Chapter 17

It was quiet when Diana opened the door. An ugly, foreign-sounding sound. In her two decades, only one other time when the home was quiet as this—the day they had purchased it. That's when the manor, and the life it portended, was still a window of opportunity: wide, sweeping floors, untouched kitchen counters, and vacant, spacious rooms. The home was simply waiting to be filled up, like warm air gradually swelling up in a balloon. A world of possibility—of opportunity. A household symphony of music and performance always announced her return from work: loud pop music coming from Emma's room; the colorful palette of the TV screen from the Living Room with Steve sitting excitedly on the couch; the tea kettle whistling in the kitchen as William read a book; little David crying mutedly from his upstairs room. It was an odd program music: regular, uninteresting scenes from family life; disharmony and chaotic, but familiar-sounding and homely.

Now there was only silence. Diana walked through her home. Not even a clock stirred. Her footsteps were loud and relentless on the wood flooring – like the marching, monotone pace of a slasher-villain in the horror films Emma liked. Diana suddenly stopped at a wall—would they ever see a movie again, as a family?

She made her way down into the basement. She didn't lock the door behind her—the house was empty, that was obvious, but also, she didn't have to hide it anymore. The secret was out, the danger was in. And everyone knew what needed to happen next.

A rack with unused bicycles and fishing tackle ran along the left wall of the basement. On the right wall was shelving with neatly organized boxes of household necessities: cookingware, bedsheets, and holiday decorations. Curios—all of it. This was no longer a basement but a museum: a columbarium; a crypt: a housing site for other-worldly artifacts and ancient relics; alien bric-a-brac and prehistoric cairns; objects as pertinent to her as the Sahara-desert to a goldfish.

What business did she have being a mother? What use did she have for weedkiller, spatulas, bedsheets, sauce pans, Christmas trees, printer paper? The pairings were comical: bathroom cleaner and hosiery; diapers and lightbulbs, ceramic pots and fishing rods. Did she really believe she could switch her life that easily? Exchange her sword for a spatula? A shield for a sauce pan; her breastplate for an apron and her tiara for a soccer-mom visor?

Her old work desk covered the middle wall. Diana almost laughed— woodworking. What had she been thinking?

She cleared the desk's surface of all the propane and sterno cans; she pulled the massive desk to the center of the basement, where the lighting was best. Then she started on the rack of bikes and fishing tackle. She was careful with the first bikes: bringing each one down with both hands extended like she was handling delicate porcelain in a temple; setting it down with great ceremony. Then she got to William's bike—a bright red 10-speed— and as she grabbed the spokes and the hollow frame, an almost gravity-tested certainty seized her: he would never ride that bike again.

She flung the bike over her shoulder; whirling in a delirious dervish, and the bike clanged against the shelving of the household curios. She hurled the fishing rods next; ugly, unbalanced throws; her throat raw from screaming; her eyes brimming with hatred.

Boxes fell to the ground and spilled their contents over the slate-floor, like gutted soldiers fallen onto their sides, bleeding: folded bedsheets, throw pillows, toothbrushes, winter boots, batteries, holiday resort mugs, ugly needlepoint sweaters, detergent, electric extensions, hair curler, lampshades, coffee tins, trash bags, award badges, a winged cherub holding a bow-and-arrow.

Her eyes fell on the winged cherub: a porcelain Cupid gifted to her by Steve, many years ago. A gesture of love, a promise of never-ending domestic bliss. Had he lied to her? Had she lied to herself? She was a warrior; an army princess; groomed and born for battle like Julius Caesar and the north Star: destiny, inevitable.

She pressed her back against the now empty rack. She slid down to the basement floor:

How could she have been so stupid? She had let her guard down. She had let her family down. It was inevitable that they would come for her children. And she did nothing to prepare for it.

That winged cherub posed joyously with its bow-and-arrow: puffy thighs pivoted like a ballerina and a mischievous face aiming down the line. The cherub lay curled on its side with the chaos and clutter surrounding it the floor: it looked perfectly at place and content, happily-responsible for the domestic discord it's love-blinding arrow had caused.

Love. Blinding love: drug-high love. A love she inhaled and lived on, nurtured like a potted plant until it swelled up to the sky, higher than any beanstalk.

