Chapter 24
Diana stepped down into the basement. There was already someone down there.
Steve Trevor's supple shoulders moved along gracefully: the muscles interlocking underneath the ripples of his shirt. He worked a broomstick on the floor: strong, steady swipes, collecting the dirt into the center of the room, underneath a ceiling light. She watched him work for several minutes, uninterrupted. He worked silently until—
"Pass me the dustpan, yeah, Di?"
She picked up the dustpan by the basement steps. "I thought I told you I'd take care of this, Steve?"
"Yeah . . . it's been four days, Di."
Steve disarmed the broom from the handle and knelt to the pile of dust. He gently brushed the dirt on the dustpan; small, brisk strokes. Like a painter finishing up a last minute detail.
"I'm sorry, Steve."
Steve pressed on the footpedal of a waste-basket; the lid opened to receive the dirt. His foot left the pedal, and the lid closed accordingly.
"It's alright, Di. Nobody is expecting you to do this all by yourself."
The sting of his comment caught her in the rib. She accepted it unflinchingly—and a small part of her understood she probably deserved it.
On her work desk were stacks of boxes. Steve pulled all sorts of decorations out from them: a foam tarantula, a roll of faux webbing, and finally a bright jack-o-lantern grinning deliriously.
"Halloween?" said Diana. "That's a long time away, Steve."
"Not really," Steve set the jack-o-lantern beside him on the table. "It's practically September already."
Diana gave him a wan smile. "You know what I mean, Steve."
Steve turned the jack-o-lantern away so its smile faced away from them. Steve leaned against the table. "So that's it? Our lives are over now? No more Halloween, no more Christmas—no more of any of that?"
"Steve," said Diana in a patient, almost patronizing voice. "Our family is—"
"Still here," said Steve. "Are kids haven't gone anywhere, Di. They're just grown up."
Silence slowly reinstalled itself after that comment. Steve put the broom away in a corner. Diana felt the helplessness building back up inside of her.
"We should be proud of them, Di. Of Emma and Will."
"Proud," repeated Diana. Her eyelids twitched with anger, indignation.
"What? Would you rather have cowards for children, Di? People who run away from the fight?"
"I don't care want them to fight, Steve. That's what you don't understand."
"They're adults, Di," said Steve simply. "They're old enough to make their—"
"No, they aren't! This isn't a game, Steve. This is dangerous."
"I know how dangerous it is, Di."
When had they begun yelling? Their hollering bounced around the basement, increasing their rage like a domestic greenhouse effect.
"Then act like it! You're in this basement sweeping while our children are out there in the city—do you not understand what Gotham City is? Thatour children could actually die!?"
"But isn't that always the case, Di!?" said Steve exasperatedly. "You're acting like our children were going to live forever. The truth is: we're lucky, Babe. You have no idea how lucky we are."
"Lucky?" she repeated in a tone so cold it could freeze fire. "Have you taken a look outside? Do you know what's going on out there?"
"What I knew would happen when I married you, Di."
His answer struck her into silence; an answer she could not have foreseen. Like an unexpected cramp taking rude control of the mind: she had no choice but to heed attention to it.
"The world wasn't always going to be so peaceful, Di. You and me, we had our time out here, didn't we? We raised the two of them the best we could; loved them, cared for them. But think of who their parents are—Bruce Wayne, Me—you. Did you ever think about that? Did you really think that someone like you could have 'normal' children?"
"Yes," she hissed angrily, but that sensible part of her, almost laughing, whispered: no.
"No, Di," he said, smiling sadly. "The answer is no."
"I left that part of me behind, Steve. I left it behind so my children could have something better."
Steve embraced her; took her into his arms, brushed her forehead, looked into her eyes with tenderness and understanding. "I know, Babe," he whispered. "But in this life, we don't get what we want."
She did not mirror his tenderness; fury enclosed her heart, froze her affections. She pushed his hands away. "No, Steve. No."
Steve's flashed winced with rejection. He patiently stayed out of arm's reach. "I'm sorry, Di, but someone has to tell you the truth. You can sit in this house feeling sorry for yourself. Gotham needs you."
