And that's a wrap!
Finally! Almost an entire year later, but the end has come at last… I tried to clarify all the loose ends in this chapter, except for a thing or two – sequel anyone? So, the chapter turned out to be HUGE, but I figured this is best than cutting it in two, adding yet another chapter.
The Calculator, Lex Luthor, Talia, Marcus Driver, Jason Bard, Selina Kyle… they and others have moments in here – it's me trying to give readers a glimpse of how "the end" turns out to be with these characters. In the end, I guess Batman is one of the characters that are less contemplated, although, of course, he has his moments. Happy ending, you ask? Well, it depends on the point of view… :)
All and all, I hope you have fun with this end, and that it pleases you readers. Most of all, I thank you for being here with me during all this journey, I appreciate your patience, and I'm grateful to you guys that leave reviews or send me messages, often with kind words that help my writing get better. Big, big thanks.
Thank you so much for being here, and enjoy the end of this "Emotionally Involved".
AliaAtreidesBr
Gotham City
Two Years Ago
She looked the picture again, promising herself it would be the last time.
They looked happy… both so happy. She knew she was, because the memories of that day, although it had happened so many years ago, were fresh in her mind. It had been a wonderful day, hadn't it? He went to her house, and then they had taken the bus; he was so cheerful, so excited, so romantic… their first stop had been at the Robinson Park, where they sat on a bench and watched the sun goes down. Later, they crossed the street to dine in a small - but nice – Italian restaurant; they sat in a table outside, and while waiting for their order a young photographer offered to take their picture – for a dollar, she remembered perfectly, just like she remembered the young photographer had grey eyes, and just like she remembered how Noah smiled when she said that "it would be nice to have something to remember a special night like this one…"
Pressing the picture on her chest, her fingers convulsively grasping the old photograph, she took a deep breath and stepped forward. Enough of memories, enough of fears, enough of thinking about him… Never again.
It was the step beyond the balustrade of the roof, and she felt the nothingness under her foot. Nothing, nothing but the empty space, and the hard sidewalk twelve floors bellow. Goodbye, she silently said, to no one in particular. And then she dived, to the end of all things.
She woke up feeling something hard and cold against her back. Am I dead? But there was no pain, no fear, no light, nothing different from the regular, dull world she was used to. Up above, the place her eyes were staring at, the night sky remained the same: stars, full moon, not a single cloud. Beautiful, beautiful night.
"Lady", she heard someone calling. A feminine voice, subtle and low, strange, unnatural. "Lady, are you alright?"
In her clasped hands, the picture remained.
"Yes… I… I think I'm fine…" She straightened herself and sat, glancing around and easily recognizing her surroundings. No, it wasn't heaven, and she was almost a hundred per cent sure it wasn't hell either – although it was the closest thing to it. She was in an alley, the alley between the building she jumped from and the Wal-Mart. And not dead. Next to her, kneeled on the dirty floor she had been lying on, there was a woman – or at least seemed like a woman, although she wasn't sure. She had a cowl, after all, and big goggles; dressed all in black, in a dark place like that, it was hard to see her clearly. It looked like a woman, though, and sounded like one.
Besides, she had heard about that person, especially since she had moved to the East End: Catwoman, that's how people called her.
"Are you hurt? Feel any pain, or numbness, or problems to see…?"
"I'm alright!" She was, indeed, perfectly okay. Not a single scratch, not even a concussion or a minor internal wound. Facts that only caused her to feel like crying. "Thanks to you, right?"
Catwoman stood up, and answered the question with considerable caution. "Hm… yes…?"
The woman just nodded her head from side to side, a gesture that translated hopeless and undeniable desolation. "Why…?"
"Why?" Now standing, Catwoman was more visible under the moonlight, silver light reflecting on the glass of her goggles and revealing more of her physical features. The pale illumination showed she took the question with surprise, but that lasted only for an instant; soon a confident, playful smile highlighted the exposed portion of her appealing face. "Why not?"
"I jumped!"
"I know!"
She had nothing else to say; discuss with the Catwoman wouldn't take her anywhere – the place she thought to be visiting more frequently these days. Therefore, she just tossed the picture aside and used her hands to cover her tearful face. "Just... just leave me alone, okay?"
There was the almost imperceptible sound of Catwoman's boots lightly stepping on the floor, but she didn't go far:
"I can't", she said, now perhaps five feet from the woman. "I can't leave you like that... you... you'll do it again!"
The woman lowered her hands, revealing her misty eyes. "So what? This is not of your damn business! It's my choice!"
"Easy, lady! I'm just trying to help! I don't usually go around saving potential suicides, but I couldn't just watch you hit the cement and die, could I? I mean, who would just stand and do nothing...?"
"Everybody but you, apparently...!" She brushed the back of her hands over her wet face.
"Hey", Catwoman said, staring at the woman's left hand, "you're married!"
A sad, bitter smile was her only response to the statement.
"Is it him?" Now the vigilante's tone was grave, and she glanced down at the woman in eager anticipation for an answer.
"What...?" She looked confused for a moment, but, as she understood the meaning of Catwoman's words, she nodded her head from side to side in intense denial. "Oh, no, no! No, it's not his fault, poor Oliver! No, he doesn't even dream about this..."
"More like a nightmare, don't you think?"
The woman lowered her glance to stare at her own clasped hands, both resting on her lap. "Yes... poor Oliver... I... I don't want to leave him like that, all of the suddenly, but..."
Catwoman looked both incredulous and outraged:
"Are you serious? You were about to kill yourself! Do you have kids?" And just as the woman nodded her head again, now consenting, cold anger flashed in Catwoman's eyes. "What's wrong with you, lady? Don't you know what something like that can do to a child?"
"I thought about that!" She protested just as she stood up. "But I honestly think they will be better without me..."
"Did you ever ask them?"
The woman didn't answer; she merely walked a few steps, and retrieved the photograph she had tossed away herself.
"If you are depressed, sick, then you should seek help. There are people, places you can go..."
"No, there aren't." And as Catwoman looked both intrigued and offended, the woman proceeded. "I'm not just depressed... I'm..." She hesitated, and looked down at the picture in her hands.
"Please, go on." The vigilante's tone now made her insistent words sound like a soft request.
All the woman did in response was stretching her arm and show Catwoman the picture.
"It's you", she said, showing no special interest. "And who's that? Your husba...?"
Her words were cut abruptly, and her eyes widened in obvious shock. "The Calculator", she observed, and her tone translated anger and dismay.
"Yes. Noah. Not my husband... but the man I helped keep behind bars." The woman pressed her lips in expectancy. "The neighbor's kid... he was working for Oswald Cobblepot in the Iceberg, but he's always talking... he was always saying how he had met all kinds of famous people in the club, including criminals; and then, a week ago, during his mother's birthday party, he told everyone he had met 'The Calculator'...!" Again she covered her face with her hands, sobbing intensely. "And then... then... three days ago... he... he..."
"... was killed." Catwoman's features were solemn and grave.
"Yes." She lowered her hands, revealing a distraught, deeply troubled expression, tears running down her face. "They beat him to death, and his tongue had been cut off!"
"I see." Catwoman placed a clawed finger over her chin, and thought for a second. "Maybe I can help."
"How?"
"I'll find out what the kid said, and to who he said... shouldn't take long, Cobblepot's guys are a bunch of little girls. Then, shut the right lips - don't worry, I won't kill anyone, that's not what I do. Meanwhile, I'm afraid you'll have to convince your husband to move out of your apartment... I'll find another place in the East End for you guys, so it won't be too much trouble... besides, it's easier for me to keep an eye on you if you remain here..."
