Chapter 21

Wooziness sunk his body – falling backwards into soft linens and pillows. A pressure on his skull, like a heavy bird sitting on his forehead. Water, for goodness sake. Each swallow of air like a parcel of broken glass. His eyes closed: obscure shapes and images came to him in the darkness. Cold and wet memories slipping by—the grey.

"Easy now, Master Trevor," said an omniscient, pleasant voice. "Your body is still recovering. Welcome back."

William recognized that polite accent anywhere. Very carefully, William tested his eyes: a blurry world. Soft blue wallpaper and white wainscoting, his bedroom materializing before his crusty eyes. He was in bed. And to his right, an IV stand and a heartbeat monitor. Alfred on the left side, sitting on a loveseat, stirring a green drink in his hand.

William's throat croaked with the labor of speaking. "Water—"

"Drink this."

Alfred handed William the drink: thick and putrid looking. William eyed it doubtfully.

"It's a vitamin super-dose with protein and fat. You haven't eaten anything."

William took the drink and sipped.

"You're not drinking for taste, Master William. Go on. Drink it all."

The green liquid tasted exactly how it looked: horrendous. But the liquid was a cool salve against the hot blistering in his throat. William drank it all: the coldness of the liquid sliding down his esophagus and permeating deep in his chest. He handed the empty glass back to Alfred.

"How long?" William swallowed a gulp of air. His throat no longer burned.

"Three days." Alfred took the empty glass and stood up—then, as a sudden afterthought, added. "It's been a week since the birthday party."

Alfred tinkered with the medical equipment by the bed, reading charts and taking down numbers. William meanwhile shuffled upright in the bed, his mind working hesitantly, as if a great fog blanketed the direction of his thoughts. Objectively, it was clear and obvious that something terrible had happened—why else would he be in bed with medical equipment? William inspected himself, flexing his limbs and extremities: no amputations, no paralysis, no contusions or surgical wounds of any kind. So why was he here?

"Your family will be very happy to see you're awake, Master William," said Alfred. "We've all been very worried about you. How do you feel?"

"I feel . . ."

The truth surprised him—it made him suspicious. The headache in his skull rapidly vanishing, as if that bird on his skull had flown away. His throat slippery and smooth; his limbs eager for a walk down the street.

"Master Trevor?"

William sat up fully in bed. The room no longer blurry but well-lit by the rays of morning. Through the window, a morning sky daubed with clouds. A healthy sun.

Suddenly his stomach crooned with hunger. William looked around the room hopefully.

"We'll move you to solid foods in the coming days," said Alfred without looking up from the medical equipment. "There might be a few incoming episodes of nausea."

"I feel fine, Alfred," said William. He tossed the linens off of his body, exposing a pair of pale, skinny legs. "I'm just hungry."

"Get back in bed. You're in no condition to be on your feet."

One pale leg swung over the bed. "I feel fine, Alfred. I just want to get something from the kitchen."

Alfred looking up from the medical equipment. "You can't eat yet, not before we give you the injection of—"

The word injection like a spark of flame on a bed of kindling. Immediately, wicked flames of memory: a cold and wet sojourn into the underworld of Gotham. Dank and dark tunnels around. The honeycomb cistern; the camp. Dragged underneath his arms by cold, stoic soldiers. Grey all the time—grey morals, grey clothing, a grey army.

The injection. The black serum. The eyeless girl at the waste factory.

Everything had come rushing back with that single word—William swung his leg back onto the bed. A spinning sensation robbed him of his balanced—if he tried walking now, he might fall forever.

The heartbeat monitor suddenly began beeping urgently.

"Easy, easy, Master William," said Alfred's worried voice, like he was talking someone off a ledge. "You're safe now, the worst of it is over."

But that was a lie. The worst of it lay ahead: again, his mind haunted by the eyeless girl at the factory, her body eaten and gouged by ravenous, rabid animals. And William was one of them now. How long until?

A wave of rage sprung up inside of him: it engulfed his heart, his hopes, his sense of self. How could he have been so stupid? To think that he, a young boy, could go up against an entire army? He was only twenty-one years old. And now, his life was essentially over—all because of his determination to be a 'man.' To prove it to them all that he was capable. What a stupid boy.

