was on the move, but so were they. The misshapen, hazy silhouettes of the men appeared and disappeared randomly in the smoke. Another flash grenade exploded—now the rooftop was an outdoor rave, and they were the bodies twisting and rocking.
It was like fighting ghosts. Suddenly there were three of them on her position. Their swords were drawn clearly in the relief of the light and smoke.
Emma reached behind into her backpack for her taser sticks, but this motion pushed the sticks further back into her bag. She rolled out of the incoming sword attacks – the collective swoosh of the swordslike unseen bees circling her head.
The men were faster than she gave them credit for—almost as fast as she was. And then Emma remembered who she was.
She came out of the roll and slung her backpack bolas-fashion toward the man with the machine gun. The bag weighed not much but she flung it with such speed that it made for a very irritating smack in the face. The man went momentarily blind from the impact, which gave Emma enough time for her other attackers.
The five held their swords the tips pointed at her neck. Doubtless, it was meant to deter her progress. Emma very lazily grabbed the tip of the closest blade and squeezed. She twisted laterally and broke the tip off. Then she dropped it at their feet.
The men were not deterred. They attacked in unison. And Emma kept her own by dodging and fighting dirty—fighting blunt, rough, and mean. Her punches did not land flush, but they carried vicious force. She heard the audible 'oomf' of the men as they staggered back from her fists. They kept coming at her with the swords—she took several slices flush on her body. The pain was noticeable but distant enough from her current focus. She grabbed one of the attackers who had committed too much with his swing and she bent his arm inwards. A sickening crack of bone rent the air and the man fell down to his knees. But Emma was not done with him just yet – she picked him up by the pit of his left arm and his right hip and threw him at the four attackers. They did not have time to register such a wild maneuver, and they crashed like bowling pins to the floor. Behind Emma, the machine gun man was getting his bearings together. Emma rushed him and grabbed the barrel with her hand—the mental was hot and blistering to her palm—and she yanked the gun with so much torque the man flew over her shoulder and landed in a disquieting tangle of limbs with the other five men.
The machinegun lay on the floor now. Her backpack lay a few feeet away. Emma Trevor picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Then she picked up the machine gun and pointed it at the men.
"On your knees," she said. Her breath was hot through the balaclava. She was sweating. "Hands over your head."
The men slowly gathered to their feet. They answered her command with the expressionless, stony stare of their gas masks.
She looked down the sights of the gun. It was impossible to miss at this range.
"Did you not hear me? Get on your head. Hands over your knees…"
Emma blinked. She suddenly felt lightheaded—like she had sipped too much wine. The gun felt heavier in her arms. So did her backpack. She couldn't breath through the balaclava—its cottony, starchy material was like sandpaper on her skin.
She yanked the balaclava from her face—delicious, cool air kissed her skin. Her skin felt flush.
The grayy men possessed a predator's instinct. They were coming onto her again, spread out in six distinct points. Six points of attack. They
"On your knees!" she commanded with the weapon. "Now!"
They kept coming onto her – their faceless, emotionless masks looking monotone and merciless. They sensed her disorientation, her vulnerability. They advanced on her position. Relentless.
The smoke grenade was still spewing smoke on the ground. A long time to be spewing smoke.
"Oh, I get it," giggled Emma. She knew it was rather silly to be giggling in the present situation—she knew this in an objective, out-of-body manner. Like she was watching the present situation from far away. "The smoke isn't smoke, is it?"
She heard the machinegun clatter to the ground. Her limbs felt languid. It's like she forgot how to move. The rooftop around her swam like watercolors. She was dizzy. The men were around her—looking down at her. Had she fallen to the floor?
"And those aren't ordinarymasks," she slurred. "They're gas masks. Very good. Very good . . ."
They picked her up and carried her body. She floated like reeds catching a ride on a gentle river. The stars were above her, moving in and out of focus, seemingly. And there was the echoing of the police caterwauling again. The police were going after the wrong people.
"Will," said Emma, she licked her dry lips. "Come back."
The stars were endless, vast, and entirely unmoved. She was speaking into infinity, into emptiness. Her brother could not hear her, but he needed to hear her. He was going to get himself hurt. She saw his frail, weak body lowering itself into the sewers—into the inverse of the stars above, into the pitiless black.
The GothCorp factory was very clean and ordered into neat rows of high shelving that towered high above the clean, reflecting floor. Endless barrels of all sizes stood stacked in the shelving. There was no light except for the small quality permitted by the gaping hole in the side of the factory wall—the moonlight, the lamp posts. They moved in frustrating darkness.