"Sorry for myself . . ."
She looked like she was on the verge of murdering her husband. Steve shrugged.
"I know you don't want to hear it. But somebody has to tell it to you, Di."
"Weren't you the man begging me not to go fight? You told me how dangerous Roland was, but now you want our children to go and fight him—"
"No, Di!" cried Steve angrily. "I wanted you to fight as a team! I wanted you to rely on me, on Alfred—on your friends and family! Instead of trying to do it all by yourself, dammit!"
"I'm protecting them, Steve! I'm protecting you."
Steve's voice dropped down to a whisper. "And how is that going for you?"
Right there, an ugly balloon of air sprung up between them: vibrating, trembling, and sweltering with cold anger. It would be a long time before husband and wife were on good terms again: he knew it, she knew it.
Steve put the Halloween decorations back in the box. He slid the box into a corner, forgotten. "I have to go the store." He put his hands into his pockets, breathing controlled and focused. "I'll see you later."
"The store," she repeated lowly. "Our children are missing, the city is under siege . . . and you're going to the store."
Steve was halfway up the stairs. "Yeah. People are still buying things, Di. People are still going to work. The world doesn't stop just because some asshole in a gray outfit blew a tower to hell."
Steve disappeared up the steps; his footsteps moving upstairs. The sound of the front door opening, closing—silence recapturing the home.
Diana trembled in the basement. She thought about her children—an inescapable habit, a synaptic firing wired inextricably from her fuse box.
She was proud of them, despite the dread she carried in her belly. She admired their stubbornness, it made her proud that death did not cow her children into submission. But that was the way with young boys and girls—why they made such excellent soldiers. Their minds like empty cups waiting to be filled by whatever patriotic calls-to-arms. No one that age thought about their eventual death—and why should they? Death is as close to their lives as Mars is to Earth.
But would her children have experiences—friends, families of their own? Emma was unbelievably tough—both physically and mentally, but how long before that toughness destroyed a building? She was so clumsy with her strength. And William—how long did he have before that virus ate away at his brain? Diana herself had a millennia of life experiences. Her cup was brimming with both faded and ardent memories, nearly overflowing. And her children scarcely had a drop. That's what they would know of life – that single, arid drop. And for all of the excess in her own, Diana could not gift her children a drop from her own immense reserves. They had to live their own lives—she could not do it for them.
From the upper-reaches of the first floor, the doorbell rang. Ding!
Diana snapped out her thoughts. She hurried up the stairs. "Coming!"
Clark Kent stood on her threshold: his face a healthier color, but bruising still clouding the area around his eyes. And he held his left side gingerly; the place where Roland has stabbed him.
"Kal-el, you look better."
"Di."
It looked like it cost him just to say those few words. She helped him inside.
They went to the living room; Clark smelling of antibacterial lotion and medical gauze. Diana lowered him into a chair.
"Thanks," muttered Clark. His face winced as he fully extended himself in the chair.
"Tea?"
"No, thank you. But here, I have something for you—"
He produced a wrapped package from his coat. Diana ran her fingers along the seams. She knew it was a photograph.
"Open it," insisted Clark, looking both earnest and in pain.
She undid the wrapping: a framed photograph of the birthday party. The twins by the cake. Diana and Steve standing beside them. A family laughing—hard to believe it was a week ago.
Diana rubbed a thumb over William's immortalized happiness: he was still William then.
"Careful with the fingerprints, Di."
"This is beautiful, Kal-el. Thank you. I'll put this . . . let me see . . . where to put this."
She looked around the various endtables and furniture in the living room. Plenty of open, inviting places for the photograph. But something else nagged at Diana's mind.
"Let me see," she repeated, still looking.
"Di," said Kal-el slowly. He knew something was wrong. "You alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine, Clark. Here! This is a good spot. There. Do you want any coffee? Tea?"
Clark leaned forward in his seat; visibly concerned. "Di, are you—?"