The heartbeat monitor beeping furiously now: stupid stupid stupid.

"Master William! Please calm down. I'll have to give you a sedative if you don't."

William couldn't swallow. I'm going to lose my mind. It was his greatest gift. The one thing that set him apart from his sister, from his mother and father. And now it was gone.

Alfred grabbed William's hand and pulled; William snapped out his thoughts, briefly.

"This changes nothing, Master William. Do you understand me? You are going to be fine. I've talked with Lucius and Ra's Al Ghul. You will remain your own man, your choices will remain yours. It's going to be okay."

William swallowed a hard lump of air. "How long?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long do I have before the . . . ?"

William left the explicit half of the question unsaid: the girl at the factory, the cannibalism.

Alfred's tone became hard and final. "That is not going to happen, Master Trevor."

"Is there a cure?"

A fleeting cloud of doubt smudged the hardness in Alfred's eyes. It told William all he needed to know.

And very methodically, the heartbeat monitor slowed down to normal. A resolute stillness assumed itself over the room. Making everything intense and aware.

"Okay," said William. Balanced or not, the world was still spinning—literally, and William needed to catch up with it. "I need to go the lab. I need to see Lucius."

"Master William, get back into bed."

"I cannot waste the little time I have with bedrest, Alfred."—William swung his feet over the bed. Fleeting moment of vertigo, rocking on his ankles, cold tile underneath the hard skin of his heel—"Do you think you can cure a biochemical compound with positive thinking? I need to get out. I need to run tests. Synthesize some kind of alleviant."

Alfred grabbed William's wrist. "There are people working on that very issue, Master William. You need to rest."

"Let go of me, Alfred."

"I will not. Get back into bed."

"I said let go—!"

They struggled, and William, in a flash of annoyance, pushed Alfred away.

Alfred spun backwards—spectacularly and forever-seeming. A look of pure shock on his descending face—Crash! Alfred knocked over a silver tray, knocked over an end table. He fell in a disheartening heap on the wainscoting. The silver tray spun on the cold tile, making a brassy top-hat sound – then the sudden, choking silence.

The heartbeat monitor beeped.

"Alfred, I . . ."

William stared at his hand as though he were seeing fingers for the first time. It did not make sense: a simple little push, barely enough to push a plush pillow over its side. By the wainscoting, Alfred had the same expression on his face: what the hell just happened?

Frantic footsteps raced down the hall. The door slammed open and William's mother, heaving, appeared over the threshold. "I heard a crash! Is everyone you okay!?"

Diana looked wildly around the room: William, standing upright with his hand before him, and at Alfred, lying against the wainscoting, clutching his arm tenderly against his rib.

"Will, Alfred . . . what's going on?"

Emma and Steve appeared behind Diana, glancing around the room hurriedly, trying to catch up.

"It's alright, it's alright," said Alfred pleasantly. "I fell over while trying to get a glass for Master William. There's nothing to worry about. Really, Diana, it's nothing."

"Alfred," said Diana, kneeling to Alfred's level. "Your arm."

"A simple sprain, Di. No worry, really."

Diana loomed over Alfred's arm, looking at it like a mineralogist would a jewel. "You said you fell?" she repeated, clearly in disbelief.

"I slipped. I think it might have been the rug."

Emma glanced over at William's bed. Nothing but cold tile surrounding it. "What rug?"

Alfred threw an irritated look at Emma. "I thought your brother was the detective."

"Will?" said Steve, approaching William slowly. "Are you okay, bud?"

William was still looking at his hand—there was nobody else in the room except himself and the hand. "I only pushed him," he said quietly. It was like he was speaking to himself. "I don't know what happened."

Ra's Al Ghul's words shivered in all of their ears: They are strong. They are monsters. Too far gone to be saved.

They all watched William quietly, like nervous animal wranglers.

"I think we should leave your brother alone," announced Diana in a careful tone.

It was clear who she meant by we: everyone except herself.

Steve helped Alfred up off the floor. "C'mon, Alfred. Up you get. I'll take you to the hospital."

"Oh, I'm not sure if that's necessary. I can splint the bone downstairs and save everyone—"

Diana gave Alfred a long, flat look.