And this was the fall: the precipitous, crashing, harrowing fall. It hurt, this side of love. Give your heart away, and watch it crushed and squeezed underneath a hammer until the veins splutter and the result is a mushy redpile of tendons: here you go, here is your heart back, we did warn you, didn't we? Those dreams, those nightmares—you knew better, but you did it anyway—was the high worth the fall? What a bad investment, huh? Pour everything into your family, your children, and what do you get back? A dying son, a lying daughter. No interest, no capital gains, no profit—no wonder you are hurting, it was a bad investment from the beginning. Now you're back at the beginning. A warrior-woman, not a mother-woman. No wonder, woman.

Diana stood up off the ground. She ran her fingers along the edge of the rack, where it connected to the wall, and found the small gap. She pulled.

The rack swung away from the wall, revealing an alcove cut three-feet deep and six-feet wide. A glassy pane covered the alcove: inside the lay a sword and a shield, a pair of gauntlets and cuisses, and a crimson breastplate and fauld. A silver tiara sat on a plush pillow.

The glass pane caught Diana's reflection, a woman Diana nearly did not recognize: messy and oily hair, skin drained of all color, puffy cheeks from crying, lips chapped and trembling, eyes sunken. That woman was Mrs. Diana Trevor—mother, wife, and CEO. She had just lost her family.

But that was not whom the world needed—whom her children needed. They needed Diana of Themyscira, the warrior princess. An Amazon of lore. But she was trapped behind the glass; imprisoned in this basement, buried beneath all the domesticity and housewifery of toothbrushes and diapers and lampshades. And she would have to be exhumed.

Some strange, splitting force suddenly seized control of Diana's body. It directed her movements, and Diana saw everything distantly, as if her soul was no longer in her body, but was in an in-between place, waiting. She saw herself open the glass panel. She heard blouse and jeans fall to the basement floor—those were Mrs. Trevor's clothes. A sudden draft of air was cool on her naked flesh – but it was faraway, like a breeze crashing upon a nea,rby window.

She put on the breastplate and fauld. They felt a little loose in some parts and tighter in others. Had she gained weight? Had she lost muscle? Across the breast was a gold insignia in the shape of a W – who was that supposed to be?

Next she put on her gauntlets and cuisses. They were scratchy on her skin, and she needed to replace the leather. Leather never lasted that long, no matter how well polished. The warrior-princess would have remembered that.

She pulled out the sword and the shield. They felt strange in her hands. Did she remember how to use them? Very experimentally, she thrust her sword, she swung her shield, all underneath the light of her basement. A far cry from the training grounds of her island.

Last, finally, she lifted the tiara up off the pillow. It was loose on her head—a looser than she remembered. But the she remembered, three weeks ago, she and Emma had gone to a stylist. They had thinned out her hair for a 'sleek, textured' look.

She took her armor and weapons to the work desk. The sword was sharp as the day it was made. And the shield bore nicks and scratches from past fights. She searched in the cabinets of the work desk and found the mineral oil. She polished her sword.

The truth was this: the little boy who once fit in the crook of her arm, who once looked up at her with eyes innocent and defenseless as only a newborn baby could, was hurt. Really, really hurt. And Diana had allowed that hurt to happen. If she had taken thing seriously from the beginning, if she hadn't buried Diana of Themyscira, then maybe—just maybe—her son would be upstairs in his bedroom, his usual sulky self, instead of that poor, suffering creature on a gurney.

She polished the mineral oil on the sword, using a clean cloth and without pressing too hard on the sword. It was hard not to think about Bruce. Ever since the news flashed with the return of the 'Batman.' (She put the sword away, replacing it with the shield. She dabbed the cloth with the oil and rubbed the shield) Of course it wasn't him—Bruce had died, in her arms, twenty years ago. Those were his two children: William and Emma, both of them inheriting his hazel, warmsoft eyes. She was supposed to protect his children—theirchildren. That was the promise she made to him; dying, crying, in her arms.

In the oily reflection of her shield, Bruce's dead, disappointed eyes flashed up at her. How?

Someone entered the house up above. The door opened and shut and then the silence.

"Di!?" called Clark's faraway voice.

Diana put the cloth and mineral oil away into a cabinet—she shut it hard and loud enough for Clark to hear. Clark's footsteps suddenly started heading to the basement—the source of the noise.

She picked up her sword and shield. There was no going back now. Down came Mrs. Trevor, up went Diana of Themyscira. She headed up the stairs, but halfway to the top, she turned around and surveyed the basement: so many boxes and contents thrown on their sides, her jeans and blouse lying discarded on the floor, and the rack still swung open, the empty alcove exposed and ransacked. It looked like something terrible had happened; a violent robbery, a sudden kidnapping, a messy murder. She couldn't leave it like this. Diana walked back down the steps, carefully tiptoeing around the strewn household items—she felt like a crime scene investigator stepping around evidence— and picked up her discarded clothing. She put the bundle into the into the alcove behind the glass pane. She shut the glass and swung the rack back into place.

