Capítulo 38: Issue #36: Breaking News!
Hitching a ride on an ambulance is easy enough once you show them the liters of blood soaking every inch of your torso. If not that, then having the big, blue boy scout, or a facsimile of him, being seen carrying you earlier is enough of an incentive to hitch a ride.
Fair warning, though. Most of the EMTs are big fans and will probably be asking questions about the big, blue boy scout. Some of them are weird, too, because who asks what his breath smells like? These people are freaks.
Given the severity of the attack and its apparent casualties, the mayor has ordered all of Gotham and its satellite cities ambulances to work full time in assisting both living and dead towards the various hospitals. Of course, with our home being the target of the attack, I was carted off to the Martha Kane wing, where I received only the best of doctor's care.
That is, until they actually check up on me and notice that I'm fine, aside from the blood and entrails on my clothes.
"Then why is he here?" A red-headed nurse asks the doctor, who, in turn, shrugs in confusion.
The doctor checks my charts and sees nothing. "Uh, trauma, maybe? I think you should get him to the psych ward."
"There's no need for that. I shall take him." We all look towards the sound of the voice, whereupon we see the glorious form of a clearly haggard Alfred Pennyworth. Still in his butler's uniform, the man smiles at both medical personnel and grabs my wheelchair before setting off towards the other end of the hall.
"Should we stop–"
"Let them be. They own this wing."
As Alfred wheels me along, he hums a familiar jazzy tune before turning a bend and halting his song.
He stops for a moment and crouches down to meet my eye line, a particular habit of his whenever we talk. I asked him once why he does it and the answer has always delighted me.
"Because when I talk to someone I like or respect, I don't look down on them or up to them. I lock eyes and talk to them as if they are my equal."
Alfred clears his throat, already figuring out that I'm not aware of my situation. "Young Master Edmund, while I am delighted that you would show support for Young Master Richard and Master Bruce's healing, I would like to reiterate that you could have just done this at home. There are hundreds of injured and sick being constantly admitted here and at other hospitals… The security is abysmal and the food is sub-par. May I ask, why are you here?"
"I want to donate my organs." My words cloud his eyes in confusion.
"Beg your pardon?"
"Then, beg." I joke, much to his affable irritation. "Sorry. I can regenerate a finger in three to five minutes. Slicing half my neck doesn't kill me, no matter how much blood is lost. Which means my internal organs are replaceable… at least until midnight."
I would have thought that I would need more words to explain my idea, but for a moment, Alfred chews on his thoughts before standing up and resumes wheeling me forward. He does not say a word and, when I do, he shushes me.
Soon enough, we entered a private room with two beds. One of which lays an unconscious Richard Grayson. Wounds, scrapes, and bruises all patched up but still visible. The other has Bruce Wayne lying on his back and reading a newspaper, all the while various nodes and medical paraphernalia surround him like a council of machines looming over a computer virus.
"What's up?" I tilt my head upwards, acknowledging his existence.
"Not my blood pressure. I'll tell you that much." He answers mirthfully.
"Don't you usually stitch him up?" I ask Alfred, pointing at the large diagonal gash on Bruce's back.
"PR stunt." Alfred answers, greatly relieving me. I thought that the League had poisoned the caped crusader and he would have to be out of order for a few more weeks.
'God knows the city can't take it anymore.'
Knowing that he'll be alright, I stand away from my wheelchair and walk towards Dick to scrutinize his body. As far as I can tell and from his medical chart, no lasting external injury except for a few broken bones and scars littering his extremities.
I realize now that I set more than a dozen assassins towards him while I portal away out of danger. Sure, my goal was to save Peng Deilan, who hasn't thanked me yet, by the way–which is understandable seeing as she doesn't know how exactly saved her–he still could have been killed by the sheer quantity of the enemy.
"Glad you're alive, bud." I whisper solemnly.
"He was quite adamant that you did the right thing, Young Master Edmund," Alfred says comfortingly.
"I know. I saved her and, frankly, the city of Gotham from a diplomatic disaster. God knows the mayor is a dolt." I acknowledge my efforts, albeit adding a snarky remark.