"Hospital it is, then," said Alfred hastily. The two men walked out, muttering under their breaths.

Emma meanwhile stood with her feet seemingly glued to the floor. She kept stealing glances at William, seemingly incapable of looking at her brother directly. She wanted to say something but did not know how to begin.

"Emma," said Diana curtly. "Why don't you make your brother a tea? I think he wants one."

But Emma kept stealing glances at her brother. Fear clearly on her face—biting her fingernails, looking like a worried mother watching a child on stage.

"Emma," repeated Diana, this time with more compulsion in her throat.

Emma jumped like a startled rabbit and hurried out of the room. Her footsteps down the hallway and fading down the stairs—gone. Now Diana and William stood in the room alone.

Diana crossed the distance between herself and her son. Her face cut with hardness and intensity—for one wild moment, William believed she was going to strike him, but at the last possible moment, her arms flew around William. A massive, total-body hug. Like every fiber of her body was reaching up to hug him. Her lavender shampoo, the beady drops of sweat clung to her collar. William was silent—he did not know how to respond to so much affection. It was like being hugged by a mountain; something so grand and beyond him he felt ashamed to be in its presence.

"My son," she whispered into his ear. A sound so sharp and tight and visceral he could pick it up and cut someone with it.

"I'm alright, Mom. Really. I feel fine—"

"Shush, don't speak."

She squeezed his entire body – for a moment, the fear of danger rushed back: was she going to squeeze until he snapped into two? A lethal, loving hug: a boa constrictor tenderly killing its prey.

"I want you to forget everything, okay? Just forget it all. Nothing else matters except that you're safe. I love you, William Trevor. Okay? I love you with all of my heart."

"I love you too—"

Another squeeze; the boa constrictor tightening. "Don't speak. Just listen, Will."

William resigned himself to silence: he was literally running out of breath.

"I know what's going on must scare you. I know you've heard stories. I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to save you—to help you," she added hastily. Breathing now, holding him closer; she was carefully choosing her next words. "But I want you to know that you're not alone. You're not going to turn into one of those things. I swear it. You're going to be okay. . . okay?"

William gingerly moved his neck. Too sweaty now; her breath steaming up his collar, making him itch. "Thanks, Mom. But can you—?"

"We're going to beat this, Will. I swear to you."

"Mom, I can't breathe, please."

"Oh."

Her arms vanished around him; sweet air rushed back into his veins. The room coming back into center focus. His arteries carrying oxygenated blood to his muscles. Clarity returning to his limbs.

His mother still wore that look of hardness and intensity. She bit her lip, folded her arms, trembling, like she wanted to both cry and shout at the same time.

William frowned. "What's wrong, Mom?"

"What's wrong!?" she repeated, her eyes widening. "You nearly got yourself killed, William."

The eyeless girl appeared in the corner of his bedroom, tucked away like an oversized teddy bear. Her lips bent with smugness, giving her the carved, pupil-less grin of a jack-o-lantern: you are mistaken, Mother, what happened to your son in the cistern was worth than death. Death is a natural part of life. Nothing about your son is natural. Look at me—I have no eyes; is that natural?

". . . and I'm just trying to understand what would compel you to go down there," continued his mother. "You're so much smarter than that, William. There's a thing called 'back-up'—surely they teach you about back-up in the police!? Or you could have called me or your dad. Or your sister! Why didn't you call your sister?"

William blinked the eyeless girl out of vision; when he looked up, she was gone. But the woozy nausea he felt from the waste factory—that familiar upswell in his esophagus—had returned.

"Can you answer me that at least, Will? William? Why did you go down there?!"

"There was no time to call anyone else," said William lowly. Breathe, nice and slow. Fight down the nausea. "H—he was getting away."

"But you didn't have to go down there, William. That's what you don't understand. You could have waited."

"I'm Gotham Police, Mom," said William irritably. Why was she asking so many stupid questions? Didn't she realize he was having a hard time breathing? "My job is to protect and serve—"

"Oh, stop it with that!" she said angrily. "You had no business going down there, William, policeman or not."