"This will not do," said Roland suddenly, matter-of-factly. He came to a stop and produced a flashlight. The group behind him—Diana, Clark, Ra's, and Talia, stopped as well and waited. Then Roland got the flashlight going and sprayed the cone of light onto several barrels. "Here, column A, row B. I need five of these."
Nobody moved. Roland brought the cone of light onto the group so they were harshly illuminated. Everyone looked agitated and irritated in the sudden brightness.
Roland carefully addressed the group, like a teacher addressing a poorly-behaved class.
"Perhaps you think that this is some bad dream? A pesadilla? Any moment you'll wake up, and I'll be gone? Well, this is a bad dream, one that I have had many times. Only this time, I am not the powerless one. I am not the victim at the mercy of men who have known power their whole life."
Roland suddenly stepped toward Clark. His hood nearly grazing Clarks' forehead.
"How badly you would like to hit me," said Roland in a horribly soft voice. "I can tell. And in nearly any other situation, you would be able to kill me with a blink of your eye, eh? You could shoot me with your beams and vaporize me like that wall you did earlier? Let me ask you, Mr. Kent. How does it feel to be powerless? How does it feel to have no choice?"
Roland's face was impenetrable behind the darkness of his hood. It seemed like his voice—so soft and delicious and delightful—came from the bottom of a well, from another galaxy.
"Imagine feeling this way all the time, Mr. Kent. It is the way I grew up. Which is why I have no problem killing your wife with your child in her belly—I could fall asleep to her screams, to your begging." Roland nodded toward Diana, "I would kill her family without hesitation, too, if you make me angry. So, for the last time, go and get my barrels."
Roland spat these last words into Clark's face. And Clark, transfixed by fury and vengeance, gazed into the void of Roland's helmet. Clark badly wanted to hit Roland—it was obvious to all of them. But finally, inevitably, Clark dropped his gaze. He walked around Roland and grabbed two barrels, one in each hand, and turned.
"Where do you want me to put them?" asked Clark. He sounded drugged, out-of-bodied.
"Outside, Mr. Kent. Through the hole you made. There is a semi-truck nearby that will serve our purpose. Put them in there."
Clark went off to the hole, with the barrels with his hands. In the darkness of the factory, in the pallor and muted shadows that hole permitted, Clark looked entirely defeated. Diana looked away—she couldn't bear to see her friend like that.
"Excellent. C'mon everyone," boomed Roland's pleased, excited voice. "Let us follow Mr. Kent's wise example. C'mon, now everyone participate!"
They all got to work. Silently, angrily, but dutifully. They passed the barrels between them, carrying and pulling and heaving and lowering. It wasn't difficult work—they all possessed the strength to do the work easily, but it was difficult in another way. Roland watched them with his hand on his belt like a proud theatre instructor watching kids perform a play.
The work gave Diana time to think. She stole glances at Roland any time she thought it safe—but she never knew if he noticed, because his hood shrouded him all the time. Diana's hatred for Roland was eclipsed only by her constant irritation, the innumerous questions nagging at her mind: how did Roland know? Did he figure it out? How long had he been planning this?. Each barrel was an opportunity to think these questions out, and at the end of two dozen barrels, Diana felt very stupid indeed: anyone could have done as Roland. Her family was a walking target, a medium through which any of her former foes may claim vengeance upon her. Suddenly, Diana realized that Roland was not all that clever to figure it out; he not was the smartest, or the most vicious. He was simply the first to exploit this weakness.
Diana put a hand around a barrel. She planted her feet a little more securely into the floor. So she her family were a bigger weakness than she had cared to admit. No more fooling around—William would have to quit the police, and Emma would have to stay at home more, to protect her family. Diana heaved up the barrel, and as she carried it to the illuminated area of the gaping hole, she was consoled by the fact that she had a way out of this nightmare. She just needed to put her family where they'd be safe. Diana put the barrel into the bed of the truck and headed back inside. She passed underneath the gaping hole and she was back in the darkness of the factory. Roland and his grey robes were leaning against a crate.
Once her family was safe, she would deal with this Roland. She was going to make him kneel before her and beg. No one threatened her family.
Roland watched her enter back into the factory. "A marvelous job, Mom. If your career as a savior does not work out, you have a career as furniture movers."
Diana ignored him and got back to the barrels. Her mind was made up. Now it was just a matter of time. She kept working, keeping the anger and the sullenness on her face. Roland thought it was going according to plan, and she would let him believe that for the time being.
"How does it feel, head of the demon?" Roland's voice dripped with hate. He had shifted his attention onto Ra's. "To know that you're training led me here? To know that I've beaten you?"
