Chapter 14

William found himself on a service platform. Before him were a dozen access tunnels leading deeper into the underground grid. He fished out his flashlight from his belt and searched around him. Nobody had been down here in a long time, that was clear. Old radiators and sump pumps lay in the corner like disused toys in an attic. But at the foot of an adjacent tunnel he found a set of wet footprints. There could be no mistake about who left those.

William followed the footsteps guardedly. It took him down a long path, and he changed tunnels at seemingly random junctions. The sound of leaking water was relentless. His boots squeaked on the surface of the tunnels, and the smell of musk surrounded him. When he breathed, he tasted metal and steam on his mouth. And it was dark. That worried him. The tunnels all looked identical in the dark—nothing to differentiate their angular surfaces, their coldness emanating like dry ice. There were an endless number of tunnels. The footprints he was following would evaporate eventually, and he would have no way of retracing his way out of the maze. He could be stuck down here forever. He thought about returning – there was still enough time. But what would his parents say? What would Commissioner Gordon and Lily say? Everyone would know that he had came so close, and turned back, because he was afraid of the unknown. Because he wasn't man enough.

He brought out his gun and tucked the flashlight underneath it so that he walked with his hands out before him. He kept on like that for some time.

Eventually he heard footsteps ahead of him in the dark. He quickly turned off his flashlight and waited. He listened to his breathing and the trickling water. The footsteps did not seem to notice his presence, and they kept walking hurriedly. He did not turn his flashlight back on. He moved slowly but silently. He turned a corner.

On the opposite end of the tunnel was a small sliver of light. It lay slanted against the right side of tunnel in a straight line. A partially shut door, by the look of it.

He felt a tiny bit of relief. He wasn't going to die alone and trapped in the sewers. Instead, he might be murdered by the people he had been tailing. That didn't seem like much of an upside, but it cheered him somewhat.

Very slowly, he came upon the light. The steady sound of running water increased. Ahead of him, on the left side of the tunnel was an opening, and through which the partially door surely must be. He got on all fours and crawled to the mouth of the opening: he poked his head around and saw there was indeed a door, and it was partially shut. But through the exposed area he saw an enormous underground chamber. Along the walls were hundreds of tunnel entrances, creating what looked like a beehive architecture. William moved a little closer, and, seeing as there were no guards, crawled right up to the threshold of the doorway and pressed his cheek against the door. What he saw beyond anything he expected. The chamber extended hundreds of feet below; a huge waterfall to his left fell down to the bottom where it formed a moat around a large, flat area of land. Across this area of land were hundreds of tables and tents. There were crates of ammunition and weapons scattered about; long tables with food and medical supplies along the surface. And there were thousands of people moving about the camp. It was a small army.

"Holy shit . . ." He slowly shuffled backwards. He had to get back and warn the surface.

He heard the footsteps behind him too late. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and brought him to his feet. There were three of them. Three men who wore grey military fatigues and what looked like ceramic armor around their chest. And they wore masks.

William struggled mightily against them, but it was useless. His captors were strong and corded with muscle. When he kicked one of them in the stomach with his boots, it felt like he had kicked a tree trunk.

They dragged him through door and down the staircases of the chamber. Their footsteps thundering on the steel grate staircasing. William tried to drag his feet to delay their progress, but they responded by quite simply lifting him off his feet. They did this with one hand each.

They reached the bottom of the cistern, and William caught a closer look of their base of operations. The army was well-furnished with second-hand equipment: the firearms were of wildly different eras, as were the swords and armor. And although they shared the collective grey unity, the army dressed in a motley of different fabrics and tones that were hand-stitched together. It was a bit of an eyesore, and it gave the army a vagabond look, as if what they wore had been picked up in bits and pieces along their travels.

They crossed the moat by a bridge and took him through the camp. William's capture elicited very few curious looks, but he certainly was intrigued by them. The ages of soldiers in the army varied wildly; some were young adolescents, whiles others had grey hair to match their uniform. Women sat and slept in cots with their swords and machine guns resting at their side. Many sick and handicapped were about as well, and William saw a great deal of missing limbs and misshapen faces in the camp. Besides the grey, the only other thing he could see that this army shared was the blank, steady gaze that betrayed nothing of their emotions. They were a hard and repressed people. They watched him without a word.

