a/n: this is the end of the line, folks! do let me know what you think (: there may/may not be an epilogue tagged on after this, but I'm counting this as complete.
Chapter 27
The miniature disc lay inconspicuous, gleaming under the decrypto-analyser. Diana pursed her lips at the item which had ignited Bruce's anger in the past few weeks. The man in question was engaged in conversation with the electronic avatar flickering on the Bat-computer's screen. She glanced over to him, watching as his rigid shoulders moved back and forth with the force of his typing. The suit held him well. He held himself well, for such an aged warrior. A twinge of pain, once again, at the thought that Bruce had let himself grow so old so quickly. Once, she wouldn't have been surprised if he had secretly wished to expedite the process. Now, he seemed to have almost regained a significant quarter of his youth, based on how his hands rushed across the keys and dials peppering the Bat-computer's console.
"So," he said, "you know who I am?" The voice fed through a distort, though Bruce suspected that wouldn't make a difference to The Oracle. The wonders of old technology, the blundering interference of the young. It grated.
"With all due respect, sir," Oracle spoke, "I do. I know who you are, and like I said, sir, I'm here to help."
"Sir," Terry said, smirk on his lips. Bruce's scowl deepened, his back reverting back to ramrod straightness as he stood upright. A blinking light in a side panel caught his attention. He glanced at the screen, and his eyes seemed to shutter in a weary resignation Diana had not seen line his face since the start of the night. He seemed to wince internally, even as his shoulders succumbed to a slight sag. He opened them fully again, rolled them heavenward for a fraction of a moment, pressing his lips together in a cragged line. Diana realised it was indecision, before Bruce reached for a console button and tapped it.
"I'm sending you the decryption. I need files," he muttered, jaw tight.
"You need stuff to smear Luthor's cred with," came the voice in return. Bruce lifted a corner of his lip in a sneer at 'stuff'.
"She's young," he said, shaking his head, with the faintest hint of a grim smirk on his face. He looked at Terry, who had managed to stay upright despite the shower of glowers sent by his mentor in the past fifteen minutes, giving up on the glare ante for now. The boy was stubborn. Too stubborn. But it was his stubbornness which kept him alive, kept Bruce alive, Bruce reminded himself. A look of recognition, barely perceptible, passed over the youth's face. Bruce had to check himself to make sure it wasn't just a miniature grimace.
"Yeah?" Terry asked, voice trying to maintain its lightness.
"'Yeah'," Bruce mimicked, gravel modulating into a false whine, "'stuff', and 'cred'?"
"Young, and brilliant, sir," Oracle's voice rattled out from behind them. Bruce's head whipped around to the screen. "I've used the decrypt on the systems you wanted me to check out. I might have found something," Oracle continued. It, she, was quick.
"Good. Send it over," Bruce said, all business, all hard edged. The avatar shimmered.
"Only if you let me handle how to deal with Luthor." Bruce's eyebrow arched of its own accord. Diana couldn't help the edges of her lips curving as she watched him. He had taken to rolling his eyes again.
"You," he said, shortly.
"Young, and brilliant," Oracle repeated, "And I know you're due for an emergency press conference soon. Luthor's beating you to it, by the way." A news feed flashed up across the screen, confirming her words. Bruce had known this, but would've rather had information on hand to throw in Luthor's smug, slimy face.
"Just this once…" he said, pausing before he said, "Maxine."
Terry straightened abruptly, then doubled over in agony at his sudden exertion. Bruce vaguely heard a harshly hissed, 'forget I said anything,' from over his shoulder, but refrained from turning back to look. The Oracle remained silent, avatar seeming to blink.
"How.. did.. you," the words were slow in coming.
"I've spent a lifetime figuring out the identities of many of my co-workers, Gibson. Get on the programme if you wish to." Bruce's gravel sounded out, voice scraping through the cave as his tone became sharper. "Evidently I can't stop you this time," he said, air of resignation hanging about him again.
"Is Terry-?"
"Don't you have work to do?" Bruce cut past her question. The avatar flickered, as if hesitant.
"Right. Best of luck, Sir. Oracle out." The avatar flickered again, then puttered out of the screen. Bruce let out a sigh, breath fogging the air in front of him slightly.