"He'll be out by next year." Alfred says out of the blue, earning a curious gaze from me and Bruce. "What? You should read gazette polls once in a while. They have horrendous opinion pieces, but their crossword puzzles are amazing."
I chuckle at the thought of Alfred doing crossword puzzles in the morning before being reminded of why I'm here in the first place by Alfred.
"Young Master Edmund." He says my name with gravitas.
"Oh, yes." I look at Bruce, who looks up at me. "I… I want to. Shit. I–"
"There is a bathroom in the room, friend Edmund." J'onn's voice startles me as all of us–the conscious ones–gaze towards the doorway where he stands in his human form, no longer shifting into Superman's body. "No need to announce it to the room."
"I believe Edmund was hesitating. Not being crude." Bruce informs J'onn, who abruptly halts his approach.
"And I was being… light and playful. I apologize for the misunderstanding." J'onn lightly bows his head.
"I see."
'Jesus. It's like I'm at an introvert's convention or something. Wait. Can you hear me, J'onn?'
"Yes. I can once you tune in on my mind." J'onn replies aloud.
"Oh, cool. I wasn't dissing you or anything. Anyway, does C–Superman know you've been masquerading as him yet?" I ask, scrunching my nose when I nearly expose a secret identity.
'Shoot. Did Bruce spot that? Gotta stop talking at some point. This blood loss thing is fucking me up.'
"I have received a message that I have yet to play." He replies, a bit ashamed.
"He CC-ed everyone in the League. By mistake, it appears." Bruce speaks up. "He thinks it's funny that you blushed when the interviewer praises you live on-camera."
"I saw that, actually. Good job on the Cat Grant interview." Alfred praises J'onn before looking at me and smiling. "I do believe that we are on a time limit?"
"Ah, yes. I saw children in PICU on the way here and most of them had shrapnels in their body or had lost too much blood and the nearest bank is so far away, so I was wondering if I could help at all. I can regenerate my fingers and life-threatening wounds in record time."
"And you would like to donate organs needed for them?" Bruce finishes my thought, to which I voice my assent. He hums, "The pain during and after the surgeries will–"
"I can handle pain." I interject, "Don't worry. I know the consequences of my actions. In fact, that's why I'm glad you're here, too, J'onn."
I settle into the room, letting out a breath of anticipation and exhaustion that has been brewing ever since the start of the day.
"I want you to train me." I say, confusing Bruce.
"I already am… which means you're speaking to J'onn. You wish to train your mental and metahuman abilities?" Bruce deduces for a moment before narrowing his eyes at the resolve in my eyes or at least the way I carry myself. I honestly do not know how he does his detective thing, but nevertheless, he continues. "Or you wish to further enhance your training with me seeing as you were nearly killed by the League of Assassins."
I ignored the confirmation that the group really was the League of Assassins and that Ra's Al Ghul may very well know of my existence or the existence of a portal creator within the midst of his most hated-cum-beloved enemy as I nod at the rest of his words.
"Both, actually." I confirm his deductions, earning both their attention. "The attack left me… unsatisfied with my abilities. My mother was so close to the attack–an attack I had no inkling would happen–that it only took a single assassin with a lucky streak to kill her. Were it not for my impressive regenerative ability or for Olgar's atrocious vitality, then I would be mourning right now. It… left me unwilling to be overwhelmed against that kind of attack and, frankly, it behooves me to train this power as it was dutifully given to me by Jake and, albeit unwillingly, by whomever captured me."
A sigh escapes my mouth as I finish my spiel, allowing myself to fall on top of a seat cushion. I'm not usually this emotional, but the sheer exhaustion had me intuitively releasing whatever is needed to end this surreal day.
Yet I'm not done. There are many things my father does that I hate, but if it was one thing that I do not loathe about him, it's that anything he does is done with the full might of his will and shamelessness.
'No such thing as half-assed for him, even abusing us.'