His captors threw him into a small fenced area near the bank of the moat. On the other side of the fence were a series of water outflows that led out of the cistern. His captors left him in the fenced area without speaking. Then he was alone. There was a tent across from the fence with a single man napping in a hammock. Crates and foodstuff lying around. William waited a few minutes. There were no other guards. As far as it looked, he was free to move as he pleased.

Very slowly, William got up to his feet. The waterfall made a rather reliable, unobtrusive churning sound. The current swirled around the camp and ended ultimately at one of these outflows. William stood there weighing his chances with one of these outflows. Maybe he could swim to safety.

The napping guard shuffled his feet and murmured.

"Break your arm. Don't be stupid."

The man spoke with a strong accent, possibly Russian. William didn't know if the Russian meant he would break William's arm, or that William would break his arm trying to make the jump.

"Strong water," said the napping guard. He still had his eyes closed. "Drown in two minutes."

William slowly backed away. For now, he would wait and see how everything played out.

Another guard came over. This man bore a long jagged scar across his black skin. He had a shotgun in his hand and a kukri knife on his chest. He pointed the barrel of the shotgun to the GCPD badge emblazoned on William's jacket.

"You're a pig, aren't you?"

William had his hands in the air. "Yeah, I'm a police officer."

The scarred man seemed delighted by that. He placed the gun on a crate and started rolling up his shirt. Across his abdomen was another jagged scar; and across his pectoral was a pink splotch of burnt flesh.

"I got these from you guys." The man proudly pointed at his many wounds. "Armed Robbery on Gotham Financial."

William adverted his eyes. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

The scarred man let his shirt back down. "I'm going to enjoy killing you, little Pig. It ain't goin' to be fast, and it ain't goin' to be slow. It'll be just right."

The napping Russian made a loud, barking noise. "That is Goldilocks. Not three little pigs."

The scarred man threw the napping Russian an annoyed look before returning to William. The scarred unhooked his long Kukri knife from its sheath on his chest and tapped the blade against his forehead. He smiled crookedly at William, exposing missing, gold-filigreed teeth. Then he walked away.

William looked back at the outflow. He'd choose drowning over being sliced to death, or whatever that maniac had in mind. William shifted a little, readying his muscles for the plunge. Now he had to pick his moment.

But suddenly the cistern began to rumble. What felt like an earthquake or an far-away nuclear explosion. From underneath the waterfall appeared the grill of a huge semi-truck. It was blaring and groaning as it nimbly circled the moat and stopped at a connecting bridge.

The cargo door slid open, and out hopped a familiar figure. He was tall, thin, and cloaked in grey robes. William instantly recognized him as the man from the birthday party—the stranger who had vanished.

The napping Russian leapt out of the cot and was crossing the bridge to the semi-truck. His thick voice booming in the cistern. "About time, Roland. I was beginning to have doubt."

Roland slapped the side of the semi-truck affectionately. "I always deliver."

Behind him, two dozen soldiers were unloading the barrels of the semi-truck. They rolled the barrels to a tall white canopy tent in the base.

Roland shook off his grey robes. Then he quite calmly pulled back his hood. William suddenly felt a rushing sensation, like he was a child watching his parents naked in the bathroom. He was not supposed to be seeing this, and there would be consequences for it.

Roland looked to be about thirty—with coppery skin and a face nicked by clumsily healed scars. It made his face look cratered but intense, like a retired boxer. A set of dark, caterpillar eyebrows framing deep eye sockets—this made his forehead a bit too pronounced and intense. Lazily ponytailed hair, exposing big and vibrant ears, and his lips were plumped and full in a way that reminded William of the lipstick magazines he had seen in Emma's room. And when Roland spoke, his thick Adam's apple vibrated in his throat.

"It gets so hot in these things," said Roland, patting his hood. He then undid his ponytail, so the tasseled hair suddenly fell to an unruly mop around his cheekbones. "What word of Raul and his men?"

"They captured the girl, but she left them badly injured. Two of them have broken limbs."

Roland seemed pleased to hear that. "Of course, she did. Did they harm her?"

"No, they left her in the room with the ropes. The gas was starting to lose potency."

"Good. What about our camp, Nikolai?"