"At least she's not out there getting herself killed," he murmured at the screen, now only filled with parading images of the destruction at the old neo-housing district. The mask muffled his voice, and he felt his breath moisten underneath the fabric as another thought wafted past. Strange. He'd thought something similar about Barbara when he had decided to take her under his wing. Clark had activated the comlink while on site, saying that it looked much worse than it really was. Apparently, a fire alarm had gone off ten minutes before the buildings began to fall, and the main difficulty now was in finding missing folk who had scattered into the night's mob as soon as the structures began to crack. Mercifully few bodies under the rubble, in the end. Mercifully few was not a zero casualty rate, and Bruce's eyes blistered at the thought. He dialled a number. Barbara's voice patched through.
"Superman says most had been evacuated before the collapse," he said, evading the formalities. It really only established just how much Luthor had planned things down to the last detail.
"Tell that to search and rescue. We're busy here trying to control the crowd as it is. We've had to kettle some of the rowdier ones off as well," her voice was remarkably direct.
"It was, unexpected," he tried, sounding it out, hating himself for even uttering those syllables which had branded him incompetent.
"So were the bombs, from what I recall." She was taking it well, even more than him, Bruce realised.
"Batman," she said. Her voice seemed to have trouble getting past the name, and Bruce sympathised. "You're not God," she said, strain in voice coming through now. "Sometimes I wish you were, but you're not. Accept that. And you're not alone. Accept that too. We'll get through this. Gotham, will get through this. Gordon out." Bruce was left blinking at the keyboard, brows crinkled at the thought of having been given a pep talk, however disparaging, by… an ex…partner.
"Wow… she sounded almost like you, Diana," Wally murmured. "Fiery. She's like that in the field sometimes too, y'know." Bruce snorted. Wally had no idea, Bruce mused to himself, letting a half disgruntled look land and sink into his face.
Less jawing. No, he corrected himself, internally. More jawing. But that was for later. He had a suit to select. A corporate power suit. He nodded at Terry, who was now inching his way off the table. The bandages were made of extra malleable polymer fabric. They would hold, and Terry's ribs with it. The leg had been set in a cast. Thanks to accelerated bio-enzymes in the salve, the burn marks along his forearms and shoulders were already fading. Bruce contained a shudder at what those could have been, suddenly thankful.
"Come on," he said, holding a hand out to his protégé. Terry took it, and was soon supported between Bruce and Diana as they made their way up the stairs. They brought him to a room Wally had helped prepare just minutes before, and laid him on the bed. Any protests from Terry were quelled by a look from Bruce, but it softened now, as he positioned the drip. "Well done," he uttered softly. "Now, rest."
Bruce left the room. Diana turned round before she walked past the doorway as well, sending Terry a gentle smile. Terry watched and wondered how, for the first time, the old man's back was able to radiate not just anger, but approval.
In the streets of Hong Kong, in the blazing heat of the afternoon, a man staggered into the streets. An opera mask covered his features. He proclaimed his name, Guan Gong. He had a canister of sickly yellow liquid with him. He splashed it over himself. He would be a martyr, for the cause. For the brethren over the world, watching. The liquid over him caught fire, swept ablaze at the fall of the smallest spark. He knelt as the flames consumed him. By the time he had been doused, only a charred body remained, and a molten microship embedded near the base of his skull.
What J'onn Jonnz heard, in the screams of the dying man's mind, fighting what seeming control he'd been put under, was the man's name:
Jimmy Lin.
It would soon be on the global feeds, but J'onn patched the information through to Gotham's Commissioner of Police, and Bruce Wayne.
"And I pledge to the citizens of Gotham, that I will do my best to aid, to rebuild the lives of anyone who has lost a friend, a mother, a father, a son, a daughter. Anyone who has been widowed, orphaned, made childless, in this astonishing accident. You have my word," said Luthor, sympathy radiating from his face as it glowed under the media floodlights, backlit by the expanse that was Gotham's downtown.
"Mr. Luthor, what do your assurances mean when you have been away for so long?" a man called out from among the press. Lex Luthor schooled his face into careful benignity before opening his mouth, but the voice came again. "Mr Luthor," the reporter said, "your last appearance was an invasion with… Darkseid? More than thirty years ago. Can you confirm this?"