Now it was all coming out—as surely as the green liquid he had drank earlier threatened to come out of his belly. His mother was regurgitating something from the innards of her being—something foul and festering that she had carried around in her belly for a long time.

"I thought you were going to write parking tickets or pull over speeding cars—not chase psychopathic superhumans down tunnels! From now on you leave those kind of things to me or your sister! Stay at home, watch your little brother—don't try and be a hero, William Trevor! Because this city has a shortlist of men who died too young while trying to be something that they are not!"

She had said all this in a single, long-winded breath. There was the hanging silence—the backdraft of gasping air. Diana breathed heavily—with every breath she became more and more aware of what she had said. William blinked furiously, like he was sitting underneath invisible rain, like he was fighting off the bite of a gust of wind. He understood now—it was nice to have your suspicions confirmed. He was seeing himself under a new lens now—their lens.

"Will," began his Mother, looking sincerely mournful. "I just mean that you aren't cut out for this side of the law. And that's okay, really, it is. Everyone has a part to play in this thing. Some people are better suited for—"

"Preschool is over, Mom," said William quietly. "You don't have to convince the coaches to let your son off the bench and play a couple of minutes."

"You nearly got yourself killed, William. This isn't a game. What do you expect me to do?"

"That's the thing, Mom. I never expected you to do anything in the first place."

He had heard enough. William stepped around his mother and headed for his cabinets. He started rifling through the drawers, pulling out pants, shirts, and socks.

"What the hell are you doing, Will?"

"I'm getting dressed for work."

"Work?! William Trevor, you are insane if you think I'm letting you got out there—"

"I am a grown man, Mom. I seem to remember you throwing me a party to commemorate that fact," he pulled his pants over one leg. "I can make my own decisions."

"Will, I am in no mood for your games."

She grabbed his arm, a gesture borne out of motherly, angry habit. William reacted coolly: he looked at her and waited for her follow-up punishment: Hit him with a belt? Send him to time out? Make him clean the gutters? There comes a time when a parent loses that authority over their child; a subtle, unseen shift in the relationship. And it goes unnoticed until moments like these: when both sides want different things, and the only thing to do, they both realize, is to heave and breathe. Both sides retreating, a buzzing sensation overcoming them—half-disappointment, half elation—because things are now different forever.

Diana released his arm. William went back to dressing himself.

"William," she said lowly, this time her voice far more subdued. If she wore a hat, right now it would be between her hands. "I'm sorry. But please. You don't understand. It's not safe for you out there."

"It's not safe for anyone, Mom." He buttoned up his t-shirt. Now he was presentable again—William Trevor, the trainee. But now carrying a dark secret underneath; black tendrils of insanity slowly crawling up his spinal cord. "That's what you don't understand."

His police badge lay on the cabinet. He pinned it to his chest, and, as expected, it swung loosely on the lapel. He tried fixing it with his hands, and something like habit came to him, a familiar voice calling to him, because wasn't this part of a routine? He dropped his hands, listening to the voice, understanding that this was the part where his mother batted his hands away, her sweet, pleasant-morning tone saying, "Let me."

But his mother's hands never reached out. Instead she produced a black case from her pocket and set it on the cabinet, in place where his badge just was. William slowly opened the case: a syringe and a black vial. Inside the vial, the black liquid scurrying about.

"How often?" said William. In the vial, he saw Roland's words flash out at him: if your family is any indication, you might just become our greatest student. What did he mean by that?

"Once a week. That vial should last you a month. Lucius has the rest. He wanted to run some tests on them."

William tucked the case into his pocket, tucking away the puzzle of Roland's last words. "I'll go seem Lucius after work then. Is he at the office?"

At the threshold of the room, his mother paused with her hand on the doorknob, as if suddenly remembering something. "You can't go out there, Will. At least not immediately—hold on, let me explain" she added tiredly, seeing him readying a deep-breathed reply. "Something else has happened while you were in the coma. You won't be able to go to the office. Not even me."

The tone of his mother's voice when she said this last bit—not even me—made him uneasy.

"What happened?" he said, as a vine of dread wound around his trestle heart.