Naturally, it was Ra's who had worked the slowest. He clearly despised the work as much as they all did, but he somehow deemed himself above serious exertion.
"The thing I enjoyed about you the most, Roland, is your sense of humor," said Ra's. "I'm going to kill you someday, you know. And I'm going to enjoy it very much."
"Someday? Why not right now, Ra's? Take your blade there and stab me in the heart."
Ra's smiled nastily. He leaned on a barrel. "The Princess would stop me before I unsheathed my dagger."
"Then stop talking and speed along with your work—old man," added Roland coldly.
It was clear there was no love lost between the two me. Like Clark, Ra's had to suffer his humiliation. Ra's set his cane aside and went to work with the barrels.
"Not those barrels, Ra's. I prefer you take these. The very bottom."
This demanded that Ra's bend over and reach inside for the barrels lying further in the stacks. At times, he was nearly on his knees, squatting.
Roland watched Ra's for a long time. Roland was perfectly silent, and his breathing was irregular.
It continued like that. Roland chiding them on with annoying remarks as they carried barrels. It was infuriating. It was humiliating. And there was nothing they could do about it. But of the four of them, it was Talia who betrayed no emotions. She went to her work with no resignation or complaint, and yet, Diana knew, that it was Talia bore the greatest hatred of them all. Whenever she carried out a barrel and came back inside through the gap, her jaw would clinch like she was biting down on something particularly difficult. Her whole body was tense. And when Roland had humiliated her father, Talia watched the entire exchange with a careful scrutiny that held neither hate nor approval. It was one of the more unsettling things Diana could remember seeing.
Finally, after what seemed like an endless period carrying endless barrels, Roland waved them back to the center of the parking lot.
"You've done your jobs well and efficiently. Perhaps we can work together again, real soon?"
"My family," demanded Clark in a cold tone. "How do I know you won't hurt them?"
Roland stroked the grey sash on his waist. "Relax, once we are at a safe distance, my men will leave their posts. Of course, if I suspect any of you is following me, I'll have their throats cut. Now, if you please, Mr. Kent—can you open the gate so my driver can exit?"
The loaded truck suddenly roared to life—a man in grey fatigues with a grey hood was at the driver's wheel. Nobody had ever seen him enter the car.
Clark, without a word, flew over to the gate and wrenched it open without any real effort.
"Thank you," said Roland. He slid open the cargo door of the semi-truck and hopped on.
Diana stepped forward. "How can we trust that you? How do we know you won't hurt our family anyway?"
The semi-truck started moving. Roland laughed while hanging out of the cargo-door. "My dear Princess, I won't kill your children today, because how will I curb you tomorrow? We both know that this is just the beginning of our little dance—and I haven't shown you all the moves yet."
His grey silhouette hung out of the semi-trucks like a swashbuckling pirate. The semi-truck banked a corner and disappeared. The chug of the semi-trucks' engine could be heard for a considerable distance until it slipped into the meandering sounds of the city.
"We need to leave," said Ra's suddenly. "As pressed as the GCPD is, they'll be here soon."
"I can't leave without knowing my family is okay," said Diana.
"Roland will keep his word," said Ra's. "He's an egomaniac but he's reasonable."
"Reasonable? He just threatened our families,you stupid fool!"
"He won't kill them," said Talia firmly, irritably. "He's right – they are the only trump card he has. If he kills your family, what else is stopping you from smashing his head? He needs them alive."
Diana eyed Talia. "You don't sound too happy about that."
"Because he's right," she sneered. "You two are Gotham's two greatest protectors, and he played you two like puppets—he played us like puppets, because we were stupid enough to join forces with you. Your compassion and your rules are weaknesses that have now infected our plans—Father, you've seen what they are. Now we need move onto the second plan."
"No, Talia," snapped Ra's. "I don't want to hear that anymore."
Clark suddenly perked his head up. "We really need to go. The police are on their way."
Diana motioned toward the gap in the wall. "How do we explain this?"
Talia began walking away to the shadows of the factory. "Sounds like a job for Gotham's Finest, no? Maybe that son of yours will be put on the job."
In all the excitement with Emma, Diana had forgotten about her son. Clark was ashen-faced.
"I have to check on Lois, Di," he said in an awkward voice.
"I understand, Clark," she said. So she was on her own. Diana pulled out her phone as she bounded away from the factory. It kept ringing.
"Pick up, baby. Please pick up."
William didn't answer. As the factory shrank in size behind them, her worry doubled with worry. She couldn't exactly explain it in words, maybe it was a mother's intuition, but she knew, with unshaking conviction, that her son was in danger.