Although tears still fell from her eyes, the woman now allowed herself a smile, a smile that gradually widened, as she watched Catwoman in marveled disbelief. "Thank you", she muttered.
"No problem." Catwoman smiled. "It's what I do. Well, at least recently..." In a playful gesture, she blinked an eye; then, stretched her hand in offer of a handshake. "I'm the Catwoman, first and only; and you are...?"
She returned the friendly gesture.
"Beatrice Collins. But you can call me Bea."
Gotham City
Now
His eyes were heavy and itchy, his head was light, thoughts floating freely and incongruously, his tongue swollen and rough, and he felt his throat dry and sandy. There were discernible things, though; movements and sounds, light, shapes that slowly began to make sense... The thing on his face, for example, that was the first: a mask, a plastic mask, and its rubber strap that kept it tight and pressed against his face, covering his mouth and nose. Then, then he realized there were lights. Many bright lights above him, and he was looking directly at it, white and yellow brightness that was too close and shiny, and he laid down helpless under them.
He tried to move his head, but his neck hurt and he growled under the mask. Damn thing, uncomfortable and irritating... Raising his hand to remove it, he was surprised to notice he actually... couldn't. What?, he asked himself, maybe in thought, maybe out loud, he wasn't sure. Again he tried to move his hand, and again he couldn't; something, something around his wrist, something cold and hard, something that kept him from moving not only one arm, but, now he realized, both arms. In fact, an unpleasant knowledge was finally reaching him, an obnoxious reality: he was trapped.
"Oh", he heard a masculine voice manifesting somewhere close. Seconds later, and after quick and plain sounds that he understood as steps, an indistinct shape suddenly took claim of his view - the same individual he heard before. "How do you feel, Mr. Luthor?"
A man, definitely a man: he could see the outline of messy short hair and a well-defined, sharp chin. Something, probably a dark colored tie, hanged from the man's neck, its tip almost touching Luthor's forehead - still, the man seemed to wear some sort of heavy vest, and held what looked like a gas mask in his right hand.
"For a moment there, we thought we had lost you, Mr. Luthor. Quite a scare you gave us, you know?"
His tone, if anything, was jocular. However, a mask over his own face, and tied on what now seemed to be some kind of bed, Lex Luthor didn't have much to add or even how to respond to that man.
"But don't worry", the man proceeded, "you'll be fine, now. Well, at least your health will be fine; no permanent damage, it seems..."
As the man spoke, Lex gradually felt memories and images coming back to him. Yes, he had been in danger; yes, he did remember something like that... he was in Noah's house, and then... then...
"The poisonous gas was dreadful", the man said, almost like he was able to read Luthor's thoughts. "It works fast, and, quite frankly, you would be dead in a matter of minutes..."
His eyes getting used to the lights, Lex could now finally have a better look of his surroundings: small and uncomfortable, with medical equipment and machines all around him. An ambulance, he reasoned. I'm in an ambulance. Of course. He had been poisoned, Noah had done it...
"It was a good thing that my boss took you out of that house so fast; you see, the Calculator had a contingency plan that would blow his house and the whole neighborhood in pieces - starting with you, of course, since you were crawling in Kuttler's living room pissing yourself and throwing up your guts out."
Luthor protested with a grunt and indiscernible noises, the plastic mask making impossible for him to form clear words.
"Now, now, Mr. Luthor... you shouldn't get angry!" The man patted Lex's left hand, a gesture that was anything but friendly: mockery, that was what Luthor read in the apparent kindness. Who are you?, he wanted to ask. A cop? And who was his boss? He had never seen the man before, he had no registers of that person, and he didn't look like a metahuman...
"Like I was saying, you're a very lucky man... The boss took you out and avoided the explosion - imagine how many would get hurt if he hadn't!"
Luthor felt and unpleasant sensation in his stomach. The man, however, simply smiled.
"Your heart monitor shows the news affected you, Mr. Luthor... Are you glad? Happy that many were saved? Thrilled that not one piece of evidence was destroyed?"
Lex remained in silence and immobile.
"I hate to disappoint you, but I'm afraid I have bad news... Our little friend Noah was a smart-ass, and he erased all data in his computers... He is some sort of genius, isn't he?" The man scratched his chin, and glanced at Luthor for a few moments. He seemed to be wondering about something, doubt in his eyes... but that didn't last long. He nodded his head from side to side and laughed. "Ah... what the hell! The boss told me I should keep my mouth shut, but you know what? I can't'. I just can't! I can't see a son of a bitch like you thinking you've won once again..."
He moved to a point where his head was just above Lex's, their eyes in direct contact, his hands placed on both sides of Luthor's head. He was close, uncomfortably close, and Lex couldn't avoid the unpleasant sensation of vulnerability that took him.
"We found your disk, Luthor. Yes, we did! You were holding it 'til you passed out, moron, and there's enough info in there to send both you and your buddy Noah to prison for life...! Isn't that sweet?"
The ambulance stopped, and Luthor heard the back doors being opened. That was a good thing: he was feeling incredibly cold, and his body trembled like he was convulsing; there was a pressure on his chest, and he could hardly breathe...
A feminine voice spoke:
"Give space to the paramedics, Bard! You're in the way!"
The man above him answered the woman by stepping back, though he also said, in a jocular tone:
"Are you sure about this, Romy? It is Lex Luthor... No one here would say anything against you guys if you dropped him on his bold head..."
"Shut up, Bard, and say goodbye. Next time you meet Lex, well, it will either behind bars or in court."
"No Waldorf-Astoria for you, Mr. Luthor... not in this life." The man called Bard waved a cynical goodbye.
Luthor saw doctors around him, paramedics dressed in orange and an ER doctor in his green outfit. They were removing him from the ambulance, voices around him listing his vital signs and symptoms, the confusion of an ordinary hospital in one of the dirty and pitiful neighborhoods of that disgusting city called Gotham... Hell indeed, Noah, he thought while remembering the last words he heard from the Calculator before passing out. The situation was hell, and he could already predict how hard and troublesome would be to get out of it. Damn Gotham City, he should know better, he should know better than leave his territory, following the ideas of that insane, bratty Talia. Spoiled girl... She would get her piece of his revenge when all was over...
"Heard the good news, Lex?" It was the man called Bard speaking again: he was walking on his side, his head invading his view yet again, despite the doctors' protests. "When Gotham PD is done with collecting evidence, I can keep your Rolls!"
It's Hell, in the most literal sense of the word.
He stared at the wine in his glass for long minutes, gently swaying it in his hand, the vividly red liquid dancing elegantly in its vessel. Then, he brought the glass close to his nostrils, slowly absorbing the strong, accentuated scent. He smiled - satisfaction, pleasure, an expression of placid, deep delight. Finally, his lips lightly touching the crystal glass, he tasted the wine; a brief, carefully planned drink, and he took a few seconds to simply swallow it. When he did, however, he showed a look of approval, nodding his head as he seemed to intimately endorse the beverage he had just tasted.
"Wonderful", was his final statement. He raised the glass to watch it through the light of a lamp next to his chair. "Perfect, Talia; just like everything else, by the way."
"Thank you, Noah", replied a feminine, musical voice. "I'm glad we could live up to your expectations..."
