CHAPTER VI- A PURGING FIRE
The sun set over Gotham and the East End came to life to wallow in its own filth all over again. Hookers strolled along, showing what they had to the men walking by. A man walked along the roof of a porno theater, everyone below too preoccupied to notice him. This city is the haven of all evil things. As a society, we fascinate ourselves with the actions of wicked men. But Gotham goes a step further, welcoming such monsters with open arms. They have built a monument to insanity which they name an asylum, and their Dark Knight is only a checkpoint in the road these bastards take to circumnavigate justice. There was a time when I idolized him along with the rest. I would scurry home from work, lock my door and barricade myself as the war rode in with the setting sun. No man should turn a blind eye to this. He came to the end of the building looking down on the street corner where a man yanked at his woman’s arm. “Bitch, gimme the money!” he snarled. “NO!” she said, “It’s my money!” “I didn’t say it was yours, I own you, so hand it ova!” he shouted, louder this time and reaching for a switchblade in his pocket. With a swift flick, the blade shot from the handle and he raised it to her throat.
The Omen looked down the sights of his pistol, aiming down at the pimp. In the name of all that is right, I send you to your final judgment. BLAM! A splash of blood shot from the back of his neck as the bullet passed through him, exiting through his chest. The knife fell to the ground and in one slow passing moment, the poor soul looked down with bloodshot eyes as his blood spilled onto the pavement. He turned to see the shooter, but collapsed as he turned, falling dead on the cold, hard ground. Everyone looked and screamed, whispering to one another. Then they all simultaneously gazed up at the man with his back to the moon, sliding his gun back into its holster. He looked down on them with silent judgment that struck them all to their core. Without a single word, he turned and walked away, vanishing as he jumped to the next rooftop.
Dick stood alongside Bruce and they both looked down at a desk with files for every suspect laid out. “It has to be Frank.” Said Dick. “No.” Batman whispered, “It’s a perfect fit, too perfect.” Dick looked confused, “Wait, what?” Batman pointed down at Frank’s file, “The Omen is smart. He wouldn’t willingly make it so obvious. Frank wouldn’t be so straight forward. They share similar ideals and personalities, but they can’t be the same man.”
They both looked down at the files, focusing on one simple question, who was the Omen? Last night, I encountered the Omen. Thought Batman, I engaged him in his attempt to kill Edward Nigma, the Riddler. His body count has reached dozens. He started over a month ago with drug pushers and street thugs. Now, he targets my greatest enemies. Scarecrow, Deadshot, Zsasz. He kills his victims with a 1911 Colt handgun. Before Scarecrow was killed, the Omen used his fear toxin in his explosives. There are four prime suspects, the Tarot killer, a murderer who used tarot cards as his gimmick, Frank Pryor, former Red Hood who took the law into his own hands, Officer Thomas Raferty, cop who went on a killing spree against criminals, Officer Jack Krohl, same. The Riddler has been returned to Arkham Asylum. Omen’s next move is anyone’s guess. Bruce turned from the table, flipping his cowl over his head. “Get back to Arkham. They need you.” He ordered and Dick somersaulted across the cave, landing by a cabinet holding his Nightwing costume.
Batman jumped into his car and raced through the mouth of the cave. He roared down the road, on his way into Gotham.
A city watched as furious flames devoured the building. Most watching up front wore a false face of sorrow while others didn’t bother hiding their true intentions and looked on with joyful expressions as the flames danced from the windows and up the sides of the brick walls, staining them with ash and char. Those who had escaped the blaze watched in terror as their homes burned, everything inside disintegrating. Tears parted the ash covering their faces and they held their loved ones tight. The firemen aimed their hoses for the lower levels, extinguishing the fire on the first two floors. Suddenly, a mass wave of people burst through the police perimeter and rushed into the building. Moments later, people raced back out with whatever they had managed to get a hold of. Some carried pockets of jewelry and silver, others lugging out barely burnt furniture.