The two men walked through the camp—and immediately, William saw what was so magnetic about Roland. The Russian was clearly a foot taller than Roland, but Roland, with his hand cocked on his hip and his face relaxed, seemed to be looking down at the Russian as he listened to the status report. Roland wore authority as lazily and easily as he wore the sword at his hip. Roland's accent also had a wonderfully laxed and soothing quality—like a deep, rich wine pouring into a glass. And now, William realized another thing: Roland was not much older than William. He could have been an older brother—maybe an Uncle.

"Eight more desertions," said the Russian, presumably Nikolai. "This last batch did not arrive fast enough, they say. We caught six. Two others are still unaccounted."

"Any casualties?"

"One more near a waste facility. A girl, we think. She was taken two nights ago."

"What about recruitment?"

"More every day. Which is why we need more serum."

Roland slapped the truck again. "And here you have it, Nikolai. Get to work."

Roland started to step away, but Nikolai cut him off earnestly.

"One more thing, Roland. We have a new prisoner. A boy, looks young and fit."

"Then recruit him, my big Russian friend. What's wrong with you?"

The Russian's voice lowered. "He is GCPD, Roland."

"Oh. Then kill him," said Roland with a lazy flick of his hand. "Send me the names and profiles of our deserter, Nikolai. I'll be in my quarters."

That was all the motivation William would ever need. He climbed over the fence and took the biggest gulp of air into his lungs. Then he dove into the water. The cold was a delirious shock to his senses—the sudden muteness of the water, the burn of the vanishing air in his lungs. For a moment he was tossing in the disorienting environment, unable to tell up or down. But his eyes adjusted and there was the blurry lights above and behind him. He started swimming the opposite direction, towards the darkness of the outflows. But almost immediately his lungs started to fail him. He was running out air, but he kept kicking. He was still wearing his boots and jacket. Stupid. That would slow him down. But he just had to hold on until the entrance. After that, maybe he could ride the current.

He was at the mouth of the outflows when the vicegrip locked around his ankles. He kicked but he had no leverage in the water. They were pulling him back out of the water, squeezing his ankles so hard he was sure the bone would crack. A rush of cold water entered his nose. He gagged.

He came sputtering out like a newborn child—the world was cold, blaring with light, and his face was burning. He coughed up water and mucus. Every breath seized his lungs with hurt and a scraping humility in his throat.

Men were laughing and hooting. Then a familiar voice yelled triumphantly. "I've heard of pigs flying, but pigs swimming?! Look what I caught boys: a pig in the ocean!"

There was a chorus of laughter.

"Make it quick," boomed Nikolai's voice. "Don't let blood stain boots. Good boots."

They slammed William down on to his knees. It hurt like hell, but the pain was secondary to the furious beating of his heart: he was going to die down here, in this stupid cistern. He thought about his mother. His father. His sister. His little baby brother. He would never see them again.

Had it been worth it? He had tried to show them all his courage—his manliness. But he didn't feel very manly now. He felt incredibly stupid. Why the hell had he come down here? He should have asked for help. Is that what manliness was? To impress them all on your way to your tomb?

The scarred man bent down and read the nametag on William's lapel. "Well, 'Officer Trevor,' on behalf of all the young boys and girls that the police have fucked over the years, it's my pleasure to tell you that you have the right to be gutted and thrown into the water like a fish. You have the right to an asskicking, and if you can't afford an asskicking, one will be provided for you."

They tore his jacket off him. They yanked the boots off his ankles. He was in his trousers and black work shirt. The scarred man had drawn his kukri knife. He pressed it against William's throat.

William shut his eyes. He didn't want to see it coming. His heart was beating furiously—like a panicky soldier communicating in code: no, please, no please, no please, live, live, live.

Was it worth it? To die like a man? William waited for the death blow—would it hurt? Would it be painless? He was only twenty-one. Such a silly age to die.

But death never struck. William waited on his knees, his eyes shut, for what seemed like an eternity. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to believe. This was a trick, some sadistic ploy to give him hope, and as soon as he dropped his guard, when an inkling of hope trickled back into his mind, and he opened his eyes, they would deliver the blow.

But the longer he shut his eyes, the longer the moment stretched. Angular shapes and Rorschach figures came to him while his eyes were closed. They burned his eyes with their clarity.