She was sat on a divan, not far from him, in a luxuriously decorated room. The furniture basically consisted of original pieces of German design - mostly from the early 20's -, Bauhaus style, and the paintings on the walls followed the same tendency: Kandinsky, Klee, Chagall. All in that place spoke of money and sophistication, with a personal touch that was undeniably feminine and gentle. They were in a boat, after all - an iate, as Talia accurately defined when Noah came on board -, but they could easily be in a Mediterranean mansion or château, giving the extravagance and sumptuosity of the place.
And that was something that Noah, the Calculator, deeply appreciated.
"You're always above expectations, my dear." Again he drank from the crystal glass. "Excellent wine...Bordeaux?"
"Chianti Superiore, actually." A half-smile of scorn punctuate her words.
He felt his face burn under her glance. "I see. Well, never had the most refined palate, I'm afraid."
"An honest mistake, Noah." She leaned over the divan, lying on her side, her head supported on her left hand, eyes on her guest. "We're all allowed a few mistakes in life, isn't that right?"
The Calculator smirked, placing his glass on the small table next to his chair:
"A single mistake could be a fatal one for people like us."
"Indeed. But that's why we always have a plan B, yes?"
An open smile on his lips, the Calculator relaxed in his chair. "Ah, yes... And you take all the credit on this one, my dear friend; if not for your boat, pardon me, iate, I would have been in trouble... Luthor managed to sabotage all my escape routes."
"Well, that's Lex for you." She assumed a serious, resentful expression. "He knows no limits when he is after destroying someone."
"So I see."
Talia rose from the divan, and, pressing a few buttons in an electronic panel on the wall, music started playing.
"This one I know", Noah joyfully observed. "Debussy, of course, in 'Berceuse...
"... 'Héroïque'. Yes, you're right. Good ears."
"Thank you." He stared at her, somewhat intrigued. "Interesting choice, if I may... he wrote this piece during the First World War, I'm sure you know."
"In honor of Albert I of Belgium and his men... Yes, I'm aware of it."
"I guess it was supposed to be glorious... However, when hearing it, I find it full of..."
"Anguish."
"Yes, that too." He sighed. "'Certain death, uncertain time'..."
"Aren't we gloomy tonight?" She was smiling again, and walked with no hurry along the room to finally seat on the divan again. Meanwhile, the Calculator seemed lost in thoughts.
"Tell me, Noah", she said after a few minutes. "Why did you risk the comfortable situation you were?"
"What do you mean?" He turned his eyes from the wine in his hands to glance at Talia.
"I mean, things were all right for you, you had enough money to make Luthor envy, and conquered a respectable position among our... well, peers. So, why care about an ex-girlfriend that was just a fat cow drowning in mediocrity?"
"Honestly?"
"Yes, please."
He took a deep breath.
"I don't know."
Talia's laugh was loud and carried obvious incredulity. "Oh, Noah... Do you take me for a fool?"
"Don't know what you mean", he said, his eyes avoiding hers.
She interrupted her laughing at once, and stared at him coldly.
"You wish me to believe you had Beatrice Collins murdered for nothing but the fact that she rejected you in the past?"
"She didn't reject me..." His words came from clenched teeth and an infuriated expression. "She betrayed me!"
Talia observed him in silence, a grave look in her eyes.
"I couldn't forgive something like that." He took a drink from his glass, but now he showed no signs that he enjoyed it. In fact, taking from the painful expression in his face, one would think he had just swallowed a razor blade, not wine. "There are some things... some things that, no matter how much time passes, we just can't bring ourselves to forget."
"Hey, Kuttler!"
Noah looked over his book to glance at officer O'Neal, who stood on the door of his cell with an annoyed expression across his ugly face.
"Get up, trash!" The door had been opened, and the prison guard impatiently tapped his foot on the floor, one hand resting on the metallic door frame. "Hurry up, and quit wasting my time!"
Noah yawned, and put his book aside. He lazily and slowly left his bed, first seating on its edge, then getting up – what he did without urgency, calmly putting his shoes on, carefully tying his shoelaces, and then buttoning up the shirt of his prisoner's uniform.
"God dammed, Kuttler! Just get over here and let's go!" The man suggestively lowered his hand to the bludgeon on his belt. "Now!"
"All right, all right…!" He stood up and approached the guard in short steps.
"Hm", O'Neal groaned, a suspicious look in his eyes, "not so close, moron!"
Noah pretended surprise. "Sorry, sir…! I didn't realize…"
Stepping back, he offered both hands and stretched arms, waiting for the heavy handcuffs to be closed around his wrists. He watched attentively while the officer examined and tested the locks, and humbly obeyed when the man told him to walk; the guard followed him close behind.
"Where we going, sir?" He asked in his softest tone.
The officer answered by hitting with a solid fist the metal plaque where the words "visiting area" could be read. "Where do you think, evil genius?"
Noah simply smiled.
They finally reached the entrance to the visiting room, a passage guarded by four heavily armed and armored officers, who seemed to protect an equally heavy door. Reinforced steel, bullet proof glass, and digital recognition lock: it was Blackgate's visiting area, a place that was anything but inviting.
"Behave", O'Neal told him before allowing him to enter the room.
"Please…" Noah showed the guard a smile of disdain. Then, disregarding the reaction of the officer, he marched to one of the chairs placed near the glass that separated prisoners and outside visitors.
There was no one on the other side, but that didn't seem to disturb Noah Kuttler; he placed both hands on his lap, finger tips touching each other, and kept his eyes on the visitor's entrance on the other side of the glass. Soon enough he heard the sounds of steps, and a slender, feminine silhouette entered the room. Noah smiled again, but now it wasn't the malicious smile he usually had for his antagonists and enemies: it was a smile of nothing but happiness.
He eagerly took his side of the phone communicator and placed over his ear. On the other side, seeming less anxious, although deeply gloomy, a young woman sat and took the phone next to her.
"Hi", she said in a tender, hesitant tone.
"Hi there", Noah replied, apparently unaware of the girl's vacillation. "How are you?"
She said nothing for a few seconds, lowering her eyes so she wouldn't be looking at him.
"Jules?"
"Sorry", she waved her head, removing a hair lock that had been falling over her eyes. Then, she smiled: a sad, sorrowful smile. "I'm okay, Noah. I'm fine."
"Honestly?" He didn't seem to believe her. "You look troubled… Something wrong?"
"No. No, it doesn't matter." She stared at Noah with seriousness, and bit her lower lip. "We need to talk, okay?"
"Sure, sweetheart." His own tone was soft, but he frowned.
"I've been talking to your lawyer, Noah…"
Those words seemed to annoy him: "Not that idiot!"
"Noah… Noah, listen to me…"
"Why have you been talking to him, anyway?!? I already fired the guy…!"
"Noah, please!"
Her plea was made in such a painful voice he had to quiet down and listen.
"Thank you." She gave him a brief half-smile. "I just went there because he asked me to, Noah. Someone from the D.A. Officer had talked to him, and…"
"I won't make any deals", he simply stated in a cold tone.
The woman, however, stared at him in shocked disbelief. "Listen to me! It's a good…"
"No."
"But Noah, all they want is that you give them the blueprints of that machine you built, and then…"
"No! Read my lips, Julienne: no, no, no, no, NO!" His closed fist hit the wall next to him, and bloody spots of open wounds showed on his knuckles. "I'll never kneel to this system that supports the so called 'heroes'… Can't you it's them? They want to know how I did it, they want to rob my brilliant machine…!"
"They?"