"I'm not talking about training with you and J'onn. I… want to be trained by other people, too. People with expertise in areas you are lacking. Before you disagree and tell me that you both are enough, let me tell you that, soon enough, controlling my portals is not even the least of my worries. If I'm guessing right, whoever kidnapped me and bathed me in the blood of the metahumans bypassed the sheer irregularity and coding of the human genome. They essentially gave me the metagene dormant and active within the DNA of the ten metahumans in that cage, which is why I'm having trouble with regulating my energy output, but that's a problem for another time."
I didn't think of it at the time, but during my two-week training after our arrival from Happy Harbor, I used my access to the Batcave to research about metahumans and how their powers operate.
With Batman's and the League's info–including those of Flash's files, Star Labs, and Kord Industries research–I had guessed that the blood ritual was used to bond not only their soul unto mine but also edit and implant the metagenes into my DNA.
This also might be the reason that channeling my metahuman ability is downright atrocious. Because I haven't actually owned it for long and had only been given command for a couple of months, the powers are reluctant to respond to my commands.
'Unless, of course, I'm in grave danger. Like that time dilation thing and my acquisition of it, I can tap into its possible potential in moments of extreme distress.'
"We have discussed the very same theory, however, we lack the necessary evidence to confirm it." J'onn interjects, subtly eyeing Bruce.
"This is not the time nor place," Bruce says, calmly returning his attention towards me. "I have already calculated that your ascent in physical and mental prowess will be closely tied to your puberty, which means that you have a few more years before the need to upgrade your regimen. While I applaud your dedication to protecting those you love, I do not see the necessity in bringing more people when you only have a single metahuman ability as of the moment."
"I see. Then, uh," While being gently rebuked certainly mitigated any repressed emotions being opened up by the events of today, it still feels like shit to have my idea rejected. "So, I guess… until I gain another power–which I will have–I want to advance my training with you, as well as include J'onn's expertise in supernatural abilities. If that is alright with both of you."
"Certainly. I can adjust my timetable and include your stamina training for your metahuman ability training." Bruce answers in affirmative, a touch too hasty for my mind. A deep chuckle echoes from Alfred's area, but quickly subsides when Bruce glares at him.
"My city does not need me at the moment, so I have been staying in the Harbor for some time now." J'onn says, "Perhaps it is time to settle in Gotham, at least for a while."
Delight erupts within me the moment both of them agree, as is evident by the radiant smile on my face. Any traces of fatigue wash away by the good news.
"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me… I'll be having multiple organ surgeries!"
•••
The surgery went surprisingly well with my blood type being O. Alfred had told me that while only the children and teenagers below eighteen can acquire my organs, almost a hundred liters of blood were withdrawn and sent to seven different hospitals to be given to other people–be they injured from the assassination on our home or just downright lucky enough to need it that day.
Of course, as with any amount of blood coming their way, there was a fair deal of intrigue and a flurry of questions as to where those organs and blood came from. Fortunately, I didn't and still don't have to deal with that as any snooping people were easily dealt with by Olgar and his retinue of bodyguards fresh from Wayne Security Group and the media itself is being dealt with by Wayne Enterprise's.
I've also begun to realize that Thomas Wayne and, actually, the previous Waynes really love their name because everything that is connected to them–be it multinational companies or small-town haberdashery–are named after them.
'I guess now we know why he always starts everything Batman related with Bat. It's in the genes.'
"You ready?" Olgar asks, bringing me out of my reverie.
I nod and we depart the hospital two days after the attack and twenty-nine hours after my last surgery. To be perfectly honest, the surgeries themselves are not that bad, seeing as I'm already attuned to the pain of blades slicing through my torso. Well, that and they gave me a fuck ton of anesthesia.
"You still have the scars?" Asks Olgar, undulating his voice to remove the heavy accent.
I grin in response, unbuttoning my shirt and showing the lateral stitches running through my chest and down my belly button. "What do you think?" I ask.
He pouts mockingly, swiping a finger under an eye. "Ah, my baby boy. A true warrior! Brings tears to my eyes."
A chuckle escapes me, not missing the fact that Olgar is being more playful than usual. While I may have asked what changed in him, I would rather go home and rest for a little while before delving into something that will undoubtedly be dramatic and/or action-packed.
