章 11: Setting the Stage - part 1
Words 3,089
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You return to find your apartment quiet and still. Tresses of moonlight flutter in from the windows, casting a pale light across the interior. It was serene, a stark contrast to the chaos fomenting just outside.
The water turns a dark ruddy color as you wash your hands and face, and the rag turns a similar color after you use it to wipe down your armor, before disposing of it in the trash.
Your new plant finds itself a spot directly beneath the incoming light, flanked by a pair of bonsai trees you'd purchased years ago, and had remained perfectly pruned since then.
The soft tapping of footsteps echoes through the hallways as you walk about aimlessly, almost unsure of what to do. There was no hint of exhaustion, nor any sign of energetic jittery. You found yourself plopping onto your bedside staring down at the mask you had worn throughout the night.
What will they think of me? you wonder. Your hands trace the smoothened contours of the mask that not even an hour ago, had been stained red.
You have no idea who the 'They' was in that. Were they the people you cared about, like Rose? Your teachers Ms. Ergane and Slade? Selina? Maybe even Bruce and Alfred? The truth is, maybe it was all of them, and at the same time, none of them.
What mattered is how you thought of yourself. And even that is no easy question.
There is no overwhelming sense of pride that rises up within you, nor any hanging shame. But it was not emptiness, rather it was the feeling of a low warmth that rose over your shoulders and eased your breathing.
Contentedness.
It was finally over, as surreal as the realization was. Everything that happened since that one fateful night, all that you had learned, every moment you trained, every day you grew, had led to this.
And now, it was over, like a candle flame blown out, and the closing of the curtains. A part of your life had ended tonight, but just as one door closes, another opens in its stead.
And for the first time in your life, you would be free to choose your own path, to stumble amongst the endless causeways, or carve a life of your own, on your own terms.
The notion was both pleasing and daunting in equal measure.
You rise up and enter the back room of your closet, placing the mask and armor upon their respective stands. All the documents you took are meticulously sorted and stored in the safe bolted into the wall, before closing the steel door with a dull clang.
You don't look back as you shut the door, enshrouding the room in darkness.
The map of Gotham is reduced to ash as well and thoroughly disposed of, leaving an empty canvas in its place, one which you could choose what to fill it with. You divest yourself of everything that pertained to the Penguin, leaving a not-so-small amount of your home empty.
And when you sleep that night, your dreams are filled with all the possibilities on how to fill them.
The next morning, you go about your daily routine.
Sunlight pours through the now-open shutters as you wipe the sleep from your eyes. You groan miserably at the soreness permeating your arms like you had just spent a whole night swinging a sword.
Oh wait, you had.
You stop by the windowsill, watering and pruning your plants, giving extra care to the newest member of your garden. It had settled in quite well, although it oddly favors the shade rather than the sunlight.
Pouring yourself a fresh cup of coffee, you recline on the couch with a contented sigh, flicking through the channels on the TV.
"A massacre at the Iceberg Lounge," boring.
"A gory night in Gotham," Is that really all they could think of?
"The murderer on the loose and still at large." Murderer. That's harsh.
"The former mayor, renowned philanthropist Oswald Cobblepot, and alleg-" What channel is this? The Godfrey Show? Bah, you need to get rid of cable. Just another thing on your to-do list.
The channel flicks again, this time displaying some newsroom with a gaudy golden globe and a vaguely attractive newswoman speaking. You refrain from flipping the channel. Of course, only because you want to hear what she has to say. It has nothing to do with the no-little amount of skin she's showing.
"After hours of debate, Mayor Fritz Carlisle and Commissioner Jim Gordon have agreed to the closure of all schools for the remainder of the week," Well that's nice, you won't have to take that Calculus exam you didn't study for, or that Classics quiz, or your Chemistry practical. Wow, who knew that killing a bunch of goons would relieve so much school-related stress.
"in conjunction with a city-wide lockdown, Gotham will be placed under a curfew ranging from 10:00 PM to 7:00 AM." Would Slade believe you if you said you couldn't meet him because of a government-issued mandate? Probably not.
Ah well, that means you'll have some time to yourself at least, a few days to kick back and relax. Or, that's what you thought at least.
You were bored dead by the second day.
You try calling Rose the next morning. She doesn't answer, and you're too proud to try again. So, you settle for glaring at your phone while lazing about your apartment.
In hindsight, there was one benefit of having a blood debt to settle, you always had something to keep you busy. Now, all you have was your little garden, some books, and the TV to keep your attention.
Oh sure, you could go "train" by destroying some dummy, but what's the point, not like you need to anymore.
You fill your days in the most boring, cliche, way possible, by walking around the city. And from the first moment you step outside, you can feel the tension in the air.
Districts had unofficially been cordoned off, with officers always near to historical areas of gang violence, namely the whole city.
