Chapter 5Ba

Chapter 5Ba

It was late at night.

Bane and his subordinates left their hideout, walking along the streets of Gotham’s slums.

In the imagination of ordinary people, major villains are usually portrayed as towering brutes with immense strength—muscle-bound men who look like they could eat three children in one sitting.

And in truth…

Bane was exactly that kind of man.

But even so, in Gotham, some who had nowhere else to turn would still seek help from this monstrous figure who looked like a demon god.

Like now.

“Excuse me, can you help my mom?”

A little girl looked up blankly at the muscular giant who stood before her like a mountain. Fearful, she clutched the ragged doll in her hands.

It was a doll she had picked up from a trash bin, matching the tattered clothes she wore.

“My mom has cancer. She needs medicine. She’s in so much pain. People say only God can help her.”

She trembled as she spoke, her eyes filled with hope as she looked at Bane.

“Can you help us?”

Bane stopped the subordinate who had stepped forward to drive the girl away.

“Where do you live?”

The girl pointed to a dilapidated house behind her.

Bane walked in.

A few minutes later, he walked out, wiping brain matter and blood from his hands.

“Your mother won’t be in pain anymore... Bury her.”

“…Don’t go begging others for help so easily again, or the suffering of this world will come knocking on its own.”

He looked up slightly, and in the east, the sky was still shrouded in darkness, with the stars hidden beneath the hem of night’s skirt.

Bane said:

“There is no God here… but Bane is.”

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The night in Gotham was tranquil, filled with a tombstone-like stillness.

Gray rainwater, tinged with a faint sour smell, wove together with the industrial smog beneath the neon lights. Deadshot stood atop a building, watching Gotham grin wickedly beneath the misty drizzle.

On the street below, a car roared past, splashing muddy water all over a pedestrian. The pedestrian immediately pulled a submachine gun from his coat and opened fire on the retreating vehicle—rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat...

These Gothamites were way too much.

Thinking this, Deadshot skillfully pulled an anti-tank rocket launcher and a mortar from his bag.

He gave a thumbs-up toward a distant building, gauging the distance and wind speed.

“I must remind you, Deadshot—my contract stipulates zero casualties.”

The voice of the client came through his earpiece.

“Ventriloquist, you've been in the mob for years—where’d you get this superhero crap about ‘no killing’?”

“Villains should act like villains.”

Deadshot grumbled, setting up the mortar at the edge of the rooftop. “If you weren’t a regular, I’d start thinking you were working with Batman.”

“By the way, that new puppet you’re using—don’t tell me you actually switched sides to Batman. Didn’t he at least give you a pantsless Robin outfit?”

Fwoop!

The mortar launched, tracing a deadly arc through the air as the Ventriloquist’s voice came again.

“Dead bodies mean pay cuts.”

“Yeah yeah, I got it, don’t get your wires tangled.”

Deadshot licked his lips and raised the anti-tank rocket launcher.

Boom!

The rocket flew ahead, overtaking the mortar in midair, and the two collided above the rooftop in a deadly kiss.

KRAKOOM!

With a thunderous blast, the building’s roof tore open like a popped soda can, exploding into fragments and exposing the panicked enemies below, scrambling like ants.

“See? Told you I’d deliver the Mad Hatter in one piece.”

Deadshot pulled out a sniper rifle but didn’t fire.

“But right now, my client…”

“Because of your lack of trust, I don’t feel like finishing this job anymore.”

“…What?”

“Scared like that, the Mad Hatter’s probably gone into hiding. Catching him again is going to be ten times harder. And this is Gotham—Batman’s turf. There aren’t many mercenaries willing to work here in the first place.”

“You don’t want this mission to fail, do you, dear client?”

“…Enough. What do you want?”

Deadshot tilted his head back at a 45-degree angle and said, without hesitation, with absolute righteousness and crystal-clear articulation:

“More money.”

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The night wrapped itself around the city like a girl shedding her veil—bare, honest, and passionately entwined.