"Yes, Julianne, they! They: Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, they! The glorified wannabe-gods, the tyrannical dictators in our society! The 'Justice' League!"
"Noah…" She sighed deeply, and covered her eyes with one hand. "You're being paranoid again… It's such a simple thing! If you do that, they said you just have to stay in prison for another year, and…"
"Never, Jules. Never."
"I feared you would say that." Her eyes misted, she again lowered her head to avoid his glance. "I can't live like this anymore, Noah… in fear!"
"What… what you're talking about...?"
"It's not only the police or the Justice League that wants your blueprints, Noah! There are crazy people out there, criminals, and they want it too… I've moved eight times since you were arrested, and I don't think this will ever end…" She took a handkerchief from her bag, and used it to dry the tears on her face.
"Camon, Jules… I told you already! There's nothing to fear! I have a good thing going on here, and a new idea for making a living when I'm out… Everything is gonna be fine, you just have to be patient…"
"No. I can't wait anymore. I don't want to."
Noah's expression froze in shock, his features loosing all color. "What… what do… do you mean?"
"They offered me a deal too, Noah."
He stood up in a sudden move, so abruptly the chair he was sat on fell back. "Don't do that, Julienne."
"I'm sorry, Noah. I came here to talk to you, see if you would do it yourself… and to try make you understand. I'm sorry." Her cry became more intense, tears running freely down her cheeks. "I really am sorry…!"
"Don't do it, Julienne! Don't betray me!" He punched the bullet proof glass, punishing his own knuckles more and more: blood marks stained the glass surface, and came down his arm in trails or red. "Don't do it! I'll never forgive you if you do it!"
She watched in silence while he screamed, and her painful look slowly gave place to an expression of pity and disgust.
"I deserve better, Noah."
Without another word, she placed the phone back in place, and waved him a silent goodbye.
"Fascinating", Talia said, her gaze lost somewhere on the walls behind Noah.
"That's hardly how I would describe it."
She laughed, a musical laugh that, never the less, didn't bring any pleasure to her guest; he was, in fact, bitterly staring at his glass again, now an empty vessel with only traces of the rich wine that filled it moments ago.
"Noah, please... You must be capable of seeing the irony in all that!"
"Irony?" He raised his glance to look at her, an unfriendly expression in his dull eyes. "All I see is an ungrateful tramp and her big mouth." Sighting, he added in a cooler tone: "Who's not around anymore, at least... Small blessings."
Talia watched as the Calculator stood and walked a few steps to the small bar on a corner of the room; there, he helped himself with more wine, and sat on one of the tall benches of the mini bar.
"Well, I wasn't referring to that..."
Although Noah seemed absorbed in thoughts, he was less oblivious than he looked, as demonstrated by a movement of brows that suggested he was intrigued by her words. "Go on", he said.
"You see, Noah", she proceeded just as she sat straight on the couch and crossed her legs, assuming an amused expression. "I think it's ironic that you, so concerned about your 'position' in this world, risked all for that mythical, intangible force called love..."
"Oh, please!" He interrupted her with his words said too loud, and with a hand gesture that meant only disdain. "Don't be a woman and play the 'crime of passion' card on me! It was more than that, of course! The woman just knew too much, and..."
"Shut up, Calculator." Her tone was decisive and definitive; hard and rough, a cold snap to his ears. He said nothing more, somewhat surprised and - why not? - shocked by her sharp reaction. Talia, however, didn't show any changes in her relaxed, confident features, and just kept talking:
"We all know why you did it, even if you don't... or rather try to ignore. You're a proud man, Noah; I know, I'm a proud person myself. And I'm kind of experienced in love disappointments."
"Talia...", he risked. He was now seating on the edge of his seat, and nervously tapping his fingers over the counter. Talia's tone had changed in a way he couldn't quite place, but it was disturbing never the less.
"I understand, Noah. More than you can imagine." She raised from the divan, that tall, sinuous woman. Dressed all in black and leather, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders and covering the right side of her face. A gorgeous woman, no doubt, armed and trained, dangerous - only now Noah seemed aware of that fact. All and all, she wasn't that different from...
"You were angry; you were hurt. She hurt you, didn't she? Betrayed your trust, allied with your enemies. Oh, Noah, she deserved what she got..." Talia approached him slowly, an enigmatic smile on her lips. "I sympathize, my friend. I really do."
Her left hand touched his face, cold, delicate fingers on his skin. For Noah, however, this wasn't pleasant; it was tense, strange, and, despite the fact he had no rational reason to believe it, he anticipated that something bad was about to come.
"You suffered, I know. The pain she caused you... they caused you, isn't that right?"
"It's not like that...", he managed to say, but she wasn't done with the talking, and didn't seem interested in listening. Talia merely nodded her head side to side, and her smile appeared crueler than ever:
"You were unlucky, Noah. Always were."
He planned to move, but she was faster, so much faster than he ever was or could be: a gun was suddenly pointed to his face, the metal almost touching his forehead.
"You're not going somewhere, are you Noah?" She bent her head a few inches to her right, her dark eyes studying his movements and reactions.
"What are you doing?!?" There was nothing fake in his insulted expression and tone.
Talia stared the Calculator in silence for a few seconds, her features taken by unreadable feelings. Her eyes narrowed, and they seemed to spark as she pressed her lips together, undetectable thoughts rumbling in her mind. Still, moments later she took a deep breath and spoke:
"You did it for love, Noah. So did he. So did I."
"What are you talking ab..."
"I was the one that told Luthor everything, Calculator." Her tone was piercing cold, emotionless, mean in its lack of feeling.
He frowned. "How could you, Talia...?"
"I told you already."
Still pointing her gun to his head, she stepped back a few feet. Noah allowed himself to breathe again.
"We were partners, Talia. We had a good thing going on..."
"Love and the past, Noah. Love and the past." Again she nodded her head, and she seemed unsure as she slowly lowered her gun; her features were strangely trapped between a sardonic smile and a grieving look. "It's always what ruins it, isn't it? Thus the irony..."
She turned her back on him.
"Talia?", he risked, just as he reached to grab the bottle of Chianti.
"I could never deny him this, could I?"
Noah swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. What kind of nightmare is this?, he allowed himself to wonder. All seemed familiar, perhaps too familiar, and he could guess - again! - what was about to come. Miscalculations, always a small, tiny miscalculation, something he wasn't aware of, and something that would mean the end of so many beautiful plans... Or was his own pride, his wounded feelings that brought the disgrace of his meticulously designed projects? Next time, next time he should consider this, this variable he had chosen to ignore. Next time...
The door on his left burst open, the loud noise of a sudden kick that shattered the refined wood. Talia slightly turned to face the entrance, but Noah didn't do the same; he bit his lower lip, and dropped the bottle he had just armed himself with. He wasn't wrong to suppose that the door frame revealed a dark, tall silhouette with blank eyes - eyes that carried a gaze full of hate and resent for him, a gaze that would be followed by a rude grasp he knew too well, a grasp of hands that could easily injure and wound, bringing pain, pain, and pain again.
It didn't worth a fight.
"Calculator", a husky voice claimed the room, "you come with me!"
And Noah knew he had no choice. Still, before Batman covered the three steps between them, the Calculator glanced at Talia. She too was looking at his direction, and, sensing his thoughts were on her, she said:
"Planning another revenge, Noah?"
He smiled, one last smile before the shadows closed around him.
"Oh no, Talia. I think I've finally learned my lesson."