Diana gripped the framed photograph so hard the glass finally cracked. All across the frame the white spider-web cracks obscure the faces of her family. Everyone broken.
"I—I am losing my children, Clark. My family. I don't know what's left."
Clark listened silently on the couch.
"All I've done, I did to protect them: William, Emma, Steve, and my little David. And listen. Do you hear that?"
Silence. Clark's eyes floated around the room, as if he could dig up a sound. But nothing.
"They should all be here with me right now. I can protect them here. This was our home."
"It's still your home, Di."
She shook her head. "A house isn't a home unless there is a family in it, Clark."
She looked at her hands as if she could divine her fortune through them. "When Bruce died, I thought that was the end of it, Clark. I had it fixed in my head like an equation: a great death bought a great peace. An eye-for-an-eye. But maybe Bruce wasn't as great a man as I thought–this peace was supposed to last a lifetime. Turns out, it only bought twenty years."
"Only twenty years," croaked Clark. His voice sounded dry than sand. "That's a long time, Di."
"To whom? That's nothing to you and me, Clark. We're old. So is Ra's and his daughter. Twenty years is a grain of sand to us. What's twenty years to a normal man like Steve or William or David?"
Clearly, these were fears surging up from the netherworld of Diana's consciousness; things she had long ago buried, but never forgotten. The way she spoke about them—lucidly, angrily—told Clark she had been living with these things for a long time.
"Can I ask you something, Di?" asked Clark gently.
Diana nodded.
He leaned forward in his seat—as much as his wound allowed. "It's said that the Amazons are immortal warriors. That they live until the sun expires in the sky. But I've seen your mother. She looks, well—like your mother. I mean no offence, just—"
Diana let out a sniff of laughter. "You're not offending anyone, Clark. Yes, my mother looks old."
"But why—how? If the Amazons are immortal."
"Those stories were written by men in the classical era, Clark. Back then, life expectancy was barely over 33. Anyone who lived a hundred years or more pretty much appeared immortal."
"So, you are not . . . I mean . . ."
Diana shook her head. "I age like anyone else, Clark, but at a very slow rate. Despite what Ra's says about his Lazarus, there isn't any true way to maintain eternal youth. The Lazarus, if you recall what Ra's said, restores his youth, but he never comes back the same way. Each time, he is a little bit less than he was before."
"So, you are aging, just slowly."
"Why are you bringing this up?"
"Because a few months ago, I discovered this in my hair."
Clark parted the side over his left ear. A bit of gray beside behind his ear.
"It's this sun's radiation," he explained cheerfully. "It's accelerating my aging process."
"Congratulations, Clark," she said dully.
He let his hand back down. "I didn't think I could age. I always thought I'd remain like this forever."
"You sound happy about it."
"I am," conceded Clark. "It's nice to know that I'm not going watch my friends, my family, die before I do."
Diana was suddenly very silent. She knew where Clark was steering the conversation toward.
"I know Emma got the Amazon gifts, Di. But the boys—William, and David, and Steve, they'll—"
"I know, Clark. I've done the math."
Clark adjusted himself in his seat; like he was being more cautious. "I know, but, considering that fact, maybe you could look at William's new condition, as a sort of blessing . . . I mean, if what Roland's says about his new serum is correct, then Will should live for as long as he—"
"You really are always optimistic, aren't you, Clark?" said Diana, shaking her head. "I don't know if I want to hug you or punch you—a blessing? My son being poisoned is not a blessing."
Clark sank back into his seat. "It's just a thought. My dad always told me that there isn't any use fighting reality: 'The world is the way the world is.' You can go along for the drive, or it can drive you crazy."
"Then what's the point of getting out of bed in the morning?" she said dismissively. "if 'the world is the way the world is'?"
Clark looked ashen-faced. "I didn't mean it like that, Di. . . forget it."
He settled a little more in his seat. His hands were huge and could crush mountains underneath their grip – but they were currently tucked in timidly in his lap. He looked vulnerable and sad. Like a little boy in time-out, impossible to be angry with – it reminded her of William.
Diana sighed: she gently squeezed his hand.