"Trevor," said a voice in the darkness. "Did you say his name was Trevor?"

That was Roland's voice. He sounded dumbfounded.

"Yes, sir," said the scared man's uncertain voice. "His name is 'Officer Trevor.' Why, is there a problem?"

"Unbelievable. You almost did you something incredibly stupid, Mr. Jacobs. Almost."

Suddenly the cistern went completely quiet except for the waterfall and a pair of deliberate, steady footsteps. The footsteps stopped directly before William. And then there was breathing.

"Open your eyes, William Trevor. Let me look at you."

William opened his eyes. The muddy hem of Roland's grey robes swayed before him.

"Look up at me, William Trevor."

Was this the same cruel joke? Where they going to slit his throat as soon as he tried getting to his feet? William had no way of knowing. He kept looking at Roland's hem.

The scarred man unleashed a soccer kick at William's ribs. "He said look up, pig!"

The blow threw William onto his side. Now the pain from his knees totally vanished, and in its place was the gasping, guttural pain in his side. William writhed on the grate.

"Mr. Jacobs," said Roland in a cold tone of voice. This made his accent sound throaty and breathy. "Did I ask you to attack this prisoner?"

"W—what?" demanded the scarred man, apparently named Jacobs. "You said he was mine! He's a fucking pig. He's mine."

Nikolai the Russian suddenly stepped forward with menace in his eyes. "Roland asked you question, Jacobs."

Now the rest of the camp had turned on Jacobs with their hard, unfeeling stares. Jacobs looked around haughtily but with an undertow of uncertain in his eyes. He didn't want everyone to see that he was scared.

"Mr. Jacobs, go to my quarters and read the dossiers on the deserters," said Roland in a lighter tone. "Perhaps that will whet your appetite for bloodletting."

Nikolai, and the rest of camp, glared at Jacobs—and Jacobs, seeing that he had a reasonable excuse to leave, took it. He walked away with a loathsome look in his eye. "Fucking pig," he muttered, putting away the knife that would have killed William.

Roland knelt down and waited patiently for William's pain to subside. Roland's eyes were partially hidden underneath prominent eyebrows, but they were unflinching in their scrutiny. It was like being watched by a bear in a cave.

"Get up, William Trevor."

William very slowly got to his feet. He was aware of the camp's gaze on him. Nikolai the Russian was watching him curiously.

Roland looked at the nametag across William's chest. Then he very delicately put a hand to William's chin and examined him more thoroughly. William remained silent the entire time.

Roland's face soured with displeasure. But he looked assured now, like his mind was made up. "Dammit. Somebody get me a towel. And some new clothes."

Immediately a parcel of bundled clothes was produced. Nikolai carried a towel and handed it to Roland.

Roland placed the towel atop the bundle of clothing. He offered this to William.

William slowly accepted the bundle. He was half-expecting it to blow up in his hands, or for someone to kick him in the ribs again. But nothing happened. Roland stood there watching with a 'Well?' expression on his face.

William dried himself with the towel. He undid the bundle and began changing into the clothes.

This seemed to satisfy Roland, and he stepped a few paces away while whispering to Nikolai. Nikolai disappeared into the camp and reappeared with five important-looking members. They seemed of a higher rank because their robes were garnished with medals.

Roland spoke with the five men for several minutes while William got dressed. The clothes in the bundle were old and they smelled like it. And they were unsparingly gray. But they were warm and dry. William pulled on the pants and shirt first. The coarse fabric itched his skin. He put on the boots last. He was finally able to stop shaking from the cold.

Finally, Roland dismissed the five men. He walked back with a far more relaxed gait— the roll of his shoulders, the swing of his hips, reminded William of an eel or a snake.

"Those clothes suit you," said Roland approvingly. He was looking William up and down like a proud parent. "Much better than that fascist garb you wore earlier."

Roland paused to let William have a turn at speaking. William stayed silent.

"Do you know who we are, William Trevor?"

William remained quiet.

Roland chuckled—it was a sweet, raspy sound. "Speak boy. Rest assured, if we wanted to kill you, Mr. Jacobs would already be wearing your skin as a new shirt."

William swallowed the lump in his throat. "You were part of the League of Shadows. This is your army."