"Thank you", I tell the butler as he offers my scotch on-the-rocks on a silver tray.
"You are welcome, Mr. Bard."
He's so English in his accent and clothes, so classic and... well, out of place in this century that I can't avoid staring at him for longer than I should. I accept the drink he offers, and watch while he walks to the other side of the room to deliver a cup of tea to Miss Dubrovna. Now, that's the one I should be watching, right?
We're in one of the probably many rooms in the house – Wayne Manor is the fancy name of this huge place. The butler was the one that opened the door, so polite and tidy that I felt ashamed for the mud on my shoes and the wrinkles on my shirt. I introduced myself, and he didn't seem surprised; then, he led the way upstairs, taking me to this atrium: it's not like the rest of the place, grave and dark; no, here the big windows are open, a pleasant breeze reminding me is summer is ending and fall is already here. Walls are clear, painted in white, and the furniture is light; two chairs, one I'm sat on, and a chaise longue where Irena Dubrovna already occupied when I arrived. She's light too: her skin is pale, and she has green eyes that shine. She didn't rise to greet me, and I can guess why – sixty eight days in a hospital bed can take much of your strength. I know she's probably much thinner and weaker than she has ever been in her life, but, since I've never met her in person before, I can't help find her a beauty anyway. And I can just imagine how gorgeous this woman was – and will be – in regular clothes and in a hearty mood, out of a night gown and robes, her legs not covered by a blanket, but exposed, healthily carrying her around.
Now she looks at me, drinking her tea with elegance, and I look back while wondering about how much self-control she has. I mean, I've been shot before, and I know damn well she can't be completely cured, healed, free of pain. Hell, my leg is hurting now, and I'm sure her arm, her back, her chest, are hurting to.
So, yes, I sympathize. I shouldn't, because I'm here working, and also because this is Wayne Manor, the house where Dick Grayson – Barbara's ex, and, unfortunately, the guy she actually loves and the one I could never live up to – grew up, and, in fact, is visiting right now. Still, I sympathize; no matter that I'm uncomfortable among rich people, or that Grayson may walk into this room at any moment... I focus on the woman ahead, her green-green eyes, and this situation is not so awkward. To be honest, is truly enlightening – I now can finally understand, see why the boss has been so devoted to this case, why he cares so much.
It's her. It's all about her.
"So, Mr. Bard", she talks to me, and I'm obligated to keep my thoughts from drifting into funny directions. "I'm guessing you have news for me, isn't that right?"
"Please, call me Jason... and yes, Ms. Dubrovna, I've got news for you; and good news, I dare say."
"Good, hm?" She smiled, a smile that would go unnoticed if I didn't have my eyes fixed on her, following even the slightest movement. "Let's hear it."
"We got him, madam."
"Got him?"
I smirk, and feel somewhat stupid for doing it; there's nothing to laugh about in here, I know this much, but I can't help it.
"Yes, madam. We got him, the guy that..." I gasp, and realize I'm without words. Suddenly I see that what I'm telling her is not actually something good, but something rather tragic; she was shot, almost died, and now I'm here telling her about the monster that did that to her. Those were awful news, even though, in my conscious, I believe it's something she has to know.
"The man that had me shot." She simply stated. Not a blink, not a drop of sweat, not even a minor disturbance in her expression. Serious and grave, yes, but balanced and controlled. Not even rage, not even that I see in her eyes; she's not surprised or scared – she's interested, and that's all.
"Yes, Miss Dubrovna."
"I see." She places her tea cup on her lap, and I notice how she avoids my eyes. Then, she asks me something, and I just can't tell if she's doing it because she's curious or just because she wants me distracted, maybe doing something other than stare at her: "How did that go?"
"Complex..." I smile, now genuinely, and see myself taking a deep breath; hell, I'm tired, had no idea of how tired I am. Don't think I've slept in the last couple days, and now I feel those long hours of work and tension catching up. "But successful, never the less."
"Glad to hear it." Her lips move graciously again, and this warms my spirit, somehow.
"It couldn't go any other way."
"You'll have to explain yourself, Jason."
She wants me to think I've lost her, but I know I haven't; no, she gets all too well, and so do I. Still, I pretend to believe her 'pretty-and-dumb' act:
"Sorry, madam... Should've explained better." I say as I rub my wet palms on my trousers. "You see, son of a bitch that did that... perhaps you've heard about him. He's a guy that likes to call himself The Calculator, believe it or not."
"Calculator? Fancy name..."
I realize she's trying to be humorous, but I notice how she involuntarily frowned, and the twitch in the corners of her mouth; she's hating this.
"Never heard of him before?"
"No, I don't think so." She raised the tea cup to her mouth again, making it impossible for me to read her features.
Smart lady.
"Are you sure? His real name is Noah Kuttler, and he's notoriously known as a 'villain' from years ago... Had a ridiculous uniform with a computer on his chest, and he even fought members of the Justice League..."
"Noah Kuttler, you say?" She looks outside the open window, eyes staring at the blue clear sky, and while seeming to search her mind for information, she gently moves on her seat, as she tries to find a more comfortable position. "Maybe I did hear about him..."
"Oh, really?" I wanted to sound interested, but I can't avoid the feeling that my words sounded sardonic instead. She pretends not to hear it, of course, but I know she did; I see how her neck goes stiff, and something flushes behind the emeralds she has for eyes. But she says nothing at first, and when she finally does, she sounds gentle as always.
"Beatrice... she mentioned someone in her past with that name."
"Beatrice Collins, you mean?" It's my turn to fake surprise. After all, I'm not supposed to know much about her. I do, however; I'm no fool, and I'm a detective – that's about all I am, and I shouldn't fail, at least not in that. "Saying you knew each other, then..."
"We did." Again she turns to face me, or finally – I was eager to see her face again, her eyes on mine. Perfect eyes, that's what they are. They don't betray her, and say only what she means to say. Pretty, dangerous things, the eyes of a woman like that.
"Cops knew nothing about that."
"But Batman does", she stated with simplicity.
And I get scared, of course.
"It's alright, detective." She smiles, a smile of humble pleasure, showing at once she's having fun with my confusion, but not too much, just enough to make her look charming, and not cocky. "I understand your connections to our vigilante friend... as well as the fact that he, and you by his orders, have been working in my case."
"Well, yes... I didn't realize you and the boss knew each other so... much."
Now she laughs; I'm ready to feel offended, but she explains:
"I don't know him, detective... Not in the usual sense of the word, at least. We've met; I guess that's the most accurate definition." She narrows at me, and I finally understand she's reading my reactions; I'm the subject of investigation, for a change – and this makes me feel weird, by the way. "You've been working for the guy, haven't you? You've probably realized that 'to know' the Batman is something very few could say they do... if anyone, I wonder."
She makes sense and, although I've my own guesses about this whole deal, I know there's truth in her words. Gotham Police had investigated the whole case without a clue of why Ms. Dubrovna was attacked, but I had had this advantage – the Bat told me there was a connection between her and Betrice Collins. It took me a while to find out, but, once Romy Chandler came with the information that inoffensive and ordinary Mrs. Collins actually was – or had been – one certain Julienne Vinneyard (whose life had surely been much less inoffensive and ordinary than presumed), I started to have my own thoughts on the subject.
"Yeah... He's the 'mysterious-and-silent' type." Acting unconsciously, I take a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. "Must drive the ladies crazy, hm?"
"I couldn't say." Her smile is so ambiguous that I, for once, don't know what to think. She glances at the cigarette between my fingers: "No smoking, please."