A middle aged woman looked at the acts of her supposed neighbors, holding a grey blanket around her shoulders. There were chunks of coal in her short cut blonde hair and red scrapes on her face and knuckles. Tears pooled in her eyes and the vibrant lights of her home burning before her reflected in every last one of them. She walked up to the firefighters who leaned against their truck and watched with a nonchalant grimace on their faces. “Aren’t you going to do anything?” she asked. “We can’t do anything as long as those people are in the way.” Said a firefighter. “In the way?!” she cried, “You can still save my house! You can hose down the upper floors! Why won’t you do anything?!” The firefighter scoffed, “Get outta here!” he barked, signaling for the woman to go away. Her lip quivered as rage boiled up inside her. “THERE ARE STILL PEOPLE IN THERE!” she screamed. The firefighter shoved her and she reluctantly walked back to comfort the other survivors.
A couple huddled up in the corner as their apartment collapsed around them, the framework fell in embers and sparks flustered around in the smoke filled air. They coughed heavily, keeping their son sheltered beneath a wet blanket. They gazed into each other’s eyes, knowing full well that this was the end.
They both turned to see a man walking across the flames, sparks and embers rising with every step he took. With the fires to his back, he was cloaked in shadow until he knelt by them. The man looked under his hood and saw only a faceless red curtain. “Are you alright?!” asked the Omen over the roaring flames. They nodded and their son gazed up, dozing off. “Is that Batman, Daddy?” he asked. “No, son.” Replied the Omen, “Come on. Stay low.” He extended his hand and helped them to their feet.
The Omen led the family out of their apartment and down the hall to the staircase, fire covering all the walls, running up the stairs. He set foot on a step only to have a large piece of flaming wood drop, shielding his face as debris went everywhere. The rest of the roof began to collapse and hot coals scattered in all directions. He quickly herded the family back through the hall as the ceiling fell to the floor. “Move! Move!” he shouted. Their feet skidded on ash and broken glass as they rounded the corner.
There were massive lengths of wood all over the floor and flames ate away at the ground. With no other way out, the Omen picked up a heavy wooden beam, the heat scorching his fingertips. He lifted it over his head and slammed it into the ground. He kept swinging, coughing as smoke tainted his lungs. The flames grew even more aggressive. There wasn’t much time left and he kept striking the floor. Suddenly, the fire damaged floor gave way and they looked down at the floor below, where the fire was less intense. He looked to the father. “Think you can make it?” he asked. He nodded and took hold of his wife. They both jumped through the hole and landing on the floor. They swept themselves up off the floor and ran for the staircase.
The Omen knelt down, looking into the eyes of the frightened young boy. “Okay, hang on to me and don’t let go no matter what, alright?” he asked. The boy wiped his eyes and whispered sheepishly. “Okay.” The Omen nodded and picked him up. He reached for a pouch on his belt and pulled out a length of rope, tying it around a concrete pillar. The boy tightened his arms around the Omen’s neck as he kicked out a window, turning his back to the open windowsill. He leaned back, diving out of the window. The rope went taught as he fell and he belayed down the side of the building, the rope sliding through his hands. He worked his way down the burning building until reaching the ground, setting the boy down. With a cry of relief, his parents ran towards him, embracing him in their arms. The mother picked him up, looking to the Omen. “Thank you.” She said with a scraped, chalky voice, “Thank you so much.” Tears of joy ran down her face and the Omen simply gave a nod and climbed back up.
He crawled back through the window, rolling up the rope. He quickly ran through the room, looking for anyone else. I can’t save everyone. The door caved in as he rammed his shoulder into it, looking inside to only see a charred corpse. The building moaned and wailed, no longer able to hold itself up any longer. He looked around again. “Anyone?!” he cried, gagging on the thick smoke. He put his arm over his mouth and raced for the window as the building came crumbling behind him. A burst of fire followed on his tail as he crashed through the glass.
The next building over was a few floors shorter and the Omen landed hard, rolling as he hit. He came to a stop and slowly picked himself up off the ground, patting out the flame on his shoulder.