The remnants of Penguin's territory had been all but quarantined, but that didn't stop you from seeing members of multiple gangs scouting the fringes of land.
The king was dead, and the carrion were now circling overhead, just waiting for the moment to snatch the crown for themselves.
News reports reported scattered skirmishes between "ruffians" and already body count had begun rising.
War was on the horizon, one that Gotham hadn't seen in many years. Not that it's your problem. Your justice had been doled out, now it was Batman and the Boy Wonder's problem.
And yet, as you walk through the streets, unmindful of how everyone else hurried just a bit faster, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Did Batman know? you wonder. You had spoken to him, but the modulator should have hidden your voice. But, then again, who else did he know to have the motive and the means to pull this off? Who knows what Selina told him?
"I'm so bored," you mutter kicking an errant rock. What I would do for some action.
Do you know that saying about self-fulfilling prophecies?
Well, the action did find you. That very night, in fact.
Your dreams have never been what you, or anyone for that matter, would describe as normal. Unlike the murky haze of unconnected fantastical events and incomprehensible still lifes that composed what most went through, yours felt more, real.
There was something to them, to their very fabric, of how you could feel the sun's heat and the brush of the wind, that made them feel true.
Tonight, it is somehow even more real. Your eyes closed to the ceiling of your bedroom, and they opened again a moment later to a very different world.
Dark clouds loom overhead, and the earth beneath your feet is smooth like glass, but its surface was the color of pitch with a thousand spider-web cracks stretching across its width.
And in the center of the land stands a figure, garbed in white cloth and a shawl that shrouded their face. A great set of golden scales that dwarfed a normal man stood before them.
A single side touches the ground, weighed down by a great mountain of objects that lay upon its plate piled high, while the other is raised high into the air, its plate empty.
Your feet begin to move of their own accord, bringing you ever closer to the figure and the golden scales.
The woman, now that you could tell from the distance, magicks a handful of objects from beneath her robes.
As you near closer, they vanished from her palm in a veil of glittering light and reappeared atop the highest plate.
With a low earth-shaking groan, the scales tipped. The earth shifts. Clouds turn white, the ground transforms into a fertile brown, and the sun's light begins to peek out.
A dark overcast remains, and a dour air still clings to the world, but it changed, drastically.
The woman tuts to herself. "Not enough. You do know it is quite rude to intrude, don't you?"
Where her voice had once been far off, it now came from right beside you. Turning your attention from the scales, you found her standing right before you.
You flinch back instinctively. Her features are expressionless, as though carved from stone. But that is not what drew such a visceral reaction from you.
It is her eyes, the lack of them. Where two eyes would be was covered with a simple white cloth. And yet, you could feel her gaze upon you, analyzing you, judging you.
"Who are you?"
"I should be asking you that, after all, you are in my home."
Your eyes flick over the expanse of the land. But there are no edifices, no hint of any place to live. Only long sloping hills, craggy mountains, and dark clouds in the distance.
"I don't see a house anywhere."
She laughs in response, a tinkling sound that is both pleasing and patronizing in equal measure.
"Homes are not confined to wood and stone. This world is my home."
What does that even mean? you wonder.
"Now you have never answered my question, why are you here?"
"Well to be fair," you say cheekily. "you only asked if it was rude to intrude."
"And now you have two more questions to the rather long list that need to be answered."
Her words rankle you.
The chiding tone reminds you of a parent chastising their child. But, you can't deny your interest is piqued.
"What else must I answer for?"
"You already know, even if you do not think you know."
"You get that from a fortune cookie or something?"
Her cheeks twitch into a thin ghost of a smile.
"Wisdom may be found in the most unusual of places. Now answer, why are you here?"
"I don't know," you say irritably.
"You do know," she presses impassively, unfazed by your anger. "The answer lies right before you."
The golden scales loom ominously overhead.
"The scales, whose are those?"
"Why yours, of course. Now go look upon them, and find your answer."
A rush of cold apprehension trickles through your veins as you approach the scales. A pounding echoes from everywhere and nowhere.
The objects stacked high become clear. They were heads. The heads of dead men. Some of their faces were forever stricken with pain and terror, skin turned grey and gaunt. Others were smiling skulls with blank sockets that followed your approach.
You know them, gods, you know every single one of them. After all, you had killed all of them, not even five nights ago.
And upon the other scale lay the head of Oswald Cobblepot, his features frozen with the horrifying realization that death had finally come for him.
"What is this?" You ask stiffly, unable to look away from this memorial of that night. The night where Gotham's street ran red.
"Justice, is it not? A bloody one, but justice it was." There is no disappointment in her voice, in fact, there is something close to approval instead.
You bark out a laugh. "I doubt anyone else would see it like that."
"The concerns of mortals matter little to us. You call it justice, and therefore, it was." She lectures.
Mortals? Us?
"Who are you?" you demand, whirling upon the shorter woman.