"Sorry", I say, the damn thing already hanging on my lips.
"It's okay. I've no problem with smokers, but you know... doctor's orders."
"Sure, madam."
I hear steps on the other side of the door, and I know it's not the butler: sounds like snickers, their rubber scratching the wooden floor. I turn to look when the door opens – the person who does that didn't see any need to knock before entering -, but not without noticing how she doesn't look a bit surprised by the interruption. A young man enters the room, and he carries a small child in his arms. For a moment I fear it's the Grayson guy (something of a nightmare, the man approaching with a baby and telling, all smiles, about how he and Babs are already married and have a kid; I flinch at the mere thought), but in a few seconds I realize I'm wrong. This is a teenager, around sixteen or seventeen, and barely has beard on his chin; Timothy Drake, I tell myself. Like Grayson had been, he's now Bruce Wayne's ward, and lives in the mansion since he became an orphan – something bizarre happened to his father, murdered by a presumably retired Captain Boomerang, if I recall well. Yes, I did my homework, because I never enter a household without knowing what waits for me... and that's why I also know who the child is, this baby girl that giggles with her arms stretched to her mother: Helena, Irena Dubrovna's daughter.
"Look who's already awake", the boy says, and his tone is gentle and caring. He cares about this little girl, obviously, and this reminds me they've been living under the same roof for months, now. Still, most teenage boys aren't fond of babies – this is clearly not the case here. Drake seems perfectly comfortable with the child in his arms, something that adds years to his juvenile features.
"Hey, sweetie!" Irena immediately takes the child, greeting her with the most sincere and open smile I've seen in her lips. She didn't stand up – I know she wanted to.
The kid delivers the baby to the mother, and right after that his attention is on me. He glances at me, and I see nothing young in his sky-blue eyes.
"Hello", I say to him. I know too well the kind of look he has for me, suspicious and wary, like I'm an intruder in this luxurious paradise of a house – which, of course, I am. So I smile politely as I greet him, and stretch my hand in a friendly gesture, knowing he won't be able to refuse my courteous move.
"Hey", he answers, and returns my hand-shake by firmly grasping my hand. Kids... He wants to show me he is the boss here, the "man of the house"; I can see he's not a goofy teenager, and I understand the message: boundaries. It's all about boundaries.
"Jason Bard. I'm with Gotham PD."
"Oh, really?" He smiles, a polite, curious smile, a perfect interpretation of a young man interested in cops and their exciting lives fighting crime... but I know it is, never the less, just an act. I see his eyes, and I know I saw something there; a strange, weird look, like he wasn't surprised with what I said, but remembered he was supposed to be. It was like... he knew me, somehow. Knew who I was. And what I'm doing here.
"Really. I'm a private detective, actually, but I sometimes work with cops and give them a hand..."
"Like a consultancy, hm?"
I like the way the kid thinks.
"Yes, sort of."
"Nice." He turns back to Miss Dubrovna, who now seems to be having lots of fun with her baby girl clapping hands and singing a song – can't understand a word the child is saying, but I guess it's kind of cute anyway. We, the boy and I, watch mother and daughter for a while, and it really is an hypnotizing thing: mom tickles, baby giggles, kisses and kisses, laughs, baby speaks things I don't get, mom thinks it's hilarious... more kisses, hugs, the boy smiles and, hell, I do too. The woman is beautiful, what can I say? She is beautiful, and, considering all that happened, and how she's still in recovery, she has an aura of melancholy and tragedy around her, things that add drama to the whole picture – and, well, deep inside, I'm a sentimental guy.
"Irena." It's the Drake kid calling, again using that serene, tender tone he seems to assume when talking to Miss Dubrovna and her daughter. "Shouldn't you be resting right now? The doctor will be here to see you any minute, and..."
Wait. Wait, I tell myself; there's something strange in the way the boy speaks. It's supposed to be casual, it's intended to sound like a concerned friend, and it actually does... but there's more.
"Yes, Tim, I know... I'm just finishing with Jason here, and I'll go lye down for a while..."
There. There, I saw. The way she glanced down when she spoke my name, and how the kid slightly, almost imperceptibly nodded his head. That was a sign, a sign between them, or I'm no detective at all.
"Okay. I'll leave you to it, then."
Timothy Drake walks out of the room, and you know what? I've a bad feeling about this... This kid, he's no regular sixteen years old, like Miss Dubrovna over there is more than just a single mom that was merely unlucky to end as target of a crazy bastard.
"Sorry to keep you here, Miss Dubrovna", I speak before she has a chance to, because I know that if I don't take the lead now, she will, and it will mean the end of my investigation. "I have just a couple more questions, and..."
"I thought you were here to give me news, Jason... thought you were the one giving me the answers." Her smile is gentle and adorable, but her eyes, her eyes are smart and penetrating, and they tell me she knows exactly what I want. Yeah, no point in hiding my game anymore...
"Well, yes... but that's not all." I smile back, though it's obvious that there's a tension in the room: even the child, the baby girl that was laughing and talking just seconds ago, now seats quietly on her mother's lap, her big eyes staring at me, a concentrated, austere one year old that seems to be judging me severely.
What's wrong with everybody in this house? No one looks their own age, or fit their given stereotype...
"It's not all?" She wraps her arms around the baby, bringing her closer to her body. "I thought Batman had sent you here..."
Okay, now she got me. She went straight to the point, making just the right question that will make me look bad... Gee, the woman is smart as the devil...
"He didn't exactly send me, madam..."
I see all color leave her face, and she presses her lips together in a straight, tense line.
"I thought it would be the right thing to do, tell you in first hand about Kuttler's arrest. And I've no doubt my boss thinks the same..."
"He didn't send you, did he?"
I can't fight or escape the direct question.
"No, he didn't", I answer after a prolonged sigh. I looked down to my own hands, fingers wrapped in each other, resting on my lap; she is furious, I know, she must be, furious and, perhaps, disappointed. Yeah, I'm too old in this game to feel bad about what I did... but I'm not proud either. And I certainly don't feel like looking into her eyes right now. "But there are things in this case, Miss Dubrovna, that weren't explained yet... questions that need answers."
She doesn't say a word; if not for the occasional babbling sounds little Helena makes, the room would be taken by a heavy and uncomfortable silence. I know she's thinking about throwing me out of the house, and I'm expecting the moment she will tell me to leave – what I don't get is why she hasn't done that yet. Therefore, I must use this moment of hesitance, this slight advantage I have:
"Your life isn't exactly an open book, Miss Dubrovna..."
"So?" She cuts me before I can end my sentence, and I realize my words affected her somehow.
"So, it has been hard for the police, or even me, to understand why the Calculator wanted you dead."
I raise my glance to watch her face: impassible, pale, and now taken by a cold expression.
"Do the insane need reason for acting the way they do?"
Pretty words, but even I can see she doesn't believe in them.
"He certainly is crazy, madam; never the less, this 'insane' man always plans carefully his actions, and, in the last years, developed a network of contacts and services for the underworld like we've never seen before." I stare the green emeralds she has for eyes, now two pools of choler and apprehension. "I hardly think your attack was the fruit of random insane behavior on his part."
She returns my glance with silence, and we look at each other for a few moments. I'm expecting anything: a burst of anger, yells, security entering the room. I'm surprised, however, to see she just kisses her child, and speaks to me in her usual, slightly sarcastic tone:
"And I hardly think that, as a victim, I should be the one to find an explanation for my aggressor's behavior."