He turned to watch as the building collapsed, the screams of people still trapped inside finally fading into silence. He bowed his head. Those people were innocent. I have no excuse for not saving them. Suddenly, the sound of a heel turning on the gravel roof hit his ear and he dove to the side, narrowly evading a slice of Deathstroke’s sword. He rolled on the ground, stopping to look up at his attacker. “It pains me to have to start a fire like that. Shame that my trap only caught a fly, I’m looking for a bat.” Deathstroke muttered in nonchalance. He ran his sword across the back of his hand, “I suppose a warm up round would do me well.” He finished.
The Omen moved his hand cautiously, reaching for the knife on his belt. “The bat…” he said, “IS MINE!” He flung the knife in an underhand throw but Slade had already anticipated and considered this attack, swerving to the side as the knife struck a chimney behind them. The Omen quickly raced towards him, driving with his shoulder and ramming him against the chimney. “And I would sooner die then see him fall to murdering filth like you.” He growled. “That can be arranged.” Said Deathstroke, knocking the Omen’s hands to the side and striking him at two pressure points beneath his arms with outstretched fingers. The Omen cried out in pain and Deathstroke pulled him closer, jabbing him in the lower back with a dagger. He twisted the blade and ripped it out, throwing the Omen to the ground.
He stood over the Omen, drawing a pistol. “I’m disappointed in you.” He said, “The papers made you out to be some expert killer. They think you’re unstoppable because you killed a few nutcases. Scarecrow? A stiff breeze would snap that toothpick’s neck. Deadshot? Amateur. Zsasz? What kind of murderer takes a life by unplugging a man? What kind of coward…” he drove his boot into the Omen’s gut, “…kills a man in his sleep?” Slade leaned in towards his prey. He hardly flinched as the Omen swung a fist in his direction, effortlessly catching it and squeezing it. The Omen growled as Deathstroke crushed his hand. “The kind of coward…” he snarled, “…who just tricked you.” Deathstroke was confused as Omen’s free hand swung a loose brick against his head, shattering into red dust.
Deathstroke recoiled, stepping back and recovering from the attack. Now, there was hatred in his eyes. His cold, calculating mind kept it at bay, but now, he was angry. The Omen staggered to his feet and unsheathed his blade, holding it with the intent to gouge out Slade’s heart.
For a moment, the two just looked at each other. Deathstroke lunged at the Omen but he spun out of the path of his sword. Deathstroke landed on the ground and slashed behind him, but Omen jumped over the blade, swinging down with his on the downward arc of his jump. Of course, the Terminator easily out maneuvered his attack.
Slade slashed viciously at the Omen, slicing big, sweeping X’s in the air. The Omen matched every strike of his flawless steel sword with a parry of his inferior wrought iron blade. But Deathstroke’s attacks grew faster and faster until the Omen could hardly keep up blocked once more, pushing his sword away for a moment and jumped across the roof, landing on the other side. He drew his pistol and aimed straight for Deathstroke’s forehead. “I’ve got you.” He exclaimed. Deathstroke reached for something on his belt. “Au contraire.” He held a small metal device in his hand, pressing the button. It was a detonator!
With a deafening roar, a brick of C-4 cleverly hidden in the side of the chimney beside the Omen went off, knocking him off his feet and sending him into the blast of another bomb on the ground. He was flung halfway across the roof and landed face first in the gravel. His jacket and pants were tattered, burnt and stained with ash and blood. Part of his mask was shredded, uncovering the side of his mouth and another rip just above the eye. Flack, shrapnel and shards of shattered brick pierced his flesh. “Nnnh…” his voice waned as he groaned in pain. “Nngaaah…” he saw his sword, his single edged, slightly curved blade sitting just a few feet from him. With a seemingly heavy amount of effort, he put his arms out in front of him and dragged himself across the ground, grunting and groaning in an exasperated tone like a wounded animal. His blade was right before him and he reached out to grasp it. Unfortunately, a heavy boot with a faint tint of orange crushed his hand, grinding it into the ground. “GAAAH!” cried the Omen. Deathstroke lifted his foot and the Omen held his injured hand. “Pathetic.” Deathstroke muttered. The Omen slowly tried to get up, but as he got up on propped on his arms, Slade drove a steel-toed boot into his ribcage. “OOF!” He fell back to the ground, limp as if he were dead already.
