CHAPTER NINETEEN- The Fire Rises
Steam seemed to rise from the windows, as the central heating and the blazing fireplace filled the old smoking room with new heat. For years Thomas Wayne had left much of the sprawling manor more or less vacant, if not derelict. Since he and his son were essentially the only people living there full-time, save for Alfred and a handful of other servants, it made sense that a once bustling and decadent home should have become cold and empty after that family had...shrunk.
But the number of permanent occupants in the Manor had increased recently, and the need to keep them secret had mandated a need to make some of these older rooms functional. The central heating pipes groaned and creaked, used for the first time in a very long time, probably since Thomas's youth. Even when Martha had been alive he'd rarely made full use of this old place.
It was time. He tapped the chair he was reclining in impatiently, the smell of dust meeting heat intertwining with the pinescent from the logs in the fire-place. Alfred and his servants were dissembling with Miss Corman, while Barbara was led to this half-way place. He sensed that he would have to let Miss Patricia Corman in some of the way into the conspiracy he was forming at some point, but he wanted one last, private talk with the daughter of Jim Gordon.
He needed to be sure, and for the first time in his life, he really wasn't. Anxiety gnawed at him, and he looked at the clock irritably. So much waiting. Now, at last, the moment was here. Yet, he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread about the affair. Had, in their impatience, in their need for someone to fill shoes no one could fill, they overlooked something? Had they rushed a vulnerable, barely physically, let alone mentally, capable girl into something they simply could not cope with?
No, he sighed deeply, alone and able to express his discontent, at least for now. It was too late to turn back. If nothing else, he couldn't...he simply couldn't risk the possibility that Bruce might try to work alone, without this to distract him. More than anything, now, with his wife and best friend dead, he wanted his son to have a normal life. It had been a mistake to let him think he could be the Dark Knight, he knew now, and as heart-broken as his son might be over what had been done to the woman he had loved...at least she was alive, and had some hope, however faint, of recovery.
As cold as it might be, he had to put his son's life ahead of Barbara's. He'd spent too many years putting everything else ahead of Bruce, and he had vowed to change that.
There was a knock at the door. He relaxed his face, and put on a welcoming smile. Whatever his misgivings or dark thoughts might be, it was time to focus on his work. The best surgeons are often good actors, able to suppress their fears and feelings and focus entirely on the task at hand. And so it was, and would be here. Gotham was no different to any other patient, and he needed to be steady and firm of hand once more.
"Barbara. Your carer not giving you any problems?" he grunted, as the pale, slender young woman entered the room, her eyes darting about, her skin flushing as it entered the warmth of this more heated room. The corridors were always drafty, he noted.
"No, we've come to an understanding." Barbara said smoothly, moving forward with confident grace and confidence to the chair opposite Thomas. "I think she rather likes your Butler." she said, with a well-practised smile. Wayne noted the smile, and approved. So, she had made progress. She no longer feared to crack her face, lest it become the manic grin the Joker had once given her. She had made many other leaps, of that he was sure. But had she made enough progress?
"Do you know why you're here?" he said, cutting to the chase. "Maybe your head is full of nothing but this. Some heroic fantasy, perhaps."
"No." Barbara responded boldly, looking him in the eye. "I don't know what you think you know about me, Mr Wayne. I don't have such delusions. Instead, I have questions. For you."
He frowned. "Questions, Miss Gordon?"
"I..." she paused, uncertain. "I thought I would be angrier, but sat here now...looking at you...you're old, Mr. Wayne. Old and Pathetic."
"Miss Gordon..."
"Why did you do it?" She said bluntly. "I talked with them. My Family. You...you orchestrated it all, didn't you? Why? Why did you tear my family apart?" She clenched her fists, and seemed to tremble.
"I am sorry for your family situation.." he began, closing his eyes. So tired, of late. Once, all-nighters had seemed de rigeur. Now, the night couldn't come soon enough.
"No Bullshit, Mr. Wayne. Not to me. Not to the daughter of the man who...who fucking sacrificed himself for your revenge!" she hissed, real fury beginning to boil up, but contained. She really had come a long way, he thought.
"You want the Truth? The Whole Truth?" he said, opening his eyes, fixing her stare with one of his own.