The rest of the ride is done with Olgar, outwardly ruminating about his experience during the assassination. While the spy has defeated almost a third of the League of Assassin's vanguards, it had taken him and a coterie of bodyguards to protect mother and, briefly, Peng Jin and his daughter from the assassins.
Apparently, Lady Shiva–who I believe is a friend of Richard Dragon and fellow trainee of Batman during his younger years–nearly castrated him during their encounter with their group. In fact, if not for her threatening to kill my mother and Jasmine, then Olgar would have battled the woman to death.
Still, I admitted my admiration of him, albeit begrudgingly, and thanked him for saving my mother.
'Like he can go toe-to-toe with someone who trained alongside Batman. Dude, their master is… who the fuck was it again? Jai White? No, that's the actor. Something Sensei, maybe–Oh! O-sensei. There we go. Wait… in the animated film, there were five students. Batman, Bronze Tiger–played by Micheal Jai White–, Lady Shiva, Richard Dragon, and… Chesire! That's what Angela Jung looks like. Damn, that's why she looks familiar! Does that mean Angela is a clone of some kind? Or maybe–'
"Wake up. We're…. Here?" Olgar's voice turns a little funny at the end as I look out the window to see why.
Through the broken metal fence, dozens, if not hundreds, of reporters, onlookers, and police officers crowd the remnants of the hedge maze situated to the east of our broken home. On top of a raised platform is my father, Giuseppe, canoodling with Deputy Mayor Chesterfield, sporting a horrific scar across his left cheek, alongside both men's business associates and mayoral aide.
The moment our car enters the estate proper, a whirlwind of white light flashes in my eyes as reporters crowd our vehicle. Even through the thick, bullet-proof window that separates me and about a dozen hawk-like paparazzi, their inane and often provocative questions fill my ears as their stares and expectation threaten to overwhelm me.
If not for Olgar pushing through the crowd–literally in the case of a certain gazette journalist–then I doubt that they wouldn't let me inside my home without a promise for an exclusive interview.
"Thanks!" I offer my gratitude, even knowing that he won't take it.
"I'm gonna crack your father's skull." He says, opening the heavy double-door and slamming it into the paparazzi's face once more.
"He's paying you, you know." I remark, gazing past him and towards the destroyed parts of our home.
While the eastern half of the manor was left untouched, barely that is, by the initial explosion, most of the fighting was done on that side, all the way towards the hedge maze. As such, I find the bullet holes on doors and walls and slash marks across prized paintings very much in keeping with the chaotic onslaught brought about by the League of Assassins.
The crime techs and cleaners have done a thorough job at keeping the place clean as I see no spots of blood nor flesh while the smell of bleach and chloroform pervades my nose. It very much reminds me of my days in the hospital.
I stride my way towards the kitchen where I spy murmurs and faint bits of laughter, revealing themselves to me as the maid staff and Jasmine crowding along a baby girl in a onesie.
"Uh, hello!" I greet them, earning their brief attention.
While the rest say their hello and resume coddling the baby, Jasmine strides towards me and embraces me in a warm hug. I return it back, feeling the softness of her skin radiate warmth around me.
"I'm glad you're alright." She whispers, kissing the top of my head. She removes the hug and begins pinching my cheeks before grabbing me by the shoulder and pulling me towards the baby. "Edmund. Meet baby Clarissa!"
The baby cooed at the sight of my form, or at least the vague shapes and transcendental colors that make a humanoid shape. I hold out a finger and she takes it, giggling all the while to the tune of the other maids laughing at the cuteness of the baby girl.
"Whose is she?" I ask.
"Mine." Clara, the maid who had been absent this past four months–now that I think about it–answers.
"Well, it's a good thing that you weren't here two days ago." I remark, touching her little nose.
"Speaking of," Jasmine snickers as she crosses her arms. "You better run upstairs and change your clothes."
"Uh, why?" Jasmine gently grabs me by the elbow and leads me out of the kitchen.
"Didn't you see the crowd outside?" She says, annoyance leaking through her tone. "Your father's called for a press conference. He's backing Chesterfield for mayor next year."