Beneath his mask, Deathstroke grinned as he drew his pistol, aiming straight down at the Omen’s head. Just as he squeezed down on the trigger, a metallic claw grasped his gun and pulled it away from the Omen. Deathstroke looked down at the claw, following the cable connected to it to look up and see Batman, his back to the moon, his cloak drifting in the wind. “About time you showed up.” He said, pulling at the cable and bringing Batman down to the ground. “The more the merrier.” He drew his sword again and sliced the cable in twain.
Slade opened fire on Batman as he ran, keeping low and hiding behind a chimney. Bullets tore massive holes in the bricks, sending dust everywhere. Batman pulled a batarang from his utility belt, throwing it into the air far off course from Deathstroke, but with an almost silent mechanical motion, the batarang’s wing like structure spun around and around on its own axis, turning around and aiming right for the assassin’s back. He kept firining at Batman as the batarang was about to strike, then spun around and effortlessly sliced it in two, sending pieces everywhere. Batman through another one in an opposite direction. Slade heard it coming towards him and prepared to turn and block it, but before he could, four inches of metal pierced the blue metal scales covering his thigh and a spurt of blood ran down the side of his leg. He growled, looking down at the Omen who held his knife lodged into his thigh. He was distracted just long enough for the batarang to strike him in the lower back. “EAAAAGH!” he screamed, ripping the device out of him. He jerked to the side, twisting the knife free form Omen’s weak hand and ripped it out as well, tossing it aside.
Batman climbed up to the top of the chimney and silently dove towards Deathstroke, tackling him to the ground only to be met with a knee to the ribs and was flung off with a powerful kick. Slade jumped to his feet, holding up his fists ready to fight. Batman swung several punches with amazing speed and precision, but they were all blocked by Deathstroke with a simple flick of his wrist. He aimed two jabs simultaneously at Slade’s face, but he killed the momentum with his wrists. Batman thrust forward again, the blades on his forearms scratching Slade’s wrists as his face was struck with two leather gloved fists.
Deathstroke and Batman dueled, neither truly gaining the upper hand. The Omen slinked along the ground, slowly picking himself up. After a long and painful effort, he was on his feet and limped towards Batman and Deathstroke. He tripped a few times, stifling on his scarred and bleeding legs. Batman flung his cape in the air, blinding Slade for a split second, not knowing that behind the black curtain was a fist coming straight for him. Unfortunately, the Terminator had seen and catalogued this attack in his memories and quickly slapped his hand down on the cape, wrapping around Batman’s fist and squeezing it. He swept Batman’s legs out from under him and trapped him beneath his own tangled cloak. Blood still flowed from his leg and back, but he ignored his injuries as he held his hands together, balling them into a single fist and slammed down on Batman over and over. With every swing, a small burst of air shot from between his clenched teeth. He kept wailing on Batman until he felt a slight pinch, which turned into an agonizing, searing pain on his back. He turned around only to be met with the Omen’s fist. The Omen had dug his fingers into the wound on Deathstroke’s back, causing him a serious amount of pain and opening the cut even wider. Now, blood trickled at a greater pace and Batman flung himself up from the ground on his hands, swinging his leg upward and kicking Slade in the gut.
Slade fell back as Batman stood up, standing tall alongside the Omen. “Ready?” Batman asked. “When you are.” Replied the Omen, pulling a pair of brass knuckles from his belt. They both ran at Deathstroke with blinding speed and swung. Batman hurled his left hand at Deathstroke’s face, the Omen doing the same with his right. Their hands crossed as they both punched Deathstroke. They followed it up by using the opposite hand and punching him in the ribs. The force of this sent Slade back against a chimney and he promptly put his boot against the bricks and jumped in the air, clearing just over the two and landing on the ground, rolling face up with a gun in each hand and opened fire on them. Batman reacted instinctively, throwing himself in front of the Omen. As the bullets zipped by, he tossed a batarang. Shortly after, three bullets struck his chest, one on the shoulder, one on the pectoralis muscle, and one dead center of bat logo on his chest. He fell to the ground from the force of impact. The batarang hit Deathstroke in the shoulder and he yanked it out, tossing it aside and ran off into the night. Batman’s eyes slowly drifted open and he groaned, sitting up and getting up from the ground. He parted the shredded fabric around one of the bullet wounds to reveal a dented metal plate. He looked to the ground in shock to see the Omen laying there, gasping desperately for air. Blood splattered all over his jacket, coming from a bullet hole in his stomach. He turned to see Slade several buildings away, racing from the scene.