"I told you a story three months ago. A story I have told almost noone else. But there is another story even fewer know or could begin to guess at." He reached, as if by habit, for a whiskey glass, only to find it not there. Alfred had not yet brought it in. Instead he clenched his fingers.
"Be careful what you ask for, Miss Gordon. I told you more than perhaps I should. You still have a chance to leave this. Leave all this behind."
"Like Hell."
"Very well." He breathed in, the musky air of the room filling his aged lungs. Everything in this place seemed...worn, run down. Decayed. Like the city. Like everything.
"How much do you really remember from that Night, Miss Gordon? How much does anyone? A Night of pure madness. Flashes of tragedy, of horror, washed away in the inferno of a martyr's sacrifice. We all focus on the Dark Knight, locked in death with the Joker, as the flames consumed them both."
How he wished he had something to moisten his throat.
"That image is a lie. There was no heroic final confrontation. Your father did not die fighting the Joker." He hesitated.
"You have to understand. Really understand. The Joker was at the apex of his reign of terror. He had kidnapped many girls in the preceding weeks. Its...hard to believe it was only a year and a bit ago. It feels like a lifetime."
"Talk." she insisted, her eyes boring into him, accusingly.
"We knew that he was...twisting them. Turning Gotham's children against it, part of his sick games. When he took your schoolbus...took you.." he swallowed. "I feared it would finally break your father. Like...like it broke my son."
She seemed taken aback by this.
"I mentioned before my son had a story to tell. I maintain he should be the one to tell it. But, suffice to say, he lost someone to the Joker, and it was that knowledge that informed our decisions."
"Your Father didn't wait. Didn't hesitate. He went immediately to save you."
He could see that she was rapt in the story, again. Perhaps the example of her father would do more for her than he ever could for his own son.
"I...I hesitated. I told my son to ready himself for the worst. I thought we would go on a mission of Vengeance, not Mercy. I ordered him to burn the whole place."
She gasped, horrified.
"It was the only way to be sure, I felt, to erase the horrors. As far as I knew...as far as I know...no one has or had ever come back from the Joker's grasp."
There was a long, awful silence. He looked away from her gaze. How he had grown cowardly in his old age.
"What." she managed to say.
He continued on, relentlessly, laying the whole awful truth bare. "The Joker waited, with you and his Moppets. His last line of defence. Your father had no suit, no tricks, only his determination and an old revolver. Killing clown-faced thugs was easy enough now, to a man hell bent on saving his daughter. But at the last...at that final hurdle..." Wayne trembled. "He did what any man would do. He stood down. And the Joker laughed, and had his Moppets take him."
"No. Stop." She blurted. "I can't...I don't..."
"You're beginning to remember, aren't you? Its too late. You want the Truth? Here is the Truth, Barbara. When my son, Bruce, finally made his way inside... through the inferno and the bodies... there wasn't much we could do for your father. But even then...Even then...he wanted you out of there. You above all others."
She sat stunned, seeming to draw in on herself again, the words like blows to her. He had to press on.
"Yes. You were there. At the End. Dr Thompson's theory was that each Moppet had a specific...programme they had to follow. Once that was done, she theorized, they would be like dolls with strings cut. You stood mute over him. He begged my son to save you. We respected his wishes, then and now. You ask why I kept you apart? Do you know what some of your...colleagues at Arkham did? Most are Catatonic since that night. Not all. Some went home. Some were welcomed, naively, in folly, by their families, showered with love. But once the Joker had been at them..." Wayne's mouth twisted.
"I couldn't take that risk. I couldn't let...that happen to Jim's family. To his memory. To his daughter. Better you suffered alone, and what might come of that than..." he shuddered.
"I spoke to you of Heroes three months ago, Miss Gordon. You surmised I might have you in mind to replace the Dark Knight. Now I speak to you of Monsters."
He focused on his hand, clenching and unclenching. He had become so weak. He couldn't watch her tears fall.
"Gotham has Monsters again, Miss Gordon. You're right. I don't know who or what you are. I thought maybe time would tell. But I know what is out there."
He rose from the chair unsteadily, heading for the window, clawing at the jammed window. This room needed air, no matter how cold. Outside it was already black, and the sky howled.