"Agreed." Because I really do, but that's beside the point. "However, I'm curious on how do you know Mrs. Collins. Because, in a matter of fact, you haven't lived in East End Gotham for a while, have you? You say you knew Beatrice Collins, and that she even mentioned Noah Kuttler to you... but no one in her family, or among friends, seems to remember you, or even remembers Beatrice mentioning you..."
"What's going on here?"
I'm interrupted by a door suddenly bursting open and a male, enraged voice. It belongs to a young man, tall, slender and, I hate to admit, good-looking. He's dressed in what looks like an outfit for jogging, a black sleeveless shirt and blue paints, and his dark hair falls in disorder around his tempestuous expression – he seems both outraged and irritated, and all this anger, of course, is directed at none other than me.
"Good morning, Mr. Grayson." I stand and reach a hand, doing just what I've been whishing I didn't have to. "I'm..."
"Jason Bard", he finishes my sentence. Then, he's glancing at me from head to feet, measuring me, judging me, perhaps wondering how he would take me down if he had to; I'm, sure enough, doing the same. "I know who you are. What I don't know is what you're doing here."
"I'm a private detective", I say it like it explains something.
"I don't care what you are... This is a private domicile, and you shouldn't be here!"
Although I know I shouldn't, I can't avoid putting my wryest smile on when I speak. "I didn't break in, you know? 'Knocked on the door like good manners told me to, and..."
"And", it's Irena Dubrovna suddenly talking, and she has managed to stand up too, her baby on her arms, putting herself between me and Mr. Right, who looks like is about to jump over me and bite my neck, "he was about to leave, anyway."
Grayson obviously don't want to take his suspicious eyes from me, but he can't help it: his infuriated expression changes into a preoccupied one as he turns to face the woman, and he stretch his arms to put them around the faltering Miss Dubrovna.
"You... you shouldn't stand up like that! And carrying Helena...!"
"Dick, please!"
Her tone is not rude or harsh, but she speaks to Grayson in a stubborn, resolute voice. She accepts the support of his arms, but is less then happy to realize she indeed needs it, and the color returns to her face as result of irritation and exasperation. I had figured it out already, but now I've my confirmation: she hates being a victim, and she hates the fact she constantly needs help.
"I'm alright", she insists, but Dick Grayson seems skeptical; he takes a step back to put a hand on her lower back and prevent any falls. Hell... I can see perfectly why Babs like him... He really is a boy-scout, isn't he? All nice and sympathetic, and I'm pretty sure it's not an act. He just is one of these guys that care, and helps old ladies cross the streets; dear Lord, give the guy a cape and he'll be on the cover of "People" as "Hero of the Year".
It's almost hard to hate him. Almost.
"I'll take you to your room", he proceeded, "and deal with that" – it would be me – "later."
He clearly thinks he can kick my ass out of the mansion. Well, maybe he can – but it wouldn't be as easy as he thinks. Still, I don't feel like getting in trouble today, too damn tired. That, and also because I know it would upset the boss, and, well, he can kick my ass for sure. Besides, it's a good job, the one Batman provides me, and, to be perfectly honest, I don't want to disturb Miss Dubrovna any longer than I already have.
"Don't worry, Grayson. I can find the door on my own."
I walk pass them, and do my best to smile at Irena Dubrovna in a friendly way. She wouldn't believe me if I said it, of course, but truth is I actually liked her; she is gorgeous, interesting, and, obviously, smart. Dangerous too, and probably a good liar, but I liked her nevertheless.
I'm out of the house in a minute or so, because finding the door on my own wasn't, after all, such an easy job. But I eventually ran into the butler, and he kindly pointed the way out. Now I'm here, walking to my car, the Manor behind me, and wondering:
Irena Dubrovna, her secrets, the mysteries surrounding her life – that's a story that is far from over.
Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?, Romy had asked, and he knew it was less a question and more a suggestion. Oh, he knew how not cool this was: shut her out at the last moment, exclude her in the very last scene of the final act. They had been a team, after all, partners in so many things, and, so far, successful in every one of their enterprises. This case, the Collins/Dubrovna case, this one would be one to remember, he knew that; he and Romy, together from beginning to end, carving small clues from places were most detectives would see nothing but dead ends... To discover that Beatrice Collins had been Noah Kuttler's girlfriend? That was Romy's doing. She noticed the smallest detail, something that, Driver admitted, he would have let pass in a blink: Beatrice Collins records said she was born and raised in Texas, but, in an old family video, Romy immediately recognized her accent as from Lousiana. That's a swamp girl, she said.
She dug and dug, and, with a little help from that crazy dude Jason Bard - now that's a guy that could easily be defined as "swamp rat", though he did prove to be a smart one -, she managed to come up with info from the witness protection files from the F.B.I.. Amazing. It was amazing. If not for that, they would still be in the dark, looking for where to start. Yes, Romy was great - great cop, great woman -, but he would have to let her down this once.
Driver opened the heavy metal door, pushing it with perhaps more strength than necessary: the door complained, an unpleasant noise coming from its joints; the metal scratched the floor, and Marcus walked out of the narrow stairway to the exposed, open-clear space beyond the heavy door. The rooftop. Or yet, the rooftop of Gotham City Police Department's main building - best known as "where the signal was".
The detective sighed, glancing around in the darkness of a hot summer night. Dark purple clouds hid the stars and the moon, and there were no lights, except for the occasional lightning in the East, to help him see. He had a flashlight - but he knew better than to use it right now. Dark is the way it should be, and he knew it too well.
"A storm is coming", he said it to the wind that sang around him.
"It will be here soon", answered a gruff, low voice behind him.
He turned to look at the speaker, with no surprise or concern. His eyes still getting used to the lack of light, Marcus could only figure the deceiving outlines of a shape that was in constant movement - the restless dark cape the wind seemed to make dance, the growing shadows around that man that, in fact, didn't look like a man at all. "And you're just in time", he observed, hands inside his pockets, feeling a violent and sudden rush of air throwing locks of his own hair over his eyes and forehead.
"Time is a valuable good, and shouldn't be wasted."
"I hear you, man..." He glanced at the masked person ahead, his blank and inexpressive eyes, and yet, eyes that could make murders and sociopaths cry in fear... They didn't see him, did they, like a person, a human being...? No. To them, he was more - he was an intangible, abstract creature, someone that had no name and, why not, no human eyes. There wasn't a man there, not right now. You couldn't see it even if you tried... He wasn't acting, he wasn't playing, neither pretending - he was that thing; he was a dark vigilant in a mission, and not just a guy in an outfit. In the end, there was no point in wondering; Batman was Batman, and whoever lied beneath, well... for him, Marcus realized, it didn't matter at all.
"You asked for me", Batman said, his voice carrying a gentler tone than usually did.
"I did." Driver walked a few steps away, approaching the East side of the building. He looked at the distant horizon, the threatening lightning and thunders. A half-smile on his lips, he spoke loud, words carried by the wind: "One writer once said... is was Oscar Wilde, or Mark Twain, I'm not sure... But one of them said something like this: 'thunder is impressive, thunder is great, but it's the lightning that does all the work'..."
Marcus glanced at Batman, trying to read something in the vigilante's expression.
Nothing.
"Who am I, Batman?" He took a deep breath, words flowing surprisingly quickly. "Am I the thunder or the lightning?"