"You have no idea how silly you are, Clark. You're the strongest man in the world, but you have the most fragile personality. Thank you for trying to cheer me up."
Clark looked up at her. The sadness made rough hews in his bruised face.
"I wish things weren't like this, Di. I'm sorry."
"I know," she said, squeezing again. "But they are."
The door opened again. Diana half-expected Steve's sullen face to appear around the corner—instead, the distinct beats of footfalls: two beats divided by a soft beat. It was Alfred on his cane.
"Hello, you two," said Alfred pleasantly, leaning on his cane. "Did you know they destroyed a building out there?"
"Alfred," said Diana, standing up immediately. "Sit down."
"Mr. Kent. Nice to see you. Although I wish under better circumstances."
"Me too, Alfred."
Alfred, and his cane, settled down on the chair just vacated by Diana.
"I have what I believe to be rather distressing news. I've just come back from a lunch with my contacts in Gotham bureaucracy—the missing persons are starting to reappear in Gotham."
Clark frowned. "But that's a good thing, Alfred."
"Yes," conceded Alfred. He bit his nail nervously. "But the families are noting strange phenomena surrounding their reappearances: violent bursts of anger, hallucinations, and the occasional broken piece of china."
"Broken piece of china," repeated Clark, a strange smile on his face, like an inside joke he was struggling to understand. "What does that mean?"
"They're all infected with the serum," said Diana. "Roland kidnapped them, drugged them, and released them back into the city."
"Yes," said Alfred. He played with the handle of his cane, rolling it across the webbing between this thumb and forefinger. "But unlike Master William, Roland did not provide them with their own private collections of the serum."
"How do you know that?"
"Because one of them told me," said Alfred. "A retired army General, now a political luminary. He asked me if I could have Lucius create some more—discreetly, of course. He does not want anyone knowing."
"Can you?"
Alfred gave Diana a steady, unblinking look.
"Right," she said, grimacing. "So Roland holds the serum for randsom over their heads: do as I say, or else."
"I'm afraid that's not the worst of it," said Alfred. "This same General oversees the deployment and shipment of military resources. Roland has demanded that the General block all military support into Gotham."
Clark blinked. "I don't understand."
"Well," said Alfred, now bouncing the cane between his cupped hands. "Yindel is depending upon a private paramilitary force to keep the peace in Gotham, right? And when our national military finally arrives in Gotham, she will suspend with that paramilitary force. But now that we know that this military force will never arrive—"
"Yindel is working for Roland," said Diana quietly.
"Or at least with Roland," said Alfred heavily. "But yes, I came to that conclusion as well."
"This is great," said Diana, closing her eyes, sagging her shoulders. "This is—right in front of us. How long have they been planning this?"
Alfred gave a shrug: who knows? "But Gotham City is a hub-nexus for the world. If Roland taints this city with his serum, it will be fairly easy for him to poison the entire world."
"How long do we have left?" asked Clark.
Alfred rested his chin on his cane. "Difficult to say . . . six months, maybe a year."
This was all too much; how could this possibly be the same reality as that framed photograph of the birthday party? That felicity, that naivete, was only seven days ago . . . and now the world teetered on the lip of ruin, all because of one man; a grey hooded jester, a street magician, a whisper in the streets.
The ground threatened to unmoor Diana; knock out her ankles, fling her to the ground. William was sick, Emma was missing, and her husband hated her. What the hell was happening to her family?
Alfred, noting the precariousness in the room, very gently began to speak: "We need a coordinated plan of action. We need to strike back, before it is too late. We need the Justice League."
"It's gone," said Diana in a hoarse whisper. "Half of them are more than dead, Alfred."
"Then we must recruit new allies," continued Alfred measuredly. "We have Ra's, his daughter, his men. We have you two. That's about fifteen bodies."
Clark suddenly grabbed his side gingerly—he looked to be wincing from a phantom memory of the grey army. "Fifteen isn't going to be enough. Not against Roland."
"We could try and convince the local GCPD into our ranks," said Alfred. "In Bruce's day, they were his natural allies. I personally knew three dozen officers who would have given their lives for Batman's."
