It was deep into the night.
Bane and his men left their hideout and walked through the streets of Gotham City's slums.
In ordinary people's imaginations, great villains were usually hulking brutes with immense strength, built like oxen and looking as if they could eat three children in one meal.
But in reality...
That was exactly what Bane was like.
Even so, in Gotham, some desperate people still sought help from such terrifying monsters.
Like now.
"Excuse me, can you save my mother?"
A little girl stared blankly up at the mountain-like, muscle-bound monster looming over her. Timidly, she clutched the rag doll in her hand.
It was a rag doll she'd picked out of a trash can, a perfect match for 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 as she looked at Bane with hopeful eyes.
"Can you help me?"
Bane stopped the henchman who was about to chase the little girl away.
"Where do you live?"
The little girl pointed to the dilapidated house behind her.
Bane walked inside.
A few minutes later, Bane came back out, wiping the brain matter and blood from his hands.
"Your mother will never suffer again... Bury her."
"...Don't recklessly seek help from others again, or the suffering of this world will come knocking on its own."
He raised his head slightly and looked toward the eastern horizon, where countless stars hid beneath the dark hem of night.
Bane said:
"There is no God here... but Bane is here."
Gotham's night was so quiet, filled with tombstone-like peace.
Gray rainwater carrying a faint sourness mingled beneath the neon lights with smog thick with industrial exhaust. Deathshot stood on a rooftop and watched Gotham City grin viciously through the hazy drizzle.
On the street, a car roared past, splashing a passerby with muddy water. The passerby immediately pulled a submachine gun from his coat and opened fire at the departing car. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat...
The people in this city were way too over the top.
Thinking that, Deathshot calmly pulled an anti-tank rocket launcher and a mortar out of his bag.
He gave the distant building a thumbs-up, gauging the distance and wind speed.
"I have to remind you, Deathshot, that my mission requires there to be no casualties."
The employer's voice came through his earpiece.
"Ventriloquist, you've been in the mob for years. How did you come up with this superhero-style rule against killing?"
"Bad guys should act like bad guys."
Deathshot complained as he set the mortar on the edge of the rooftop. "If you weren't a longtime client, I'd almost think you were Batman's informant."
"Speaking of which, that new puppet in your hand—you haven't actually defected to Batman, have you? Didn't Batman give you a pantsless Robin uniform?"
Boom!
The mortar fired, tracing a deadly arc through the air, while Ventriloquist's voice came through at the same time.
"Dead men cost extra."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't rush me."
Deathshot licked his lips and raised the anti-tank rocket launcher.
Bang!
The rocket overtook the mortar shell and shared a French kiss with it above the building's roof.
Boom!
Amid the deafening blast, the building's roof was torn open like a can of soda, blown to pieces and exposing the enemies below, scurrying around like ants.
"See? I told you I'd bring Mad Hatter to you in one piece."
Deathshot pulled out a sniper rifle but did not move. "But now, my employer..."
"Because you don't trust me, I don't want this job anymore."
"...What?"
"After being scared like that, Mad Hatter will probably hide. Catching him again will be ten times harder. Besides, Gotham is Batman's city, so there aren't many mercenaries willing to come here in the first place."
"Employer, you don't want this mission to fail, do you?"
"...Enough! Just name your terms."
Deathshot tilted his head forty-five degrees toward the sky and said without hesitation, with righteous conviction, clear diction, and an air of supreme justice:
"Pay me more."
The night was like a girl who had shed her veil, entwining herself with the city in unabashed, passionate intimacy.
Cheshire Cat strolled elegantly through the empty corridors of Gotham Heights High School. Outside the windows came the sound of sirens and the panicked shouts of countless people.
"I have to remind you, ma'am, that the target of this mission, Mr. Zsasz, is a deadly killer just like you."
Ventriloquist's voice came through the earpiece—or rather, the voice of the Batman doll in his left hand.
"I have no doubt you can defeat him, but my requirement is to ensure the safety of every student hostage. So first, you need to separate Zas from those female students, and then you can fight..."
"Oh, really?"
Cheshire Cat's slender fingers glided over her slim waist and the captivating patch of pale flesh at her chest before stopping on her grinning cat mask.
"I don't think it needs to be that complicated. Do you?"
"What are you tal—"
"She wasn't talking to you."
Cold moonlight mixed with the red and blue glow of police lights, illuminating the killer rising from the shadows.
Dense scars were carved across his massive, muscular body.
Victor Zsasz, one of Gotham's most famous villains.
His gaze lingered on the woman's graceful figure.
"Why don't you let me take a look at your beautiful face, ma'am?"
"Oh no, you know how it is."
The female killer turned around.
"Cats never take off their masks—especially in front of a completely naked exhibitionist."
A short knife appeared in the other man's previously empty palm.
Cheshire Cat sighed. She pulled a retractable knife from behind her, then drew a great many shuriken from the front of her chest, like a hamster emptying its food stores.
Then she tilted her head.
"Catfight?"
Gotham's famous exhibitionist and serial killer, "Mr. Zsasz," twisted his mouth into a distorted smile.
"Cat Quest."
In the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor, Chen Tao was remotely directing the mercenaries with Ventriloquist's voice, like some bald man.
"...Enough! Just name your terms. What? Pay you more?"
He waved his massive hand and put on the voice of a rich fool. "Pay them! We can pay anything!"
He turned around and saw Third Generation Robin Tim Drake angrily holding a sheet of paper in front of him. It read:
"Batman, I still can't believe you didn't take me with you and instead paid those mercenaries to help you deal with Bane!"
The real Ventriloquist crouched innocently in the corner, trying to pretend he was an actual dog.
Tim looked at him, his fists tightening, but he ultimately could not beat him up for no reason in front of Batman.
So the young Robin could only grit his porcelain-white teeth and continue writing with deep sorrow and indignation: "And not only did you bring bad guys home, you even called another bad guy right in front of me!!!"
Batman hung up the phone and sighed.
Third Generation Robin, on the other hand, fell silent for a moment.
He asked:
"Is it because of Jean-Paul? (Jean-Paul, also known as Death Angel, was killed by Bane earlier.)"
"Not entirely." Chen Tao answered, "Listen to me."
He turned around, grabbed the other's shoulders, and stared straight into Robin's eyes.
"I plan to retire."
"Wha... what?" The completely unexpected answer left Robin dumbfounded.
"Your youth will eventually pass, Tim. Youth fades, golden cups empty, and old dreams become impossible to reclaim. Batman is nothing more than a dream an eight-year-old child refuses to wake from... and now, it is time for that dream to end."
"I want to do one last thing for Gotham, then live a normal person's life—the life I deserve. You should do the same, Tim."
"You excel at school, you're brilliant, and you have both a father and a mother."
"You have no idea how rare that is!"
"You deserve everything beautiful in this world. You should go to school, and one day meet the love of your life."
"She'll have golden hair and sea-blue eyes, or perhaps wine-red hair... Maybe her surname will be Gordon, maybe Brown, but one day it will be Drake."
"You'll come to know each other, fall in love, my child... That young and pure love is something I'll never have the chance to experience."
"We should all escape this nightmare."
With a clang, the tray in Alfred's hands fell to the floor behind them and shattered.
He covered his face and burst into tears of joy.
"Is this real? Bruce? I'm really not dreaming, am I—Bruce?"
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