His mother remained silent; she nodded to the window. William followed her gaze. Somehow, he knew to look beyond the backyard. His eyes fell onto the city horizon; morning shelves of white clouds and the blue silhouette of the skyscrapers. But something immediately wrong about it. A great gap at the center; a missing pipe in the pipe-organ. A skyscraper had vanished—the tallest, most centered and celebrated of them all.

"Wayne Enterprises," said William. "Where is it?"

The question sounded dumb to him—as if a skyscraper was something one could lose, like a misplaced fork.

What a silly thing to say, said the logic center of his brain.

But its true, said his eyes. Look, it's gone.

Behind him, his mother spoke. "The police have declared Martial Law in Gotham. They're calling it a terrorist attack. It's been like that for two days. People are scared."

But William was only half listening. His feet were cold, his eyes blinking furiously. What was this—some cheap magic trick? Throw a blanket over the skyline and make five hundred tons of steel, concrete, and glass disappear?

"How did . . . what the hell happened?"

But he already knew—some subconscious, ethereal whisper in the back of his skull. Behind him, his mother exited the room, but her worry lingered, as clear and visible as if she had cupped her hands and deposited it on the floor: smoldering, smoking, curling worry.

He closed the curtains on the window—felt like he was closing the curtains on some part of his life. Too much to process. Last week he was celebrating his twenty-first birthday. But he would no longer keep time according to his birthdays – now it was according to this catastrophe: the chase on the bridge, the demolition of Wayne Enterprises. The week the Grey Paladin rode into town.

William came down the steps and into the kitchen – his family huddled around a laptop on the kitchen island. A news anchor on the scene: …while police authorities remain mute on the demolition, many local politicians and business leaders are labeling the attack a clear act of terrorism. Newly appointed Police Commissioner Ellen Yindel will hold an official conference later today, where many expect her to extend the city's period of Martial Law for another week.

William stepped over the threshold of the kitchen – his family glanced up at him. Their normally bright and healthy faces cut up like roughly hewn stones: sleepless, gaunt, and sallow. This was a first indeed. He was the only one in the kitchen who looked restful.

"Is there anything to eat?" he asked.

Nobody spoke—all of them spellbound by the laptop. But his mother glanced over at the fridge: leftovers.

Pickled eggs, cucumbers, potato salad, slices of herring, and a loaf of sourdough bread—William served himself at the far end of the kitchen island. He sat on a stool and ate quietly while the news anchor continued speaking in dictating, factual tones: More reported attacks on the celebrated financial district of New Gotham. Unseen bandits attacked and infiltrated many of the prestigious stock and trading firms along Main Avenue – destroying computers, raiding cabinets and offices—all but ensuring a temporary halt on securities trading on the avenue. This is biggest shutdown of the Gotham City Stock Exchange since the infamous Long Halloween incidents, twenty years ago . . ."

Steve suddenly stood up from the laptop, shaking his head, the exasperation of a man who had heard enough. Instead, he fixed a smile to his face, and came around to William. "How are you feeling, son?"

"Goof," said William through a mouthful of zesty sourdough. He swallowed. "I feel good, Dad."

Steve eyed him a little carefully, searching for an undercurrent of deceit in William's voice. But the truth was that William did feel good. Steve patted William on the shoulder, mindlessly and affectionally. "Good. That's good, son."

William swallowed one pickled egg after another: briny, pungent, but with the yolky sweetness lurking underneath. He ate some of the cool cucumber to balance out the flavor.

"Hungry," said Diana approvingly. She poured a glass of water and set it before William. "It's good that you're eating, Will."

Steve, now massaging Will's shoulders, agreed. "Absolutely."

"Dad, Mom," said Will quietly; he couldn't chew with his Dad shaking his shoulder girdle; he didn't want to eat while being inspected like a lab rat. "Please."

"Right, sorry," Steve's hands vanished away from Will's shoulders. William realized they were all looking at him funnily: they were waiting for something to happen.

"Alright," said William, tearing off another piece of sourdough. "Let's dispense with the five-hundred pound elephant in the room, yes? Roland injected me with the serum. There, it's over."

In the silence that followed, the news anchor continued in relentless, robotic fashion: … dozens of eyewitness reports of mysterious 'grey marauders' swarming all around the city. The mayor and Commissioner Yindel both stress that these reporters are unfounded and bear no danger to the city itself . . .