That's when Clark appeared at the top of the stairs.

"My god," his footsteps came to a stop on the landing. "Di, what the hell happened . . ."

Diana turned around—tiptoeing again through the mess, and headed up the stairs.

"Di, are you okay?"

She reached the landing. "What are you doing here, Clark?"

Like her, Clark was also dressed for the occasion: he wore his Kryptonian battledress with a powerful S emblazoned across his chest. A royal red cape hung behind him. It spoke loudly for what he was doing here.

"Steve called me—as did Lucius."

"Fine." She walked past him toward the living room. "Just don't get in my way."

"Wait, Di, there's something you should know—"

Steve was waiting for her in the living room. Little David was in his arms. Lucius was in the corner, ashen-faced and guilty.

"I thought I ordered you to stay in the bunker, Steve," said Diana quietly.

"Ordered me?" repeated Steve, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. "Di, listen to yourself."

"We're at war, Steve." Diana moved across the living room, twirling the sword in her hand, bracing the shield on her forearm. "Sometimes we have to do mean, but necessary things."

Diana caught a glimpse of herself in a wine cabinet: long tresses of raven hair; filigree breastplate; golden shield and silver sword; crimson combat boots; fierce-focused eyes; ugly curled lips. An impressive, terrible sight. Steve instinctively backed away from her—he held little David protectively in his arms, shielding him away from Diana.

Diana stopped in her tracks. In the reflection of the cabinet, it looked like she was some merciless mercenary, and Steve the helpless villager, asking for mercy.

"Di," said Steve finally, looking at Diana with a far-away fascination. "What are you . . . what are you doing?"

"I'm protecting my family, Steve," said Diana in a strained voice, as if she could not imagine such an illogical question.

"It's our family, Di." A slight tremor of anger and fear went through his voice. "And we need you here. Your children—our children—need their mother here."

"No, what Diana Trevor's children need is a mother—a real mother, Steve. A mother that will protect her children. Like a bear and her cub; a lioness. They'll kill and die to protect their children."

The conviction in her voice was unshakable truth. Rage and focus wrapped around love like a tightly wound scarf: it was enough to choke all of the men in the room, make their eyes hurt from its severity. They wouldn't—couldn't—understand what she meant. They were men. She saw it in their wide, afraid, uncomprehending eyes. They were both afraid and in awe of her strength.

Diana suddenly turned to Lucius. "Did you bring what I asked?"

Since the moment she walked in, Lucius had not moved an inch in his corner of the room. Perhaps he thought he could go unnoticed, or that Steve could take Diana out of her decision.

"Well?" she asked again, somehow sounding more terrifying and punishing.

Lucius traded a helpless look with Steve. But neither of the men were going to stop her. Reluctantly, Lucius set the briefcase on a table and opened it. There lay a tray of gadgets.

"Two earpieces, standard issue radio transmitter, and a GPR. It's all here, Diana."

Clark suddenly came up to the briefcase. "Do we even know where Roland is hiding?"

"Yes," said Diana. She took the data-pad in her hand. "When we found William by the dam—"

Her mind broke with flashes of the memory—William: sweaty, translucent skin; gaunt-stretched cheeks, convulsions; eyes rolling back; shivering, black tendrils crawling across his torso like venomous spiderwebs. Damp but feverish. She seized him: wake up wake up. Mommy has you, my son. Please wake up. Suddenly the shooting dread took hold of her: a low and probing and numbing sensation in her belly. Was he going to die? My son is going to die. Please god why—

"Di?" said Clark patiently, nervously. It was like he had been repeating her name.

Diana blinked; snapping out of the trance. "When we found my son, he kept saying one word. At the time I didn't understand what it meant, but after speaking with Lucius . . . "

Diana activated the datapad: a holographic, three-dimensional grid sprung up from the screen; Diana manipulated the screen with two fingers, spinning it like a globe on an axis.

"Sewers," said Clark. The blue light of the hologram hummed on his face.

Lucius was pale in the blue light; like a sick, hungover man in a nightclub. "There's a large cistern at the bottom of the city. Technically, it's abandoned, but there is activity in the chasm. It's not in line with GCWP service hours."

Diana found the cistern on the datapad. There were dozens of bright red dots along the bottom.

