Twenty minutes in Gotham traffic listening to the AM radio and the young Wayne was ready to road rage
al Ghul style. Throwing open the glove box, a gray gloved hand dove through the contents in the hopes of finding anything. He had no idea what he was looking for. This car had no bluetooth, no CD, and no MP3 compatibility. Damian's hand came back holding something the likes of which he had never seen before. At first glance, it almost looked like a hard drive but it clearly wasn't.
The body label read
Lear Jet Stereo 8 and
Creedance Clearwater Revival, neither of which made any connection for the boy. The shape of the disk looked right for the opening in the... whatever it was in the dashboard. And it had to be better than any more of this AM radio, so Damian jammed it into the slot and cranked up the volume as he waited to see what happened.
I see a bad moon rising
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightning
Don't go round tonight
Well its bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise...
"This is so not cool," the boy complained bitterly, downshifting as he came off the interchange and dropped back across Gotham downtown. He'd just been here a few hours ago, but the place looked like the atom bomb had been dropped. Safe bet was more of those black ringed wearing screwjobs. Damian couldn't see any of the zombies now, but their handywork was all over the place. Column of black light pulsating in the sky. Flying wierdos buzzing the horizon. All of which was going in the column labeled 'Not My Problem'.
In the windows of a burning highrise, Damian could make out what looked like a woman and a baby.
Of course, she had to have a baby.
Damian's hand moved back to the gearshift as his foot hovered between the accelerator and the brake.
"No... no... no... no...." He was not going to get back into some Batman ****. He was not going... Oh the hell with it.
Yes, he
was.
The rusted red Pinto flew off the main road, the undercarriage grinding as the boy popped the car up onto the curb and sidewalk when he threw the car into a turn and plowed back for the highrise. At least he could ditch the Pinto just about anywhere and not worry about someone screwing with it. It was a rusted out Pinto. Even thugs had standards. While I'm at it, I leave the clunky gray skull mask in the glovebox. Not much of a fan of face shields. If an assassin does their job right, there's no need to hide their face. Its a concept that's still a little foreign to me.
Besides, let the ****ing world find out that I'm Damian Wayne, little lost lamb of the Wayne fortune. I bet the same father who doesn't have two seconds to say so much as two words to me would suddenly have plenty of time for his lawyers and gag orders on the media.
The sound of breaking glass and the choking stench of smoke comes on full force. Waves of heat slamming into me like the fullback for the San Francisco 49ers. I try to tell myself that this has nothing to do with the Batman. I'm really not trying to save anyone. Except maybe me. The only pretense is mine, that I wasn't made for a purpose other than to be a potential resurrection vehicle for grandfather. But I am not my grandfather. And I'm not my father. And I'm not my mother's son.
I am Damian.
Not Damian al Ghul.
Not Damian Wayne.
I am myself.
I have to repeat that, because I'm not sure I believe it either. Since I was born out of an artificial womb I've been expected to be the perfect little assassin. Someone worthy to be a future Ra's al Ghul. Then enter the donor of the Y chromosome and I become shackled by a morality that's as forced on me as it me forcing the idea that I believe in any of it. At least father was a different role model than the one I had before. So should I instead try to prove myself to be someone worthy to be... what? A future Robin? The mantle held by all those who claimed to be the foster and adopted children of Bruce Wayne?
I tried that all ready. Got my ass kicked by none other than one of father's precious former wards. Seriously, have you seen his Robin costume hanging in the Batcave? I had my ass handed to me by a guy who used to swing around Gotham wearing fairy booties.
And not just any ex-Robin either, the one who got his brain smashed in by the Joker. Being from the League of Assassins, I'm no stranger to people coming back from the dead. Hell, that's grandfather's single M.O. at this point I think. It usually doesn't work out quite as intended for the would-be Lazarus. Mental instability is a worry in the best of cases.
Guy who's skull was cracked by a crowbar? Probably not possessing all his cards on a good day no matter who was doing the lay on hands.