"Very good. Do you understand what we're fighting for?"

William shook his head. "No, not really."

"I can tell that you're lying, boy," said Roland. His voice had the barest hint of severity; a portentous amount to warn of a greater wrath within. "And I don't like liars."

"You're going to poison everyone with your serum," said William. "You think it's going to save the world."

"Much better," said Roland. He was smiling again. "But you are only half right. We are going to save the world, but we will not poison anyone. Look around you – do you see anyone dying of poison?"

"I've seen what it does to people," said William in a hollow voice. "I was there at the Waste facility."

Roland's face soured briefly—for the moment, it lost all of its playfulness. "That was unfortunate. But what is one casualty on our part against the hundreds of lives destroyed by the greed of this city? You say you're a police officer? Let me ask you a question: why don't you call it 'murder' or 'homicide' when a child dies from inadequate medical attention? The best hospitals in the world are here in New Gotham – yet the poor are denied treatment to the poor, and your citizens are fully aware that these people will die without that aid. How can this not be murder?"

"Murder is a deliberate, intentional act," said William, remembering the civil definitions from his police exams. "Those examples you gave—they're not deliberate between two people."

"What could be more deliberate than refusing help to someone, William Trevor?"

William could not meet Roland's eyes. There was too much emotion in them, too much power. It was like being struck by a tidal wave. William would be swept off his feet it he looked at those eyes.

"Is it not the responsibility of those in power to take care of those without power, William Trevor?"

"I don't make the law, I just—" William had no idea what he was saying. But he knew he didn't want to make Roland angry. "I'm just saying that those in power aren't directly responsible for every bad thing that happens in this city."

"Indirect," repeated Roland. "Very much like how I indirectly killed that girl by the waste facility, no? Those men, although they are deserters, were part of my army. I should be responsible for their actions, no?"

"I—I suppose you should," said William. He had just called Roland man a murderer.

But Roland seemed delighted by that answer. "Now you see, William Trevor. The laws of your society are cleverly designed to expunge the rich and the powerful of their culpability for the slow decay of its citizens. It is an ornate and bizarre calculus, yet once pulled back, the equations are quite simple and fundamental."

The waterfall of the cistern churned along faithfully underneath the cadence of Roland's words. Behind Roland, there were a group of huddled men waiting patiently.

"Do you know what they call me, William Trevor? The nickname, not my actual name."

William nodded. "The Gray Paladin."

"My real name is Rolando Moran. I was named after one of King Arthur's famous knights. They called themselves paladins. But do you know why I chose grey?"

William shook his head. Roland rubbed the grey sash on his belt affectionately.

"It is because it is the most detested color. Nobody likes it, nobody looks good in it. It inspires no passion, no love, no hate. It is neutral. And in that way, it represents the only truth about the world worth knowing. Do you know which truth that is?"

Roland came up to William's face. The scars on his face were shallow but extensive on his skin. They looked like many craters and rivers of geography, etched into flesh. Like Roland wore his world travels on his body—the pain, the lessons, the horrible events that made Roland as he currently was.

Roland's breath was hot and rank on William's face. "That there can be no room for emotions in our business."

William gulped again. "Our business?"

"Yes," Roland stepped back. His hot breath stepped back. "When you joined the GCPD, you joined our business. Your family, living on that hill, is part of our business. Everyone and anyone who benefits of the status quo—is in our business. It is the business of the world—the way of the world. Nikolai, if you please."

Roland was addressing the men huddled behind him. Nikolai came forward with a small leatherbound casing. He handed it to Roland.

"Let me ask you a question, Trevor," said Roland. He opened the casing. "If you were in my shoes, would you let yourself go free?"

It was a trick question. If William said yes, he was begging for his life. If he said no, then he was lying and trying to deceive them.

"No," said William. "I wouldn't let myself go."

"Smart boy. But neither can I kill you – for reasons I cannot explain, but be assured that they are quite unconditional. That leaves me with two options: I can keep you here a prisoner indefinitely, and risk your eventual escape – which I am sure you would do, considering your tenacity and bloodline."

Roland produced a syringe from the casing. He held it expertly in hand. "Option two is we let you go . . ."

Roland plunged the syringe into a vial and pulled back on the hammer. Very clearly, black liquid filled the barrel of the syringe.