"Will," said Steve earnestly. "You're going to be fine."

"Yes," agreed Diana. She stood next to Steve now, as if this would add weight to what they were saying. "Completely fine."

Will stuffed a slippery slice of herring into his mouth: redolent smell of vinegar and dill. Absolutely disgusting. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Now, what about Yindel?"

"They swore her in as Commissioner after the events of the bridge," said Steve. He was rubbing his temples. "The major is going to give her emergency powers."

"She's the one who declared martial law in Gotham," added Diana. "After the bridge and the attack on Wayne Enterprises."

"I think I'm going to make some tea," announced Emma suddenly. She had drifted to a corner of the kitchen, looking more nervous than ever. "Yes, tea. Anyone else?"

They all stared at her – they had forgotten she was there.

"What?" said Emma a little defensively. "Coffee is too strong for me right now."

But instead of making the tea, Emma hurried to the sliding door, her lips tight and holding her breath, as if there were no more breathable air in the kitchen. She fumbled with the locking mechanism for several seconds until she got it open—a visible widening of relief on her face—and she stepped out into the backyard, seemingly able to breathe again.

And William, finishing up his meal, had noticed one peculiar thing: his sister was avoiding eye contact with him. He stood up from the stool. "Any more food?"

"I'll make you some eggs," said Diana absent-mindedly. She still watched the laptop—which told William that she would not be making eggs any time soon.

William stood up and raided the fridge one more time—some obscure fleeting hope in him that a ready-to-heat meal would magically appear. The inverse of the magic that had disappeared Wayne Enterprises.

Behind him, the news anchor droned on relentlessly: . . . Local youth outreach programs are claiming responsibility for these grey marauders, citing 'adolescent delinquents' who are taking advantage of the tumult as a vehicle for teenage rebellion and angst.

"Teenage rebellion and angst," repeated Steve. "They're saying its kids in costumes!? Someone tell me I'm dreaming . . ."

"What did you expect?" said Diana dully. "Yindel doesn't want to cause more panic in the city."

"But they're not saying anything about the other thing occurring in the city. They're just turning a blind eye toward—"

"They might still say something Steve," said Diana lowly. "Let's wait and see."

They were talking in code, trying to skirt around William's presence. William closed the fridge door, his belly yearning for more pickled eggs. "People are disappearing, right?"

He said this matter-of-factly; a rhetorical question. A part of him, deep down, had anticipated this all along.

Steve and Diana traded a long look with one another. A ghost of a 'what-did-you-expect?' smile on his fathers's face.

William's belly never felt emptier—empty of food, of hope. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Nothing official yet," said Steve, abandoning the charade with a defeated shrug of shoulders. "But families have reached out to us. The police aren't any help, with everything that's going on."

The empty feeling ballooned to a zeppelin in William's belly. "High-ranking people?"

A dark, sunken grimace on his mother's face. "Some of our board from Wayne Enterprises. And business leaders, state senators—people who run this city."

So that's his next move. Poison the powerful, bring them underneath his heel. Like a military coup in South America. William had to admit: this Roland moved ruthlessly but soundly.

"I have to go into town," announced William, because it was all coming down to this, wasn't it? He was the only one with contacts in the GCPD, he had seen Roland himself; he had the serum in his veins. "I can warn the GCPD. Tell them what's really going on."

Steve was shaking his head again. "You can't, Will. They're not letting anyone into the city."

William picked up his plate and put it into the sink. He opened up the valve: long column of silver-white plunging eagerly out of the faucet, as if it had been bottled up forever. He washed the dish and dried his hands, zipped up his jacket, and fixed his badge. Its silver caught the light and danced rays around the kitchen—playfully, mockingly.

"No, Dad," said William, and a valve inside of William's chest suddenly opened. "They're not letting you guys in."

It felt tremendously good; to do something they could not. He relished it for a moment, then headed out of the kitchen.

In the corner of his vision, someone rushed to the kitchen threshold. They were going to cut him off. And William, thinking in a half-beat, was sure it would be his mother, but this morning was full of surprises. It was his father, Steve.