"It could be clay deposits or more piping," said Lucius earnestly. "It doesn't mean that he's there, you know. If I had more time to put more radars around the city, I could—"

"That's him," said Diana, shutting off the datapad. "Let's go, Kal-el."

"Diana," said Steve suddenly, quietly. He stepped a little closer, juggling David in his arms. "I understand what you're doing, love. I really do. But this isn't you. You're not rash. You're not emotional."

"Emotional?" laughed Diana, sounding bitter and mirthful. "Do you know what emotions I feel, Steve?— all of them. Ever since the birthday party, I felt it: the nervousness, the fear. I knew something was coming, Steve. I saw it coming like I know a mug will fall over the edge of a counter. And I did nothing about it, Steve. Do you understand? Could you understand? I let William and Emma go about in the city without their mother's protection—and look what's happened. I'm not going to make that mistake again—my son already paid for that. His mother saw the danger and she did nothing. So—" she added suddenly, her voice becoming deathly sharp, like an unsheathed dagger. "I'll warn you, Steve; I'll warn all of you. Tonight, I'm going to find Roland, and I'm going to run over anything and anyone who comes between me and the object of my duty as a mother—friend or foe, husband or not. Do not get in my way."

Steve stared at Diana as if he did not recognize her: who was this imposter, wearing such a maniacal mask of love? This woman had the same face, same hair, same skin as Diana Trevor; but the eyes, the geyser-blue irises; quivering with energy, ready to erupt and destroy, were different. This was certainly not his wife. Was this who he had been married to all along? A Jekyll-Hyde dyad? An elegant, graceful ballerina who, once scorned, morphed into a violent, single-minded bull?

Diana turned to her cold fury onto Clark. "Are you ready to go?"

Clark stood a little away from all of them, wearing the uncomfortable expression of a man waiting for his marching orders. "I'm ready," he said in a voice barely audible.

That was all Diana needed to hear. She headed for the door.

Steve cut her off at the door. This jarring movement stirred little David awake.

"I'm not going to watch you kill yourself, Di. Think about what Ra's and Talia said: think about what Roland is."

"—the latest in a long list of very sorry men," said Diana, stepping around Steve. Behind her, Clark followed, looking miserable and apologetic. But Steve doggedly kept abreast, and the jostling irritated little David greatly – he was crying at the violent commotion.

"Dammit, Di, think about your friends!" yelled Steve over the baby's cries. "This city already has enough dead heroes! Think about your children, your husband. For god's sake, think about Bruce!"

In all their time together, only two times had Steve directly brought up Bruce: once, when Steve and Diana were just starting off, unsure of their relationship dynamic—was Steve a Step-father? Would they tell the twins the truth about their father? And the second, when William was sick with mononucleosis in high school, and the doctor needed an accurate genetic history. Both instances were marked by a pawing hesitation; a slow, tacit agreement that neither Steve nor Diana would press too hard on the subject. She had never told Steve explicitly the truth of Bruce Wayne: but Steve, after tagging along with her to Wayne Enterprises, after talking with Lucius, and Alfred, after seeing Wayne Manor—and the cave that lurked underneath. Well, Diana was sure Steve suspected, had his own thoughts. They would lay in bed together, orbiting the subject like a planet swinging close to the sun, but never touching—and then ricocheting back away, until the next go-around when they'd speak of it again.

Steve's outburst had temporarily shifted her focus. It was designed for this—a last-ditch effort, a long-saved trap.

"What about Bruce Wayne?" she said.

Steve was breathing heavily, his eyes a little unfocused; as if he himself was dazed by his own daring. Little David, too, had quieted down a little by the sudden silence in the room.

"You made a promise to him, Di. Before he died."

Diana stared, half-furious, half-dumbfounded. How did Steve know? How long had he known?

"I've heard you in your sleep, Di," said Steve, slightly apologetic. "I never wanted to bring it up."

"And what do you think he would do, in my present circumstances?"

"He would—"

"Be honest, Steve."

Steve's eyes fell to the ground. Diana nodded, satisfied.

"Exactly. I'm not going to sit on the sidelines anymore, Steve. I'm going to do something."

"But our children, Di," said Steve hoarsely. He sounded like a battered boxer, swaying in the ring. It was this tone of voice—defeated, drugged, and beleaguered—that made her hesitate.

Little David was awake and miserable on Steve's chest. Diana took David into her arms and rocked him. He was looking up at her with his blue eyes. He was the only one of her children who had her blue eyes. His red, puffy face; little pudgy hand reaching out for her chin. Wonderous.