Irritation simmered in Luthor's eyes, but his face remained genial as he leaned towards the microphone. "Yes, I had been able to secure Darkseid away from humanity, which had left both him and myself in… stasis. What… encased me deposited me back on earth three years ago." He'd have to thank the fool, Metron, who'd appeared some fine day in belated concern. Now the New god was stuck in the Source Wall too.
"Why didn't you make an appearance back then?" the question came flying. Luthor's face turned sorrowful, and held up a hand to stall.
"I thought then, the world had moved on," he said, voice muted, "that perhaps it would not do to have me leave obscurity. I had done many wrong things in my previous time, and perhaps," he paused, took a breath, then continued. "Perhaps," his voice even lower, "even saving the world would not acquit me." Murmurs ran through the crowd. Luthor now smiled, eyes softening. The glare of the lights made his whole being seem to appear to glow. People from the streets hayd been gathering in droves around the podium, unwilling to head back to their homes. Luthor's voice, bass, soothing, travelled through electronics and filtered through the screens of the millions who had returned to their dwellings. Gotham was riveted.
Bruce Wayne was bored. He had sat through most of the speech, as they drove along the side streets to where Luthor's podium had been set up, at the base of Ai-lat's Gotham branch. Luthor must have managed to secure his shares through Huang Holdings. Villainy, Bruce concluded, was horrifically passé. And Luthor had no poetry.
"It is unfortunate," Luthor continued, "that so many in Gotham have fallen prey to the machinations of bribery and backdoor underworld dealings. Why, I had thought to postpone my appearance even longer, once I heard that Gotham was in the grip of the Chinese mafia, a grip that even Bruce Wayne could not get out of." At that moment, Bruce stepped out of his car. The back of the crowd noticed him first. Mutters and murmurs arose, some antagonistic, some confused. His stature, though shrunken with age, was however still imposing. A glance like flint, and the crowd began to part for him, slowly but surely. Luthor looked up from the press, caught sight of him, and smiled. Diana followed beside him.
"Ah yes, but Bruce Wayne has been involved in shady dealings of his own, hasn't he?" called out Luthor as he stood sneering down at Bruce. Luthor opened his arms to the crowd, then levelled a finger at Bruce. "I would like to ask Mr. Wayne, if he can explain the lies he's given to the poor, disadvantaged of Gotham. That he, in a bid to secure his reputation as philanthropist, and to secure his pockets, would approve of the use of unsound building materials, with millions of lives at stake… is abominable." Bruce narrowed his eyes at the accusation, but remained silent. The murmurs among the crowd bubbled again.
Newsbots flew towards Bruce.
"I did no such thing," he said lowly, calmly.
"Then how do you explain—" Luthor advanced, before abruptly shutting his mouth as his attention was drawn to the screening of live coverage on the side. Bruce turned to look as well.
"They'll fall right at my feet," the voice came, Luthor's voice. In the meantime, the Luthor on the screen looked increasingly flabbergasted.
"Nanobots. Lovely things. Self destruct, too, once they've done their job of eating through concrete. And steel. Oh Gotham, how you'll love me."
"That's preposterous, that's, that's-" blustered Luthor as the recording came through, before the whole projection blinked out, and was replaced with words, the edges highlighted in neon green.
"We. Are. Oracle," it said, before switching to Luthor's face again. Only this time, it replayed the words 'Oh Gotham', 'Oh Gotham', 'Oh Gotham', modulated into a grainy singsong. Soon, more words followed, along with repeated footage of Luthor's previous speeches. A beat was introduced, pulsing away to the words of what was evidently a song. The crowd began to laugh. 'Right, Riiiiight, Riiiight at my feeet', the words wafted over, and Bruce allowed himself to grin viciously as he turned back to Luthor.
"You wanted to be remembered, didn't you Luthor?" he said, now safe from the press microphones. "You thought, perhaps, you'd be forgotten in a few short generations. Did it hurt, Luthor," Bruce said, as he let his words linger in front of the now hunched Luthor, "to realise that really, you'd been forgotten in one?" Was Luthor actually frothing? Bruce couldn't be sure in the harsh glare of the lights. He hoped he was.