"Expect Yindel has them convinced that Batman is suspect number one," said Diana. "They think he kidnapped Gordon. They're not going to help us."
Alfred leaned back into his chair, resting both hands atop his cane. "Either way, we need more help."
Clark nodded at the framed photograph. "What about—?"
But a death glare from Alfred quieted Clark immediately.
Diana walked away from the two men; a thought pestering her mind. A ludicrous idea, she knew that. The chances of it working were astronomical. And yet, what other options did they have?
"I could talk to my mother," she said finally.
Alfred let out a chuckle—hearty and authentic. "Recruit the Amazons? I thought Clark was the optimist, Diana."
Clark, however, was intrigued. "Your mother, Di? How?"
"If Roland succeeds, if he poisons the world's leaders, then it's only a matter of time until he'll set his eyes on Themyscira."
Clark frowned. "Why do you say that?"
Diana exhaled. "Because as proud as he is of his serum, he doesn't want to be reliant on anything for too long. There exists a small portion of our own elixir of life on Themyscira. Roland will want to take that for himself."
"Do you mean it could cure him?" said Clark slowly. "It could cure William?"
Diana smiled bitterly. "Yes, Clark. But I already thought about it. My mother would rather die than give that serum to my son—that's how deep her animosity towards men goes."
"If she won't sacrifice her resources to help her own grandson, I can't imagine her affording us her army, Diana."
"Everyone has a price, right?" said Diana. "If things get truly desperate, then I'll talk to my mother. This will become her problem soon enough."
"Truly desperate?" said Alfred, wearing a confused smile. "Is that not what we are now?"
The front door opened and shut; Steve Trevor appearing around the corner, little David asleep in his arms. Steve slowly addressed the guests.
"Clark, Alfred," said Steve easily. He did not look at Diana.
"Master Trevor," nodded Alfred.
"Hey, Steve," said Clark quietly.
"I'm going to put the little prince to bed," explained Steve. And without looking at Diana, as if she was invisible in the room, he turned and headed upstairs.
Clark pretended not to have noticed anything strange. But Alfred, always whimsical, smiled bitterly. "Marital problems?"
"Something like that," said Diana.
"I'm sorry about that," said Alfred. He said this without any sarcasm—he truly meant it.
"So," said Clark, eager for a shift in subject, "what now?"
Diana's eyes went to the framed photograph: smiling faces of a family. And Steve's angry words rebounded in her skull: fight as a team. Depend on your family and friends. Was she ready to make that step? Did she want to make that step?
No, but sometimes the world does not care what you want.
"I want you to get into contact with Ra's and his daughter," said Diana carefully. She said this to Alfred "Tell them that we're done doing it my way. We want to cooperate."
Clark's face twitched—was it approval on his face? Was it surprise? Probably both.
And Alfred, he folded his hands over his lap. His eyes, normally blue and watery— shone with soft pride. Like a father sitting down in the audience, watching his daughter on stage. "It should be interesting, Di," said Alfred. "Seeing you and Talia fighting together."
Diana exhaled. Talia was a smug, arrogant, and hateful bitch. But she was a fighter, above all things. And that's what they needed right now: fighters.
Alfred pulled a phone out of his pocket. "I'll get into contact immediately, if one of you might help me up . . ."
Diana helped Alfred to his feet; he dialed on the phone and drifted away on his face.
Clark came over to Diana. His voice low but earnest.
"Do you really think that'll be enough? Roland has an army, Di."
"And we have eachother, Clark," said Diana. "You don't think that's enough?"
Clark's face caught a sliver of sunlight from the window; for one moment, he looked free of his wounds. He looked like that young midwestern boy she had met thirty years ago: youthful, bold, and soft-hearted to the core.
Alfred shook his phone irritably. "There's no cell service in here. Let's go outside backyard."
"Ra's and Talia will be enough," said Diana. "They've worked together for centuries. They probably make an unbeatable pair."