"William," began his father in the too-friendly voice of a bouncer or security guard. "I know I'm the one who cuts you some slack when your mom is involved. But not this time, bud. Not this time."

To the side, his mother watched mournfully. Like she was a spectator at a funeral.

William moved to step around, but Steve doggedly cut him off.

"Dad," said William, his voice understanding, his demeanor patient. "You're in my way."

"I'm your father, Will," said Steve, his voice suddenly hardening with authority. "Listen to me."

Diana stood there, swaying to a non-existent wind. A curdling taking place within her. She did not want to watch was going to happen, but it would be impossible for her to leave. Like a train collision incoming – terrible, unpreventable, and eye-catching.

But no trains collided; no splintering of wrenched metal; no punches thrown, no family bonds broken by abusive fists. William very calmly pulled out his radio off his belt.

"Dispatch, this is Trevor requiring back-up to a potential 39 disturbance call. Civilians in interference with police officer's duty."

The radio was silent for a second. Steve's face was empty and disbelieving.

The radio beeped. "Trevor, confirmed. Send back up to where?"

"Hold firm, Dispatch," said William. He put the radio down. "Well?"

Steve stared at his son. Was it shock on his father's face? Betrayal? Anger? A moment of suspended reality, nobody exactly sure what would happen next.

Very slowly, Steve's lips swelled into a grin. He chuckled.

"Okay." Steve stepped aside – somehow the action defined by grace rather than defeat. "I hope you know what you're doing, Will."

"Me too, Dad," said William. He put the radio away, kissed his Father on the cheek. "I love you. I'll see you guys later."

He moved to kiss his Mother on the cheek as well, but she was silent and faraway as he approached her. Cold and statuesque. Regally beautiful, resembling the Queen he had heard about when he was younger. It hurt him, to see her like that, no matter what bravado he had on. He poured his sorrow into the kiss, squeezed in his regret for how it all turned –nobody's fault, Mom. Who knows why bad things happen?

The kiss did not reanimate her; no storybook moment, no thawing of the ice. Her sorrow and beauty forever transfixed in eternity, like a marble bust of the Classical era: of a mournful pagan goddess, of Demeter watching her child leave to the underworld. William left her, left him, left it all behind and stepped outside into the morning light.

Not a single person outside. Empty driveways. Windows shuttered with the blinds. The swallows flew overhead, their wings joyously askew in their flight. William got into his car. He drove down the hill, and he was certain that dozens of eyes poked out through the slats of windows blinds; everyone hiding, everyone watching. Burrowed rabbits waiting for the sniffing snouts of the wolves to turn away.

He drove on with the black case on the passenger seat. It was the fruit of the underworld he had brought back with him, a pomegranate to stave off the spell of Hades. And William wondered, as he drove, when the change would be upon him. Would it be slow? Would the slavering taste for human flesh replace his morning coffee? William looked himself in the rearview mirror and made a promise to the pale, worried youth sitting there: when the moment came, and his mind started to go, he would put a bullet through his left temple. No return trip to the Underworld for him. This was a one-way ticket.

The traffic ensnared him five miles outside of New Gotham. Cars huddled together like a caravan toward the apocalypse. Onto Mecca or the midnight, sir? William honked indignantly, flashing his silver police badge to the drivers, but there was no way of getting through. After a minute of thinking, William pulled his car out onto an embankment, hit the emergency lights, and started out on foot.

An hour later, William came up on the mouth of the bridge. Thirteen police vehicles blocked the entrance; SWAT teams in riot shields forming a perimeter around the vehicles. On the other side, an angry mob of people wrestling to get in.

William wormed his way through the crowd; his thin, pale, and lanky body slipping through without much effort. All the time the angry and loud voices; the hot collected exhalations of breath, the jostling. Surfing through a sea of pleading: a mother only wanting to reconnect with her children, a lawyer struggling to attend legal briefing; a truck driver screaming about the cross-country voyage he made with a truckload of perishables. Everyone had a story about why they should be allowed through.

William came up to the cordoned line: the SWAT officers in their heavy riot gear, coolly staring down the teeming mob. William held his badge out above him, doggedly trying to get the attention of one of the officers. And then suddenly a voice said:

"Trevor, is that you?!"