"Jesus." I say out loud, earning curious glances from the eavesdropping maids. "I suppose that means Chesterfield is going to let him buy off Gotham's coal mines? I mean, do we even have coal mines?"
"It got demolished in the early 30s and refurbished to be the secondary sewers used by the factories. Even then, however, that mine was sparse and production wouldn't match the capital. I think your father's aim is to reopen the ones near Wyoming. Gotham used to be rich from the port and bought a couple of rights to coal mines, among other things, as an investment." Jasmine responds with a surprising amount of knowledge about Gotham's history.
'Although I do suppose her mother had lived through those times. God, I forgot that she's in her 70s or something.'
A sudden acute pain erupts in my ears as Jasmine twists it with a mean face. "I know what you're thinking. I'm not that old." She says, gruffly.
"I-I'm not thinking about anything!" I plead for mercy with the giggles of the maids, not at all helping me.
She hushes me and aims me towards the stairs. "Get yourself ready." She says before walking back towards the kitchen.
While the attack had left the western portion of the manor crumbling under its toasty weight, most of the second floor had been left undamaged, barring the broken windows as a result of the explosion.
I'm quick to remove my clothes that reeks of hospital smell and don the clothes prepared by Jasmine, seeing as the crowd has already formed outside and is, by my guess, waiting for me to complete the family.
My guess is proven to be true as I exit through the servant's exit and am met with the haggard gaze of Jasmine and irate expression on Olgar's hulking form. Partitioned by a wall of security guards and mayoral aides, the two lead me up the stage where my mother and father stand solemnly and cheerfully, respectively, alongside an obnoxious Chesterfield.
"Ah, finally." Father says, a twitch in his smile betraying the cheeriness in his expression. "Come! We've been waiting."
"If it isn't the birthday boy!" Chesterfield swarms me, giving me a big hug as if he's an uncle everyone loves. Of course, he does this in front of all the reporters who bite at the bait like hungry sharks, as evident by the cacophony of snaps and flashes that overwhelm my eyes and ears.
As quick as he is at hugging me, so does removing it and addressing the crowd. He clears his throat and spreads his hands upwards, earning the crowd's attention as he puts his most elegant yet sorrowful expression.
"Citizens of Gotham!" He starts with mother quickly grabbing me by the shoulder and leading me in front of her. "Two days ago… a happy American family was attacked. There we were celebrating the birth of a young boy–Nay, a young genius–alongside the greatest and bravest people of Gotham and…"
Chesterfield chokes up, rather convincingly at that, but ultimately pushes through.
"... And we were attacked. Dozens died from the initial explosion, showering the hall with blood and screams. It was chaos, it was… mayhem. And in our hour of need, who amongst us prayed for these so-called heroes to save us? I, myself, can be counted among them and, frankly, there is no shame in doing so. But to think that these heroes would rather fight to the sky or on the ground without a care for personal property or casualty…"
Chesterfield raises his head up and audibly grunts in apparent pain before resuming his speech.
"It… shames me to admit, but I cried that day. Dear god, if that had happened in a more public venue… if that had happened in a park, in a mall, in our city square. The casualties would be immense, the chaos would be unfiltered, and the city would crumble under the weight of its own hubris."
His voice softens yet still maintains the undercurrent of gravitas and solemnity.
"Ladies and gentlemen, soon the city of Gotham would be a No-man's-land for local business, national and international commerce alike, and soon, only the criminals and the poor will run the streets with their filth and evilness. I cannot have that. Not on my conscience nor on my guilt."
Father steps up next to Chesterfield as the latter stands tall and proud, puffing up his chest and letting his bulging belly take a dive inwards.
"That is why I am announcing my candidacy and fighting against the scourge that plagues every waking Gothamites. They may break me, but I will not yield. They may bully me, but I will not succumb. I may die, but my legacy will live on. And to help me combat this plague, is someone who knows them all too well…"
'Oh, boy.'
Chesterfield grabs my father's wrist and raises it up, presenting unity amidst the swirling chaos that has gripped Gotham.
"With Giuseppe Serana as my running mate, we will herald a new era of peace and unity amidst the chaos brought about by the rampant vigilantism and criminality in Gotham City!"
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