Cheshire Cat strolled elegantly through the empty corridors of Gotham Heights High School, while outside the windows came the wail of sirens and the panicked shouts of countless people.

“I must remind you, miss, that this mission’s target, Mr. Zsasz, is, like you, a deadly assassin.”

The voice came through the earpiece—not from the ventriloquist, but rather from the bat-shaped puppet on his left hand.

“I have no doubt you can defeat him, but my demand is that every student hostage be kept safe. So, first you need to separate Zsasz from the girls, and then—”

“Oh, is that so?”

Cheshire Cat’s slender fingers brushed across her narrow waist and the curve of her pale chest, lingering briefly on the grinning cat-face mask she wore.

“I don’t think it needs to be that complicated. Do you?”

“What are you—”

“She’s not talking to you.”

The cold moonlight mingled with the flashing red and blue of the police lights, illuminating the assassin as he rose from the shadows.

His muscular body was covered in dense scars.

Victor Zsasz, one of Gotham’s infamous villains.

His gaze paused on the woman's graceful figure.

“Why not let me have a look at your face, miss?”

“Oh no, you know the answer to that.”

The female assassin turned around.

“A cat never removes her mask—especially not in front of a naked exhibitionist.”

A short blade appeared in her previously empty palm. Cheshire Cat sighed. She also pulled a collapsible knife from behind her back, then dumped a cascade of throwing stars from her front like a hamster emptying its food pouch.

She tilted her head.

“Catfight?”

Gotham’s infamous exhibitionist and serial killer, “Mr. Zsasz,” gave a twisted smile.

“Then let’s see how many lives this cat has.”

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In the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor, Lucen was using the voice of the Ventriloquist to remotely control a squad of mercenaries, sounding exactly like a certain bald-headed man.

“…Enough! Just say the terms. How much more?”

He waved his hand grandly and bellowed in the tone of a rich blowhard, “Fine—add it, add all of it!”

He turned and saw the third Robin, Tim Drake, standing furiously with a sheet of paper held in front of his face. On it was written:

“I still can’t believe you actually hired mercenaries to fight Bane instead of bringing me along!”

The real Ventriloquist crouched innocently in a corner, trying to pretend he was an actual dog.

Tim looked at him, fists clenched, but ultimately restrained himself from punching the guy in front of Batman.

So the young Robin gritted his porcelain-white teeth and continued writing furiously:

“And not only did you bring the bad guys into our house, you made calls to other bad guys right in front of me!!!”

Batman hung up the phone and sighed.

Tim fell silent for a moment.

Then he asked,

“Is it because of Jean-Paul?” (Jean-Paul, "Azrael" killed by Bane, he was the disguised Batman, the one who died.)

“Not exactly,” Lucen replied. “Listen to me.”

He turned, grabbing Tim by the shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes.

“I’m planning to retire.”

“Wha…what?” That unexpected answer left Tim dumbfounded.

“Youth always comes to an end, Tim. The boy disappears, the golden cup runs dry, and old dreams no longer hold. Batman was just a dream an eight-year-old refused to wake from… but now, it’s time to wake up.”

“I want to do one last thing for Gotham. Then I’ll live the life of a normal person—the life I deserve. And so should you, Tim.”

“You’re educated, brilliant, with a father and mother.”

“You don’t realize how rare that is!”

“You deserve all the beautiful things this world has to offer. You should be in school, and one day, you’ll meet the love of your life.”

“She’ll have golden hair and sea-blue eyes, or maybe wine-red hair… maybe her last name is Gordon, maybe it’s Brown, but one day it’ll be Drake.”

“You’ll know each other, fall in love. My child… that kind of innocent, pure love is something I’ll never get to experience again.”

“It’s time for both of us to escape this nightmare.”

Clang!

The tray in Alfred’s hands fell to the floor behind them and shattered.

He covered his face, crying tears of joy.

“Is it true? Bruce? I’m not dreaming—am I, Bruce?”