"You might be young, Luthor. Younger. But you're stuck in the past. All that anti-life equation didn't help you keep track of Earth.
"You didn't realise that Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame just became fifteen seconds five years ago.
"You didn't realise just how much we live in a world of sound bites."
The whites of Luthors eyes seemed to exceed their usual span has he stared at Bruce. "What is the meaning of this?" Luthor all but screamed. Bruce tilted his head as he considered him, holding his smirk so long that his cheeks had begun to smart. He gave a look of nonchalance, and shrugged.
"This?" Bruce said. "I believe this is what we call 'viral'." He continued. "Perhaps you didn't know that, but like I said, Luthor, stuck in past.
"So stuck, in fact, that you forgot that the world has moved on, and so have I." Bruce had reached the edge of the podium by now, and Luthor seemed crouched so near him, hands almost clawing the floor, that Bruce could now see the sweat drops plastered along his forehead.
"You forgot that I have friends, Luthor," Bruce said, leaning towards him.
Luthor's eyes bulged further with great success. Bruce straightened himself, and gave another shrug, and wave of the hand as he proceeded past. "But congratulations," he said over his shoulder, "I do believe you've secured yourself in the hearts of this generation's pop culture. For this week, at least." The crowd was laughing uproariously now, as the auto-tuned song began looping itself. Bruce had no doubt that Max had manage to secure the help of thousands of online hacks who would ensure that it went viral in seconds. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Gotham police teams came and surrounded Lex Luthor, who looked about to have a seizure. Bruce secretly hoped that he would. But no, life was never so acquiescing, especially not after the huge favour he seemed to have been given.
As he got into the car, Bruce looked back at the crowd, now jeering and booing at Luthor as he was being led off the stage. Never doubt the human spirit, he'd told someone once, or something to that effect. He'd forgotten it himself, once upon a time. He'd forgotten his own, in another life, his other life. He felt the warmth radiating from Diana as she paced beside him. Gotham was in ashes. This was true. But Gotham would rise again, and he would be there to rise with it.
"Mary McGinnis has been informed about her son's well being, personally, as requested," said Wally with a smile as they approached the car. Bruce looked at him. Dressed in his usual casual attire, a checked green shirt over a t-shirt. Jeans, but not quite the latest stylish cut. More sober. Hair greyed, wrinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes. They grew, they grew old. He looked at Diana. Even her, he mused, had to grow, had to age, even if it never showed outwardly. To wish for the past, in the face of a rapidly changing present… was folly. He would make do, as always, and as Gotham would.
The bare hints of dawn could be seen from glimpses of the bay. It tinted Gotham's purple sky with the red that it once was. It would rain, and seeds would grow. Bruce's brows drew together as he caught himself thinking this, when a hand was placed over his. He allowed them to relax as he turned his head to look at Diana, shoulders settling into the back of the seat. Bruce smiled.
Clark and Barbara were waiting at the manor. The force had been put on a round the clock rota now, Superman had helped clear an astounding amount of the debris, and the Commish needed a coffee break. It was up to the paramedics now. It was up to the city. No word from the mafia since the broadcast from Hong Kong had made its way to American shores. They would be cleaned up after. For now, the group entered through the hallway of Wayne Manor.
Bruce's eyelids slid shut in what he recognised was relief, as they reached the kitchen. So ordinary. So strangely ordinary, despite the carnage lingering in the back of his mind. Coffee. Tea. Sugar. Soup. Domesticity had never been his forte, but here, among… friends. This was different.
Wayne Manor had always been dark, darker after Alfred died, the shadows seeping past every corner in its never waning grip on him. Now with the sun rising, it seemed bright again. He remembered Dick playing along that counter, he remembered Tim. He remembered Tim, again, in the hospital bed, also old, also greying, smiling, again. Old Man. Yes. But not useless, and not yet dead. No, not quite. Ace padded round the corner, and nudged Bruce's hand with his nose, whining softly. Bruce's hand ruffled the top of Ace's head as he looked out the kitchen window. Yes, it was a new day. They'd won. He looked around. Yes. It wasn't such a lonely place, after all. Yes.
-fin-