"I—I'm sorry for yelling, Di," said Steve finally. "But you can't go out there. You know you can't."

Lucius suddenly shut his briefcase most dramatically. He finally decided to make known his concerns.

"Please listen to your husband, Diana. He loves you. He wants the best for you. If not for him, do it for that amazing baby you have in your arms. He deserves to grow up with a mother."

Clark remained silent; however, this silence seemed to add to the consensus of Steve and Lucius, like an abstention in a proceeding that helps

Diana ignored them all. There was only herself and David in the room. She rocked him gently until his eyelids grew heavy with sleep and they closed over his eyes. Now he slumbered peacefully, knowing he was safe in the arms of his mother. It was the magic surrounding all mothers that appeased the little baby. His little arm fell back to his side. He was asleep; a mushy little pile of heartbreak. A slumbering Prince. Her son.

"Do you remember when William and Emma were this small?" asked Diana quietly. "Do you remember that?"

She asked nobody and everybody this question. She was talking to herself and the room. Steve shifted in his stance.

"Of course, I remember, Di. They were beautiful."

"It's amazing that children grow up to be so tall," continued Diana. "It's almost like magic – that a baby could fit in my belly, and fit in my arms, like David, and then grow up to be an adult. Isn't that amazing? Isn't that magic?"

Steve opened his mouth to agree, but then he shut his mouth. He watched.

"You don't know what it's like, Steve. None of you do—and it's because you are all men," said Diana. "You don't know what it's like to have this child in your belly. To feel it growing in there. To feel it kick at night. Sometimes its unbearable, the pains and the nausea. At the time, I didn't think it was worth it, to be honest. But once I had them in both of my arms, my sleeping babies, I knew that my life wasn't entirely mine anymore. It was jointed to them. They were a part of me, inside of me, and I made them a promise. They won't remember that promise, but I swore to both of them, that momma would never let anything hurt them."

"Diana, you didn't—"

"Back then I could protect them," continued Diana. "Back when I was at the peak of my abilities. But I let the lull of peace dull my senses. I let myself believe that the world was alright. That we had made it safe. I was a fool."

Steve's face was pale and pleading. "Baby, it's not your fault."

"I was so stupid,"—she rocked little David in her arms: defenseless little baby; trusting and innocent. "And that stupidity cost my children. But no more, Steve. Their mother is no longer stupid. I'm going to do what I should have done at the beginning."

She spoke softly with David still in her arms—she didn't want to wake. But an undertow of anger swam in the cooing tone that made the men shift uncomfortably, as if the room was suddenly heated like a sauna.

Diana kissed her little baby on the forehead. She gently handed him back to Steve.

"Di," Steve—defeated and lifeless—accepted David into his arms. "Please."

Diana then kissed Steve on the mouth. It was a long, hard kiss. She tasted the salt from his tears, could smell the sweat of his distress. She was gasping air when she broke the kiss.

"What am I supposed to tell the kids?" asked Steve. His eyes were red and afraid.

"Tell them I'm going to work—and that I'll be late."

Then she stepped out the front door. Clark followed closely behind her. The dusk was upon them, and the air was cooling in the dying sun. But it was still Summer.

"We don't kill people, Diana," said Clark suddenly, uncertainly.

Diana let out a mirthful, bitter laugh. "How long have you been waiting to say that, Kal-el?"

"I'm not accusing you, Di. I just want to make sure we understand each other. If Roland attacks you, and you defend yourself, that's one thing. But if Roland surrenders, then we have to bring him in the old way. He has to face justice."

"Justice," she repeated scornfully. "Of course. You don't have to worry about me, Clark."

Clark did not look convinced: he side-eyed her with frequent, uneasy suspicion. Justice was about balance; righting wrongs, crime and punishment. A delicate dance of measurement and finesse. But the woman who stood before Clark now: overbearing and vengeful—a raging bull, was certainly incapable of subtlety and nuance. Could she be objective? Could she be patient and understanding? It was like asking a bull to be a swan; water to be cement.

"Are you sure about this, Di?"

Instead of answering him, she took off into the night—because Diana herself didn't know the truth. For now, she was holding it together—but she was an element, a storm on the sea, a force from nature. Add in the right stimulus, the right compound, and she would react; no thinking about it, no hesitation, no consideration—just action and reaction. Like oxygen to a fire, baking soda to vinegar. A mother bear; a lioness. Once she locked eyes onto Roland—the man who tried to kill her son—god only knows what she would be forced to do.