The woman's an undocumented immigrant. I get that inside of the first few seconds but that isn't my problem. She and the infant are okay on the fire escape before the guns start going off.
I mean seriously, I am
not Bruce Wayne. Or Dick Grayson. Or even Stephanie ****ing bimbo Brown. I'm just a ten year old retired assassin trying to save a baby out on a fire escape and I've got mafioso wannabes trying to cap my ass. Which is fine by me. I can teach them a few things about popping caps in people. Like how to make sure the guy on the other end of the barrel or the knife actually goes down, a minor detail these hooligans have failed to achieve or realize.
Oh, god forbid the masked vigilante actually puts down a villain. That's the golden rule. Heroes don't kill people.
Right, were you paying attention? I'm not Bruce Wayne. I'm not fairy boot wearing Robin. And I'm not your ****ing hero.
What I am is the wrath of God, the Devil, Shiva, and who-the-****-ever all bottled up inside of a pre-teen with daddy issues the size of the Statue of Liberty, half a can of whoop ass, and a whole lot of pissed off.
All of which is finding an opportunity for release right about the time that I come within arms reach of the first gangbanger. 6'4". 255 pounds. A very big man to have such a high alto scream.
This isn't saving people.
This is therapy. Not for the alto, those broken ribs have punctured both of his lungs and he's going to slowly asphyxiate as they fill with blood and he can't get any oxygen. But me? I definitely feel better.
And who knows, if your friendly neighborhood Batman comes to the rescue then maybe he'll swoop in to get the man to a hospital and everything can have a happily ever after with rainbows and ponies.
This isn't Never, Neverland. This isn't Metropolis. Hell, it isn't even the Bronx. This is Gotham. There aren't any rainbows here. But we do have meth labs. Like the one operating out of this apartment building, sending the gangbangers into a panic as they try to tackle the rising flames, keep the residents from drawing too much attention from the cops, and save as much of the meth as they can before the authorities roll up on them.
Guy in a black suit and a cape swings in? They just start shooting. And they don't care at what. Even as I try to stop them, I'm stepping over the bodies of residents who got caught in the crossfire. Father's kidding himself if he believes there's any golden rule. There are no rules. There's no redemption for the men behind these triggers. There's no rehabilitation. No probation. These men are all damned.
How do I know? I'm the grandson of Ra's al Ghul. I was born with a first class ticket to Hell in my hands.
A guy gripping a Saturday Night Special stands at the top of a flight of stairs, hammer back on the pistol as he watches the shadows for any sign of movement. He sees it. Anyone stopping to actually look at the form veiled by the mist could tell you it was a twelve year old girl. Does he think? Does he hesitate? No, he just points the barrel and squeezes the trigger.
When he does, the bullet sails through his own skull. A quick snag and spin on my part with his arm. The nervous reaction causing him to tense the muscles and involuntarily pull the trigger. I'm sure my father would call it a crime. As I let the body fall over the railing and turn to help the girl through the smoke, I call it poetic.
I can hear the sirens clearly now. Firefighters beginning to blast water into the building. No one else moving that's worth my time. The bystanders either out or dead from the crossfire. Judging by the seemingly world-ending scale of this whole black-ringed-space-zombie-crap, it's a safe bet that Gotham's going to have more fires, more highrises, and more trash toting guns.
And where is the city's beloved
Bat-Man? Good lucking finding the answer to that one people. I've been waiting ten years on the ****ing Batman. And I'm still waiting. And I'm tired of waiting.
As Damian started tracking back toward the upper levels of the building to make his exit, he came across the body. Not that of some strung out heroine ex-prostitute or the guy barely holding down a job as a dishwasher as the local grease kitchen or even one of the trash. A toddler. Twenty-four. Maybe Thirty months old. Three bullet wounds and a lot of blood. Left to burn. With eyes that stared vacantly right at Damian.
He made it all the way to the roof before he puked.