## Chapter 5: Among Mortals
The night was deep.
Bane and his men left their hideout, walking through the streets of Gotham’s slums.
In the minds of ordinary people, villains are usually strong and powerful, built like a bull, looking like the kind of guy who could eat three kids in one sitting.
And in reality…
That’s exactly what Bane was.
But even so, in Gotham, some desperate people would seek help from this ferocious and grotesque monster.
Like now.
“Please, can you save my mother?”
A little girl stared blankly at the hulking muscleman, who towered over her like a mountain. She couldn’t help but timidly grab the doll in her hand.
It was a doll she had picked up from a trash can, fitting with her tattered clothes.
“My mother has cancer, she needs medicine, she’s in so much pain. People say only God can help her.”
She trembled, her eyes filled with hope as she looked at Bane.
“Can you help me?”
Bane stopped his men, who were about to shoo the little girl away.
“Where do you live?”
The little girl pointed to the dilapidated house behind her.
Bane went inside.
A few minutes later, Bane came out, wiping the brain matter and blood off his hands.
“Your mother will never be in pain again… bury her.”
“… Don’t seek help from others rashly, otherwise the suffering of the world will come knocking at your door.”
He tilted his head slightly, seeing the stars hidden in the dark skirt of the eastern sky.
Bane said:
“There is no God here… but Bane is here.”
…
…
…
Gotham’s night was so peaceful, filled with the quiet serenity of tombstones.
Gray rain with a faint sour smell intermingled with the fog of industrial waste under the neon lights. Deathstroke stood on the rooftop of a building, watching Gotham City sneer in the hazy drizzle.
On the street, a car roared past, splashing a pedestrian with mud. The pedestrian immediately pulled out a submachine gun from his chest and fired at the receding car, da-da-da-da-da-da…
These people in this city are too dramatic.
Deathstroke thought this while expertly pulling out a rocket launcher and a mortar from his bag.
He gave a thumbs-up to the building in the distance, measuring the distance and wind speed.
“I must remind you, Deathstroke, my mission requires no casualties.”
The employer’s voice came through the earpiece.
“Ventriloquist, you’ve been a gangster for so long, how did you come up with this superhero-esque requirement of not killing anyone?”
“Bad guys should look like bad guys.”
Deathstroke complained, setting up the mortar on the edge of the rooftop: “If you weren’t an old customer, I would’ve thought you were Batman’s inside man.”
“Speaking of, that new toy of yours – you wouldn’t actually be siding with Batman, would you? Did Batman give you a set of Robin’s trousers-less outfit?”
Bang!
The mortar fired, drawing a deadly parabola in the air, and the Ventriloquist’s voice came at the same time.
“Dead people mean less money.”
“Alright, alright, I got it, don’t rush me.”
Deathstroke licked his lips and raised the rocket launcher.
Boom!
The rocket lagged behind but arrived first, kissing the mortar shell in a French kiss above the building’s roof.
Bang!
Amidst the roar, the roof of that building was ripped open like an opened can, blown to pieces, revealing the enemies below, scrambling like ants.
“See, I told you, I’d bring the Mad Hatter to you safe and sound.”
Deathstroke pulled out his sniper rifle, but didn’t move: “But now, my employer…”
“Because of your distrust, I’m not doing this job anymore.”
“What?”
“Scared like that, the Mad Hatter will probably hide. Catching him again will probably be 10 times harder. Besides, Gotham is Batman’s city, there aren’t many mercenaries willing to come here.”
“This employer, you wouldn’t want the mission to fail, would you?”
“… Enough! Just tell me the conditions.”
Deathstroke looked at the sky at a 45-degree angle, speaking without hesitation, righteous, clear and articulate, magnanimous:
“It needs a raise.”
…
…
…
Nightfall, like a maiden shedding her clothes, was passionate and enthusiastic in its embrace with the city.
The Cheshire Cat gracefully strolled through the empty corridors of Gotham Heights High School, the siren wails and panicked shouts echoing from outside.
“I must remind you, ma’am, this mission target, Mr. Zas, is a lethal killer, just like you.”
The Ventriloquist’s voice came through the earpiece – oh no, it should be the voice of the bat doll on his left hand.
“I have no doubt that you can defeat him, but my requirement is to ensure the safety of every student hostage. So, you have to separate Zas and those girls first, then…”
“Oh, is that so?”
The Cheshire Cat’s slender fingers glided across her graceful waist and the alluring white expanse of her chest, pausing on her grinning cat mask.
“I think it’s unnecessary. Don’t you think?”
“What are you—”
“She’s not talking to you.”
The cold moonlight mingled with the red and blue lights of the police sirens, illuminating the killer rising from the shadows.
Countless scars were etched onto his muscular body.
Victor Zas, one of Gotham’s infamous villains.
His gaze lingered on the woman’s graceful figure:
“Why don’t you let me see your face? Ma’am?”
“Oh no, you know.”
The female assassin turned around.
“A cat never takes off her mask – especially in front of a naked exhibitionist.”
A short blade appeared in the opponent’s empty palm.
The Cheshire Cat sighed. She pulled out a retractable blade from behind, then pulled out several shurikens from the middle, like a hamster emptying its food stash.
Then she cocked her head.
“Catfight?”
Gotham’s infamous exhibitionist and serial killer, “Mr. Zas,” cracked a twisted smile:
“Cat Quest.”
…
…
…
In the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor, Chen Tao was using the Ventriloquist’s voice to remotely micro-manage the mercenaries like a certain bald-headed guy.
“… Enough! Just tell me the conditions. What? It needs a raise?”
He waved his hand, issuing the voice of a rich tycoon: “Add it, add it all!”
He turned his head and saw Tim Drake, the third Robin, angrily holding a piece of paper in front of him, on which was written:
“Batman, I still can’t believe you didn’t bring me along and instead paid those mercenaries to help you deal with Bane!”
The real Ventriloquist was innocently squatting in the corner, trying to pretend to be a real dog.
Tim looked at him and felt his fists clench, but he couldn’t hit him for no reason in front of Batman.
So, the young Robin could only clench his porcelain-like teeth and continue writing with a sense of indignation: “And not only did you bring the bad guys home, you talked to other bad guys in front of me!!!”
Batman hung up the phone and sighed.
The third Robin fell silent for a moment.
He asked:
“Is it because of Paul? (Jean-Paul, the Deathstroke previously killed by Bane)”
“Not entirely.” Chen Tao replied: “Listen to me.”
He turned, grabbed the other’s shoulder, and looked directly into Robin’s eyes.
“I’m going to retire.”
“What… what?” This unexpected answer simply bewildered Robin.
“Youth will eventually pass, Tim. Boyhood is gone, the golden cup is drained, old dreams are hard to grasp. Batman is just a dream an eight-year-old child refuses to wake up from… and now, the dream needs to wake up.”
“I’m going to do one last thing for Gotham, then live a normal life, a life I deserve. So are you, Tim.”
“You’re well-educated, smart, you have a father and a mother.”
“You have no idea how rare that is!”
“You deserve all the good things in the world. You should go to school, and one day, you’ll meet your soulmate.”
“She’ll have golden hair and blue eyes, or maybe wine-red hair… she might be named Gordon, maybe Brown, but one day she’ll be named Drake.”
“You’ll get to know each other, fall in love, my child… that kind of innocent and pure love is something I’ll never have the chance to experience.”
“We should all escape this nightmare.”
Clang! The tray in Alfred’s hand fell to the ground, shattering.
He covered his face and wept with joy.
“Is this real? Bruce? Am I really not dreaming – Bruce?”
(End of chapter)
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