"Out there is the Storm. The Joker left his mark, not just on Gotham's Children but on the world...and now someone else has come here, looking to play their games. I'm too old to keep playing games, Barbara."
"Why...Why me?" she croaked. She looked like she was about to vomit. He quietly nudged the old fire-bucket towards her with his foot.
"You owe a debt." He said bluntly. "As do I. And..." he hesitated again, but to hell with half-measures now. "And I know my son cannot bare my sins any longer."
"Why not?" she spat back, her eyes stung with tears. "You talk to me...like that...and excuse yourself? And Bruce? Dear God, what blood is on his hands?"
"Gotham needs a Hero." He reiterated. "I know my Son is not that. He can never be that. You..." he shrugged. "You can Redeem yourself, or be Redeemer, or whatever else you set your mind to. Neither I nor Bruce have as much agency anymore."
"I'm not my father." She said. "Nor am I a Monster. Whatever...whatever you say happened. I know this now. I know myself." Her voice trembled with fury and sorrow both.
"Good. Because we don't have any more time. You need to meet someone."
"Who?" she said, blinking away tears. He felt something then. Maybe. How quickly the young can recover from even the harshest blows...she reminded him of Martha, he thought with sudden pain.
"Renee Montoya."
"Wait, what?" she said, surprised.
"The Joker brought Monsters to Gotham. But he wasn't the only beacon in this dark place." Wayne rasped. "Others took to the streets, hiding their face, doing as the Dark Knight did. Doing as your father did. Vigilantes. One such now lies in my home, comatose and recovering from gun-shot wounds."
"Wait. You're hiding Renee Montoya...how involved are you with everything?" she said, rising from her chair unsteadily.
"As long as there is a Gotham, there will always be more predators. More Jokers. They come here to feast on us and our terrors. But the right person...the right people...the fire can rise, and the light from it will banish them to the darkest shadows once again. We need someone who can light the beacon. From ashes, must come a spark."
"You're rambling, Mr Wayne."
Thomas smiled wanly. "Talk to her. She should wake soon. We don't have much time, any of us."
"Time till what?" she asked, sensing something in his voice.
"The next attack. The Museum, the Oil Rig, they're all part of something bigger. Even this storm outside..." Thomas looked to the windows, shuttered and curtained, but he seemed to see past them into the white beyond.
"The next Act of this drama is about to begin. The Dark Knight is dead. My son...is no Dark Knight. You are not one either. But..." he considered.
"Perhaps you will surprise me with your talents, Miss Gordon."
Now it was Barbara's turn to look surprised.
"What are you talking about-"
"Enough. Your carer is waiting. We will talk more, I'm sure." He sighed. "But you should hear what Montoya has to say. We may be relying on your insights, Miss Gordon. It is best you hear everything yourself, from those best suited to tell it."
Barbara began to rise, clearly angry and about to say something. Instead, with graceful timing, Alfred's polite knock at the door interrupted them.
That man was well worth his weight in gold, Thomas thought with an inner smile. The girl looked like she could kill him..and rightly so. No, this was not the mad rage of a broken thing, but the righteous fury of a young woman. Perhaps he had underestimated her. Perhaps he had misjudged how...tainted she had been.
Regardless, they had duties to fulfill.
They left the room, saying no more to one another. Alfred led them quietly back to the dining hall, where Patricia was waiting. Barbara exclaimed, seeing who else was there, sat talking with her.
"Ray?" she said, shocked.
"Hello, Babs." he said, his eyes sunken and bleary. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you again. I'm...sorry I haven't been in touch."
"Why don't you have a seat, Babs?" Patricia interrupted, though not unkindly. "They'll be serving some food shortly. Please sit down, Barbara." she said, more firmly.
Barbara sat down, her face a battlefield of emotions. Thomas sat himself. "Get me my whiskey." He hissed to Alfred, who looked at him with some alarm. "The Johnny Walker Red. I need my...medicine."
Alfred looked at him with concern, but obeyed. Not even Bruce knew that Thomas's drinking problem concealed something else. Something...incurable.
Time was running out for them all.
Ronan Sionis was sweating. How had everything gone so wrong? He remembered waking up after his encounter with that crazy bitch the Question, his men telling him the cops were coming and that there'd been some sort of brief gun-fight, some other figure pulling the Question clear before they could finish her off.