The three of them walked into the backyard drabbed in dusk light. Everything painted over by a brush dipped in honey; silky threads of a golden loom everywhere. And at the furthest reaches of the sky, lilac night was starting to bleed in, like age eating away at the edges of a mural. Gotham City sitting like at the center of the vista; drawing the eye away from the rolling hills, the river, the bridges, the hillsides, and the forests. It all led back into that basin at the bottom of the valley; those skyscrapers standing tall like pillars of an ancient civilization. A city that would remain until the sun exterminated in the sky.
"Ra's and Talia in the Justice League," said Clark lowly. "It doesn't feel right, Di."
"It isn't right," agreed Diana. "But what other choice do we have, Clark?"
"What about your children, Di?"—Clark glanced nervously at Alfred, then—"I know you don't want them involved in this, but they're in the game already. You said it yourself."
"My children will," she began matter-of-factly, confidently, but the doubt held her tongue. What would become of her children? She felt the compulsion to grab them, hug them close to her body, protect them, nurture them, hide them from the dangers of the world
But when she reached out for them, her hands closed on empty air, they clutched at the far-away city. Gone.
Diana stared at her hands. "My children will always be my children. My responsibility. I'll always look out for them."
Clark opened his mouth to reply, but then he closed it again. He thought about what she said.
Alfred suddenly came around on his cane, tucking the phone into his pocket. "Ra's will be here in a few days. He says he's sorry he cannot be here soon: business."
"What does he mean 'business?'" said Diana irritably. "Does he not watch the news?"
"Where is Ra's?" said Clark.
Alfred looked at the both of them. "Overseas."
Something about that simple word, and the hesitation on Alfred's face. Clark and Diana exchanged a nervous look.
"He also told me to tell you two, but especially you, Diana: 'I'm sorry. I tried to stop it.'"
The familiar feeling of foreboding entered Diana again: the same dread in the kitchen the morning of the twins' birthday. The feeling of doom encircling her, closing in.
"Stop what—Wayne Tower collapsing?" she said quietly.
"Probably," said Alfred, although he doubtfully looked back onto the horizon, eyeing the missing spot where Wayne Tower used to be.
Something wasn't right. They all felt it.
Alfred was the first to snap out of the mood: he tapped Clark on the shoulder. "Come with me, Master Kent. We need to start up a new base of operations. And there are a lot of files that we need to take out of storage."
Clark followed Alfred dutifully out the garden. This left Diana alone in the backyard.
Fear, that's what she felt. But it was a familiar sensation: something she thought she had abandoned all together—twenty years ago. She had thought that time was over, but perhaps good and evil were like seasons, switching on and off, a time for peace, and time for war. Now she had to put away the summer clothes of peace away; and bring out the coats and the chainmail. Already her mind was adapting to the stormy swells heading their way: more loss, more anger, more hurt. She would take in this moment—because when else would she have the chance to enjoy a sunset? She looked beyond the plunging hillside, the shimmering river, the steel arches of the bridges, the helicopters flying over Gotham, the tanks, the footsoldiers, the dread and the panic, the grey water lurking in the sewers, the grey Paladin tightening his noose, the city waiting for the next.
She looked beyond it all and tried to ask a favor from the future; whatever it was, whatever lay ahead, let them be enough.
"We'll be enough, Bruce" she promised to the sliding, dying, sunset of dusk. The stars would soon be out, and with them the wishes of every young child whoever gazed upon their twinkling magic. He was out there, Bruce, as was every father and mother who died before their children grew up. And their children—the cold William Trevor and the headstrong Emma Trevor—were out there as well: in the same in the city, underneath the same dusk night, living in the same present moment. Making mistakes, growing up. Living their lives. This thought—so cliché, but so difficult to swallow, took root in her chest and fanned the dying embers of hope in her heart. She was beginning to accept the unthinkable: her children would always be hers, even if they were no longer here. And for a moment, before the disparity of their situation could extinguish her hope, this new acceptance blew into the flames until they sweltered with passion, with belief. And Diana found herself saying, praying, believing, the impossible: "I swear, we will be enough."