" . . . just not as you currently are," finished Roland.

William suddenly realized what was happening.

"Seize him."

Three men grabbed him. Two men took William by the arm each, while the third rolled William's sleeve up to his arm. William raised himself and kicked at the air but it was useless. The men stood stoic-faced as Roland approached with syringe, and William fought, pleaded, and finally begged for mercy.

"Stop! Stop!" screamed William. "Don't put that in me. I've seen what it does! Please, kill me instead!"

Roland eyed William carefully. "What have you seen?"

"I know what it does," said William hoarsely. "It drives you insane. It makes you an animal."

"This medicine saved my life," said Roland coolly. He brought the tip of the syringe up to William's bicep. "It's the only thing saving yours now."

William let out a terrible scream that might have ripped his throat.

The syringe disappeared from his bicep. Roland was watching William quietly.

"My associates wanted me to kill you, William. We can't risk having you alert the police to our location. And you would, wouldn't you?"

William panted. The adrenaline was making his head light.

"I'll take that silence as a yes. But, I can't just kill you. It would ruin years of planning."

"Why?" croaked William. It was the only question he could think of. He had to stall. Anything to stay Roland's hand.

"You'll see. In time, everything will be made clear to you. Look—"

Roland raise the sleeve up his own arm. There was a blackened scar by the vein in the crook of his arm. "This was five years ago. And look at me. Do I seem 'an animal' to you?'"

William panted. He looked at the scar, he looked at Roland. There was many things that Roland was—a psychopath, a misguided idealist. But he was rational. He was a person.

"No," conceded William in a voice he did not recognize.

"I need you to calm down in for this to work," said Roland. "If you struggle, I might miss the vein. And that will hurt."

"Okay."

"Are you going to calm down?"

"Y—yes."

William felt himself crying now. He was trembling. Roland stood back, his lips pursed.

"Give him a drink."

Nikolai stepped forward. He looked earnest. "Roland, we are wasting time—"

"That was an order," said Roland icily. But he was looking at William with wide, open eyes. It felt strangely sympathetic.

They quickly produced an earthen bowl and it was brimming with a golden, heated liquid. Roland very carefully brought it to William's lips—the aroma stung at William's eyes; a strong, honey alcohol. He sipped the liquid, expecting a terrible burn, but instead felt a nice warm sensation in his chest. He kept sipping and Roland kept upturning the bowl until the liquid was completely gone.

Roland put the bowl away. He picked up the syringe. William felt like a blanket was over his chest.

"Now hold him."

The men seized William tightly, but William was no longer struggling. He was quiet, timid, watching the syringe like a dog in the kennel—subdued and tamed. The syringe slipped into William's bicep easily, and Roland pressed down on the hammer.

"No," said William in a voice so soft he was unsure if it was his.

The whole event lasted less than a second. Almost immediately Roland was stepping back, holding the empty syringe in his hand. Now it was a fact. The poison was inside of William. There was a burning sensation in his arm—pleasant, muted, like a massage.

"I am sorry about this," said Roland in a polite voice that did not sound sorry at all. He wiped the syringe and put it back in the casing. "But if your family is any indication, you might just become our greatest student."

The burning sensation at his fingers and slowly spread up his arm. It spread through his chest and down the rest of his body. There was a pressure underneath his skin, waiting to surface up, like he was pumped full of hot air. William's head began to feel heavy. He blinked. That was odd. The world was upside down.

"Give him fifteen vials of the serum. That should last him until the next phase."

William felt himself sinking into the arms of the men beside him. They were the only thing holding him up. His eyes closed. He felt like sleeping. Now it was only black, just like the sewers from earlier. The square and angular shapes came to him again in the blackness, but they were humming with evanescent energy. They seemed to be speaking to him.

"Risky move, Roland," said Nikolai's voice. "Father might be mad. Mother, definitely."

Roland's response was like a whisper at the far end of a cave. A cave William unwilling fell deeper and deeper. "Better to have a sick son than a dead one. He'll understand, comrade. As for the mother. There's nothing she can do. We're too far gone now."

William kept falling. He was in the cave with no other voices and only the angular shapes coming at him like comets. He was shivering, and he was hot. And there was nobody nearby to help him.