He swore, cursing his bad luck. Ever since the Wrath had started pulling apart his network he'd rapidly been losing friends throughout Gotham. Now here he was, a wanted man, hiding in one of the Penguin's safe-houses, a handful of loyal men staying with him uneasily.
He was perilously vulnerable, he knew. Yet he couldn't move from this place, this rat-trap in the heart of Gotham. His territory was now crawling with feds, his remaining friends in the GCPD having turned away, the legal system for once turned honest by the recent remarkable events.
Why'd the Dark Knight have to go and ruin everything? He thought to himself, pacing restlessly, his hands smoothing the worn and chipped mask locked around his scarred face. Once this city had been a haven for free business, a place where men like him could thrive, honest dishonesty, great crime families and entrepreneurs struggling for a share of the pie. But that damned caped crusader had shown up, and slowly but surely they'd begun to turn the tide.
But the Dark Knight had made a key mistake. He'd assumed that if you just brought down the crime families, if you struck fear into the criminals, then Gotham would be fixed. He'd been wrong, oh so wrong. The rot was ever so much deeper, and no matter how many street-thugs he beat up, how many crime-lords he threw behind bars, the broken foundations of Gotham's law and order let them all slip through the cracks, ready to emerge, stronger and more determined, from the shadows once more.
And then, just as the criminal order seemed on its last ropes, they'd turned in desperation to an outsider. A monster came, to fight this self-appointed hero. And there really was no going back from that.
"Turn the TV on. Let's see how far they've gotten this time." The Black Mask growled, and his henchmen, wary of his moods, complied.
"Gotham News. Now. I want to see what they're doing to my empire."
The television's screen flickered into life, and he could see the familiar face of Vicki Vale, standing outside his warehouse district. The DEA were still combing through them, even as the snow was beginning to fall. Another type of snow would fall soon, he knew, as they confiscated and destroyed what remained of his drug stockpiles. A winter's worth of profit destroyed. His empire was crumbling, and to add insult to injury, they'd frozen his assets. He seethed, yearning for revenge, some way of striking back at that bitch.
Was the Question Renee Montoya? Probably. The news was full of stories about her being dead, allegedly disappeared by his cartel. He couldn't remember ever killing anyone like that, but the timing was right. He ground his teeth, his hands gripping at the mask, pulling at it. He needed some way of venting his fury.
He couldn't sit here forever, waiting for the Penguin to decide what to do with his old rival. The old bird was probably waiting for the right moment to turn him over to the authorities. He wasn't going to let that happen.
"The DEA confirms that it is still on the hunt for the fugitive named Ronan Sionis, widely believed to be the notorious Black Mask. If you see this man or know any of his associates..."
That was it. He was done waiting. He pulled with frustration, but couldn't get the locking mechanism at the back off. He no longer cared to hide his deformity and his hatred from the world. They wanted a monster? He'd give them a monster.
"Take off my mask." he ordered. His henchmen looked to each other, uncertain. The Black Mask never took off his mask. They weren't even sure if it could be taken off.
"Do it!" he bellowed, and they reluctantly came up behind him, pulling at the tight catch that locked the iron mask around his face.
The Mask was more than a trademark. In many ways it freed him to be the criminal mastermind he had needed to be. But he needed a new freedom. The freedom to seek revenge.
Renee Montoya. The Wrath. The Penguin, and that idiot meddler the Riddler, all would have to die. Only then could he even begin to think about donning this mask again, and rebuilding his empire.
As the Mask clicked away, he felt cool air on his withered skin for the first time in many an age.
His remaining henchmen baulked, backing away from his hideous face.
"Fuck the FBI, the DEA, the ATF. There's one bitch I want dead, deader than dead. I want Renee Montoya's head on a fucking platter." he raged. "I still have money. She didn't get it all. The old vaults...put the word out, any and all channels that you can. Bring me the head of Renee Montoya and all her fucking friends, and I'll give it all, my whole fucking treasury."
"Yes Boss-"
"Do it NOW!" He roared, throwing the useless, heavy mask at them, sinking back into his chair. He was trapped in this hideout for now, but he would be damned if he would go down alone.
"From Hell's Heart I stab at thee..." he murmured to himself. "For hate's sake, I spit at thee, Renee Fucking Montoya."