She shakes her head. "That, I will deny you. You are not ready for that child. Perhaps, one day you will. This is goodbye. For now."
"Wait, no-"
She snaps her fingers and all goes black.
You awake to the moonlight streaming through your bedroom curtains and breath caught in the back of your throat.
Stumbling out of your bed and into the bathroom, you catch sight of your own tired eyes rimmed with dark bags.
The cold splash of water swiftly removes the last dregs of sleep from your body.
You do not return to your bed, trapped in a vivid recollection of your dream, vision, or whatever it had been.
What had that woman meant, why had she said mortals, as though you weren't one?
Oh my god, I'm a narcissist.
That'd be a likely explanation, one that Rose would have wholeheartedly agreed with. And yet, it didn't sit right, like you were lying to yourself.
There's no way, right? God's don't exist.
Never mind that Aquaman rules the literal kingdom of Atlantis and wields the trident of the sea god.
Or that Wonder Woman claims to be an Amazon, hailing from a group of superwomen supposedly blessed by the gods of Mount Olympus.
It was all just alien technology or just some random human mutation. Right?
Me, Cadmus Othrys? A god?
It sounds stupid just thinking it.
That doesn't stop a little seed of doubt from planting itself in the back of your mind.
You're drawn off the train of thoughts by a sudden feeling of uneasiness. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end like a surge of static had rushed through your nerves.
A presence rests in the back of your mind, mockingly evading your attempts to catch it.
With a deft push of a hidden panel, you withdraw a knife from within one of the countless hollow spaces that cover the apartment.
Three-feet rules really come in handy, huh just another thing I owe to Slade.
When will all those favors inevitably come calling? you idly wonder. And, what will the price be?
The apartment is silent, and that only exacerbates the rising feeling of unease that rises up within you.
It was like something that sat heavy in the air, as cliche as it sounded, ominous and unending, a nagging tug in the back of your mind accompanied by flitting shadowed silhouettes of the murky future passing over your vision.
You enter the living area, unmindful of the cold tile against your feet. Nothing sat out of place, at least nothing that you could notice right away.
If there's one thing you've learned over all these years, from your "diverse" teachers, is to always trust your instincts.
Right now, your instincts are telling you someone is out for your blood.
The list of possible suspects appears in your mind's eye and is subsequently discarded as you go over each name.
Bruce? No, he would have ambushed you somewhere else, not on your home turf. Somewhere where all the advantages would have been his.
A gun hired by some Penguin toady you missed? They'd be more likely to send you a gift basket and prospects of future employment than try to off you.
No, this was someone new, an unknown. A player who had escaped your notice entirely. A fatal mistake. For most.
You warily walk through your apartment, careful to keep your composure calm to not tip off your would-be killer. The fridge opens with a dull click.
The uninvited guest shows themselves as you being to pour yourself a glass of water.
A wraith appears from the shadows, stepping through the open balcony doors, and growing solid and clear as the moonlight illuminates its form.
Their face is concealed by an intricate mask, with golden swirls and great blue jemstone sized eye-holes. Strangely, it gave the appearance of an owl.
You both stare at one another, trapped in an unending moment.
"Cadmus Othrys," the hooded figure begins. "by the order of the Court of Owls, you are hereby sentenced to death."
Muscles tensing, you casually continue to pour, the muted clink of the glass and wind drifting from outside the only sound in the room.
"Don't I at least get a trial?"
"You have been tried. The court has passed the sentence. You have been found guilty. Now, you will die."
Teeth bared in a savage smile, you turn to face the assassin.
"Many more than you have tried. I'm still here. Come on then, best not leave destiny waiting."
And just as you both prepare to pounce, your phone decides to ring.
"Heh, this is embarrassing, just a moment please." You turn your back on the assassin and bringing the phone up to your ear.
"Hello?"
"You brought down Gotham's underworld, and you didn't invite me."
"Nice to hear your voice also, Rose. What's brought on this call at... 2:30 in the morning?"
"You haven't called all week." She says with all the passive-aggressiveness of a wet housecat.
"I did call," you remind her. "You didn't answer."
The assassin remains as still as a statue, perhaps unsure how to proceed with his teenage target arguing with his girlfriend.
More likely, they were planning their next course to deal with another witness to their crime.
"I was angry! And you know you could have tried- tried again. Like a good boyfriend!" Her words start to slur a bit.
Try again? Did she actually ignore me on purpose?
"Are you drunk?" you ask incredulously.
"No - hic. Yes. What's it to you? You're not my dad." she growses. A clink of a metal spoon echoes in the background.
And clearly knee-deep in Ice cream. I doubt Slade would be happy that you're pilfering his stash, even if you are his daughter.
Before you can think of a correct response, a flash of steel and movement is the only warning you get as the assassin's patience runs out.
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DevionKing
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