Aaron Cash appeared at the head of the line, standing like he was the only thing keeping the peace intact: his hands on his belt, his beefy belly over the lip of his waistband. He waved over to William. "C'mon, cross over quick."

William ducked underneath the cordoned line. For a moment the crowd plunged into a nervous silence: they wanted to see what would happen. Would he be shot? Would he be hit with the butt of the gun? But William came out easily on the other side, the SWAT officers curtly parting to let him in. Emboldened by his success, the crowd teemed forward, ready to try their luck at the passing, but the SWAT officers surged back, lifting up their weapons, not quite pointing at the crowd, but enough to discourage anyone from getting closer. The impasse remained.

William's eyes fell down the long neck of the empty bridge. At the opposite end was another station point with more riot police; their job was to keep the people from leaving Gotham City. And beyond the bridge, all along the cuff of the city, burly military tanks roamed the streets, and body-armored soldiers patrolled alongside. Helicopters disappearing behind skyscrapers, their rotors chopping up the atmosphere of the city into quick, nervous jumbles.

And from behind the skyscrapers, a column of smoke rising into the sky: a tower of greed and gluttony burning in effigy, and all these soldiers protecting the sacrificial pyre.

William could reach out and grab a handful of the anxiety buzzing in the air. Again, the images of a military coup flashed before him: citizens lined up against brick walls, machine guns assaulting the night, tanks rolling over collapsed rubble, and a grey Paladin suddenly seizing control over it all.

"Trevor, I asked what are you doing here?'"

William hurled back to reality. He exhaled. "I need to get to GCPD. I need to talk to the Lieutenant. Could you get me a ride?"

Cash eyed him. "You've been AWOL for days, Trevor. Shit, I'm surprised you're showing your face here."

"I've been at the hospital," said William, because after all, it was not a lie. "I took some flak at the bridge. Couldn't get word out."

Cash's doubtful face turned into a smile: "Shee-it, I wish I could be there when you try and feed the LT that bull-jive."

"I'll borrow a camera from forensics. How about that ride?"

"Yeah, no worries. Although the LT isn't at HQ. She's at City Hall. I'll let them know you're coming."

Cash made a gesture to some nearby officers. The car was ordered. While they waited, Cash had his hands on his waist and surveyed the city.

"Twenty years since the Long Halloween, Trevor. Then the Commissioner retires, and then the mauled bodies. You'd think I'd have known better."

Cash's brown eyes, normally beady and bored, mellowed as he swallowed the state of the sieged city. It was not fear on his face, a painful melancholy: a yearning for youthful innocence. The way he looked at the city was like an old man looking on his younger self—remembering a young boy on the precipice of adolescence, the time before ugly truths and aching loss.

A car honked suddenly; William's ride was here. And Cash, emerging from his daydream, suddenly grabbed William's arm.

"Hold it, Trevor," said Cash seriously. "Once you cross into the city, there's no coming back. No exceptions—not even for cops. Yindel thinks the culprit is still in the city. And she doesn't want to give him an out."

"Who is it?" but William already knew who it was.

Cash nodded grimly. "She's putting a massive task force to hunt him down. If you're not careful, you might be assigned to it."

"How long do you think she'll keep this lockdown up?"

Cash shrugged. "'As long as it takes'—Yindel's words not mine."

Behind them, the car honked indignantly: are we going or not?

"Better get going, Trevor. Say hi to the Lieutenant for me."

William struck out his hand. "Thank you, Cash."

Cash looked at William's hand unsurely for a moment. He took it guardedly; as though this was the final goodbye between the two men.

"You just watch yourself, Will. The bigwigs are always looking for a fall guy in times like these—and right now, a police officer who disappears right around the time of a huge terrorist attack isn't the best police officer to be, see what I mean?"

William rode in the backseat of the cruiser while the driver—a burly, wide-chinned officer with a balding scalp—pulled away from the mouth of the bridge. They headed down the throat of the bridge, toward Gotham, toward the tanks and the foot soldiers, toward what felt like certain doom. Cash's words nagging in his ear the whole way: maybe it was not a good idea to go back. Maybe William was making a mistake.