Batman acted fast, picking up the Omen and carrying him in his arms. He went to the edge and jumped onto the fire escape, scaling down with the Omen slipping away in his arms. They arrived in the alley and Batman turned on the Batmobile, sliding the canopy cover forward and laying the Omen down in the back seat. He was frail and weak, his life could be within seconds of ending. Batman hopped in the front seat and flicked a series of switches, powering up the Batmobile and speeding off through the streets.
Papers and litter flustered as the fearsome Batmobile tore down the road. Batman turned the corner, getting onto the freeway. He glanced back at the Omen, who struggled to keep conscious. He was hardly coherent and coughed up blood every few minutes. His vision was glazed over and blurry as he bled out all over Batman’s car. They raced down the freeway until they reached an exit. Far off, a series of rolling hills could be seen bordering a thick forest. Atop one of these hills was Wayne Manor with a long, winding road leading up to the front gate. Bruce took the backroads through the forest whenever he took the Batmobile out. Batman took the exit, driving down the way and into the woods. “Uunnnh… ba… bat… aaooh…” the Omen murmured from the back seat. His condition worsened with every fleeting second and Batman pressed down harder on the pedal, tearing through the woods.
The Batmobile raced up the hill, between trees on the narrow road winding through the lush forest residing just beyond Gotham. For the Omen, these short minutes passed like hours. He remained barely awake, only kept alert by the incomprehensible pain all over his body, and the discomforting sensation of blood sticking his clothes to his skin.
Batman saw the end of the road up ahead, a small, crystal pool fed by a waterfall tumbling over a rocky slope. Going full throttle, Batman narrowed his eyes and jumped the gap, crashing through the waterfall. The Batmobile came to a grinding halt in the cave, skidding to the side as Batman hopped out, picking up the Omen. Alfred was in the cave, dusting the glass cylinders containing old costumes and he overheard the commotion, turning to see Bruce carrying a near dead man in his arms. “Oh my!” He exclaimed. “Can you help him, Alfred?” asked Batman, “He’s dying.” Alfred looked down at the Omen, running his hands across him, examining his injuries. “I’ve seen worse. Lay him down gently. I’ll tend to him.” He said. Batman lay the Omen down on the operating table, a metal slab with handle bars along the sides. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and clicked them around the Omen’s wrist and the side rail. He reached for the Omen’s mask, ready to peel it back, but Alfred grabbed his wrist. “Sir, please.” He said sternly, “There shall be plenty of time to unmask him when I’m done. It doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere regardless.” Batman turned and walked toward the elevator, going up into the mansion.
Now, Alfred was left to his work and pulled out a cabinet on the side of the operating table, pulling out a tray of tools, scalpels and all. He unzipped the Omen’s jacket and quickly cut away his shirt with a pair of scissors. He scrubbed down the wounds covered in ash and charred, peeling skin. He wiped off the caked on blood and got down to work, stitching injuries together and pulling out flack.
Meanwhile, Bruce sat upstairs in a leather recliner, a tall, slender glass window letting in rays of moonlight. On the opposite side of the room was a long corridor lined with statues and portraits, priceless pieces of art that Bruce never passed by or even glanced at. He sat in the chair, deep in thought. His eyes were sunken in, the effect of weeks of sleep deprivation. His slick black hair hung in strands over his forehead.
A footstep echoed down the hall, coming closer. Dick entered the room, walking slowly around Bruce and plopping down on the couch opposite him. “So you finally caught him.” He said. Bruce cut his eyes at Dick, then turned away. “What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning forward, “If this is about the Joker, you couldn’t have done anything.” Bruce shot up from his chair, “It’s not about that bastard!” he growled, “It’s about how long I’ve let them all live. I swore I would never take an innocent life, but by refusing to take theirs, I’ve inadvertently slaughtered thousands.”