Silence was his only answer. "Yeah, I don't know it either..." He nodded his head. "I don't even know what I want to be... I mean, I always wanted to do my job, and that's all; catch the bad guy, put him behind bars, and then work on the next case. However..."
He took a moment to look at the sky again, clouds getting closer faster and faster. In his corner, Batman remained immobile.
"The thing is, when I'm here, just doing my job... I just keep tumbling on you. I know you want to help, and you do, sometimes..."
"But not always." Batman's grave voice seemed to come from a great distance.
It took Marcus a few moments of reflection before coming up with an answer. "No. Not always." Driver thought those words had taken him a fair amount of courage to be said, but, once out of his mouth, seemed to have taken with it much of the heaviness in his chest. He felt encouraged, even relaxed, and had to talk more. "You don't consider us when you're doing your thing... we always have to consider you when we do our job. You're thunder and lightning, I get it; but we're here too. We are part of Gotham, just like you are; we live here! And there are things..."
He pressed his lips together, and could feel the anger growing in his guts, and he allowed it to flow in his words. "There are choices that aren't yours to make, Batman."
"Are you done, Driver?" His tone was harsh, but not menacing.
"Not really." On the other hand, Marcus now seemed calm and relaxed, even satisfied. He took from his pocket what seemed like a DVD disc. "I made a promise to a man. I told him that if he helped me, I would do all I could to get the bastard that hurt a friend of his."
Batman attentively watched the detective, his eyes on the disc Driver held.
"We got our hands on Luthor and Kuttler; your plan worked like a beauty, and the information you provided us helped us get these guys. I'm grateful... but I don't think I'll be able to keep the promise I made."
"And why is that?"
Marcus sighed. "Oh, well... it's just one of those things... you see, I did get a confession from Kuttler's mouth, he telling me with all the words he had hired someone to kill Beatrice Collins and Irena Dubrovna..."
"However..."
"However", he raised his eyebrows, "I don't think I'll use it."
Although Batman's mask revealed nothing, Marcus was pretty sure the vigilant now stared at him with an intrigued look. The detective smiled, and tossed the disc in his hand to the cloaked hero ahead. "Here, take it."
"What's this?"
"We do have enough to get Kuttler for the murder of Beatrice Collins, you know? He'll root in prison for that, considering his antecedents are less than distinguished..."
Batman carefully examined the disc he now held, so meticulously that one could believe he was actually reading it.
"Yes, 'property of Gotham's Police Department'."
"Why are you giving me this?" The tone was severe.
"Can't you guess?" He nodded his head in amused disapproval. "It's Kuttler's confession, word by word, and that's the only copy."
"And you're giving me this because..."
"I want you to decide if we should use it."
Batman stepped out of his shadowed corner, revealing himself in his impressive size. He really is very tall, Marcus couldn't avoid thinking. Now the dark, long cape was wrapped around his body, and the mask did a good job in covering most of his face; however, his chin and mouth were distinctive, that portion of clear skin among abundant black fabric, and his expression was a hard, grievous one:
"What did he say?" His preeminent jawbone visibly twitched as he spoke through clenched teeth.
Marcus bit his lower lip. "I think you already know." His own voice was cold. "It is, after all, why you got so involved, isn't it? Because of her. Because of who she is."
"I got involved because it's a crime. And you should remember that Noah Kuttler is a previously convicted criminal, a murderer, and, no doubt, a liar."
"Saying he is lying?" Marcus interrupted Batman in a loud voice, irritation and the sounds of the storm obligating him to speak louder. "He didn't sound like a liar, and I'm pretty good in recognizing one..."
The Dark Knight, however, didn't answer. He merely turned his back on the police officer. "You're testing me, detective? Or are you trying to prove a point?" He glanced over his shoulder and, this time, the blank eyes of his mask seemed full of significance and emotion. "There's no lesson in here, Driver; a responsible person would never let the words of an insane man harm a woman and her child - you do remember Irena Dubrovna has a child, don't you?"
Marcus' half-smile surfaced again:
"Another thing we agree on." He crossed his arms over his chest, and, as rain begun to fall, he experimented for the first time in weeks the sensation of being cleaned: the water taking with it the heavy, indigestible weight that had been living for a long time in his stomach. "Nothing is simple in this job, Batman. There are many hard decisions to make."
"Is this the lesson you're trying to teach?"
The detective smiled. "I'm just saying: we're not so different. I acknowledge that."
Batman climbed on the roof's balustrade. His back to Driver, he faced the city bellow, and its extensive skyline against the dark, tempestuous clouds. "And I respect that, detective." He opened his arms, his cape like wide wings, and jumped to the vast, clear space bellow.
The disc remained abandoned on the floor: in pieces, smashed by heavy steps.
He climbed on the bed next to her, thinking he hadn't made a sound.
"Hi", she said.
He sighed. "I'm sorry..."
"Don't be", she immediately added, "I was awake."
He glanced at her in the deep darkness of the bedroom, her features masked by the shadows, her body partially hidden under the sheets. "Having trouble to sleep?"
She turned to face him, her green eyes shining with a light of their own. What had Bard said when inquired about his meeting with Selina...? 'She radiates, that one... Has a sparkle in her, I tell you.'
And he was right.
"I've always been sort of a 'night person', you know?" She smiled, he realized; her half-smile that was a charm, the one thing about her he could never resist - how many times, as Batman, had he seen himself without action, unable to react, only because she smiled like that at him?
"I know." He raised a hand to touch her face, his rough palm caressing her soft skin. Her half-smile melted, and was gradually replaced by a gentle, soothed twinkle. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Well..." The ruffled sound of the sheets told him she was getting closer even before her warm, smooth body touched his'. Her scent, sweet scent invaded his nostrils, and he felt the familiar sensation: a sudden rush of desire that spread to his body in a second. She had her eyes on his, and her glance was suggestive. "I can think of a thing or two... can't you?"
He said nothing; there was no time to think. Lowering his lips to touch hers, they shared a long, deep kiss. Her taste, her scent, her body, her voice... he focused in those things and nothing more, making all he could to concentrate in nothing but her, trying to keep anything else outside. Bruce, she said; he wrapped his arms around her, bringing their bodies close together, his eyes closed as he secretly wished their embrace would never break. Selina, he said, her name spoken in the darkness and in a low, muffled tone. A precious, secret word, her name was a treasure he wanted to keep only to himself - she was a treasure. Delicate, fragile, valuable and cherished by him like he never imagined one could, would be. He had almost, almost lost her... the kind of thought that would torment and torture him forever. He had hoped it would all be finished, he did all he could to end it, but... it would never end. There was no end to this, and there was no rest.
"Selina", he said her name again as she laid under him, his hands holding her face between them, their foreheads touching and their breaths blending in each other. He whispered: "I'll keep you safe... always."
She placed one hand on the back of his neck, her slender fingers gently stroking his skin. "I'm safe now, Bruce... You took care of everything." Her lips lightly brushed his ear. "Right?"
He lifted his head a few inches, glancing down at her face. She looked back; green eyes that carefully studied his features, searching for an answer he couldn't give her.
"I'm okay, Bruce", she reassured.
"I'll protect you. I promise."
She took his words in silence, without protest or questions. She did seemed intrigued for a moment, her gaze fixed in his deep blue eyes, trying to read something underneath - it was just for a brief moment, however. It passed, and soon she was smiling again: a genuine, sincere, honest smile. A smile of acceptance, a smile of understanding, a smile that told him 'yes' without any words.
And he loved her for that.