Dick stood up from his seat, looking concerned. “Bruce…” he said calmingly, resting his hand on his mentor’s shoulder, “It isn’t your fault. You know you don’t have the right to decide whether someone lives or dies. You’re not a god. You never set out to be.” A faint smile came to his face, but Bruce shrugged him off. “There’s a god in Metropolis, how many people does Toyman murder annually? How many Metropolis cops tell parents their kidnapped son won’t be found because they were payed to not give a damn?! When was the last time a maniac destroyed the town square and took dozens of lives with a smile on his face?!” Bruce choked back tears and looked at his apprentice, his friend, his son. “I set out to create a world where no eight year old kid would lose ever have to lose his parents… because of some punk with a gun. And in the end, all I’ve done is create another killer.”
Dick struck Bruce across the face. He looked at him and growled. “Look at yourself! Whether you acknowledge that there’s a world outside yourself or not, the world will always need a Batman. Always.” With that, Dick turned and walked away, his footsteps emanating through the cold, empty mansion long after he was gone. Bruce was left standing in the center of the room, the light of the moon to his back. He fell to his knees and looked down at the tile floor, bathing himself in shadow.
Alfred was fast at work, nearly finished dressing the Omen’s gunshot wound. The wad of lead he had pulled out of the murderer’s shoulder was in a pan to the side along with shards of brick, metal and wood, all of them covered in blood. He bit off the end of the string, neatly nipping the excess of the stitch. “Lovely.” He muttered to himself. He began to set his tools back on the tray when the Omen jumped to life, grabbing him by the neck and slamming his head into the table. He yanked at the cuff around his left hand, realizing he had to think of a way out. The Omen spotted a heavy duty bone saw on the tray. He leaned to the side, reaching for it, but it was just out of reach. He was still delirious from his injuries and a loss of blood, he had a concussion, but he was tough, determined and refused to give up on his mission now. His fingertips were only two or three inches away. “Come on, dammit.” He growled.
Suddenly, the Omen remembered that his shoulder was still recovering from when it was dislocated a week ago. He put his foot against the side rail, yanking at the cuff again and twisted his body as he pulled, feeling his elbow pop out of place. “Nnnh…” he groaned. He tried again, leaning over and just barely grasping the saw. The Omen flicked the device on, a high pitched buzz coming from the spinning blade. He quickly set it to the chain around his wrist, sparks flying as metal clashed with metal. The saw wasn’t designed to cut through metal, but the Omen kept going, the saw slowly working through the chain. Finally, it broke and the Omen was free! He got up from the operating table, still in extreme pain, and limped across the cave. He stood before the computer, looking up in sheer amazement at the massive machine. It was then that he heard something from behind him, the slow whir of the elevator on its way down. The cave wall all along the elevator shaft was full of gaping holes and he could see Batman coming down.
Acting quickly, the Omen pulled a pair of homemade grenades from his belt, flicked the pin and tossed them one behind the computer banks and one behind the huge monitor. He then went as fast as his as his battered body could move and stepped onto the platform lined wait all of Batman’s vehicles. Batman dashed out of the elevator the instant it touched the ground and ran down the walkway after the Omen. The Omen jumped on a motorcycle and kicked it on, the engine roaring as he clutched the handlebars. Batman raced towards him but suddenly, the grenades went off, sending a powerful blast throughout the cave. Batman’s cape flew back and he shielded his face from the debris as the enormous computer fell to the ground, a fireball explosion lighting the dark corners of the cave. The Omen rode the motorcycle out through a long tunnel, escaping the batcave and riding into the night.
Batman looked frantically around the cave. “Alfred?!” he cried, “Alfred?!” the roaring flames and smoke swallowed his voice as he ran around, trying to find Alfred. He spotted a hand rising from a pile of flaming debris and rushed to his side, throwing the burning scraps aside and digging him free. He pulled Alfred to his feet and slung his arm over his shoulder. He helped Alfred along the walkway towards the elevator as he came to. “M- Master Bruce?” he whispered. “It’s alright, Alfred.” Said Batman, “You’re safe.”
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