Alfred

The searing bullet slammed into the mysterious man's forehead, its tremendous impact snapping his neck.

Shattered bone mixed with blood splashed across Casey's mask. The girl's eyes widened, reflecting the mangled face blasted apart by gunfire.

A hand seized her arm and dragged her free of the dead man's grasp.

Raindrops hissed against a burning cigar. Dim yellow light sketched the old man's silhouette in rough strokes.

He looked like a godfather straight out of a nineteenth-century gangster film. His furrowed brows resembled an eagle poised to take flight. He clenched the end of his cigar between his teeth, his words muffled. Rainwater swirled through his graying beard and ran down to soak the chest of his shirt.

"Time to go. He won't stay dead for long."

"Okay... wait... what do you mean, he won't stay dead for long?"

The man didn't need to answer. The mysterious man's legs suddenly twitched where he lay.

This wasn't some natural reflex caused by contracting nerves. The twitching grew more violent, and the man whose head had been blown apart actually stretched out both arms, like a zombie about to claw its way out of the earth.

The three of them fled the alley.

The old man ran ahead, scanning their surroundings warily as he loaded another bullet into the Hunting Revolver.

William wanted to return to their rented apartment to warn Floyd, but the old man objected.

"Renting a new place was the cleverest part of your plan. Talon hasn't learned about it yet. Don't hand over that lead."

"But..."

"I know what you're worried about. Leave it all to another friend."

They fled Bowery Street in the East End and reached the Coventry District.

The old man knocked on the door of an underground bar and led the two inside to take temporary shelter.

The little bar was deserted. Blue and purple neon lights above the counter flickered in time with William's breathing.

"The smell of tobacco and alcohol can interfere with Talon's sense of smell."

The old man took off his vest, slapped his gun down on the counter, and loosened his collar. He accepted a whiskey from the bartender and drained it in one gulp.

"Would you two like some?"

"Who are you?"

The old man didn't answer Casey's question directly. His gaze settled on William.

"I'd like to hear your answer. Who do you think I am?"

"Mr. Alfred Pennyworth."

That answer made the bartender laugh.

"Old friend, he doesn't seem as stupid as you thought."

"But I stand by my opinion."

The old man tipped back a second glass of whiskey and wiped the liquor from his beard.

"Otherwise, I can't explain why he went out of his way to provoke those people. He seems to know Gotham very well, yet he knows nothing at all."

"You've been watching me from the shadows all this time."

William pulled over a stool and sat beside the bar. He didn't understand why Alfred had stayed hidden for so long, repeatedly providing crucial clues yet refusing to show himself.

"From my perspective, I couldn't be sure where you stood. An ally? A troublemaker? Or yet another trap!"

Another glass of whiskey arrived. He covered its rim with his hand.

"Your actions were far too blatant. You barged into the castle and asked for me by name. I'm sorry, but I wasn't brave enough to answer."

"But I found Batman."

"And that is precisely the problem, young man."

A second emotion finally appeared on Alfred's taut face. He pressed his lips together, seemingly fighting back a smile.

"I thought you were doing it deliberately, creating another Batman to force him to reveal himself."

William shuddered.

"Could you... explain that a little more clearly...? I don't understand."

"Of course you understand. You simply refuse to accept reality-to admit that the man you found isn't Batman."

Dixon Docks, Gotham.

Before disposing of the body, they checked it again, following Harold's instructions.

They unzipped the black body bag, revealing a pale face. Talon's wrist blade had pierced Stuart's face, leaving a bloody hole where his right eye had been.

Rain dripped into the wound.

"No way he's alive. Nobody gets back up with an injury like that, unless they're a zombie or a vampire."

The man in black reached for the body's carotid artery, turning to chat with his partner.

His fingertips trembled, and the smile froze on his face.

"What is it? Did the corpse come back to life?"

As his partner looked on in confusion, he drew his gun and emptied the magazine into the corpse's face.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang...

"Are you crazy? You'll bring the cops down on us... wait, are you saying he's still alive?"

The two stared at each other in silence and swallowed.

They zipped up the bag, fastened a chain weighted with a rock around the corpse's ankles, and threw it into the surging sea. Facing the bubbles rising to the surface, they crossed themselves.

"What are we supposed to tell them when we get back? That guy still had a pulse!"

"Don't mention the pulse. I emptied my whole magazine. What else could I do? Drive over the body a couple of times?"

The man insisted he'd done everything he could. If the guy wouldn't die, what was he supposed to do about it?

With their arms around each other's shoulders, they turned away. Suddenly, another splash sounded from the shore where they had dumped the body.

Even beneath the cover of the night wind, the sound stood out sharply.

Neither dared look back. They quickened their steps and fled into the car.

The air freshener inside masked the salty tang of the sea breeze. The man gripped the steering wheel and took a deep breath, then reached out with a trembling hand to turn the key.

He silently prayed. Please don't let something terrifying be standing in front of the car when the lights come on. Slasher films had all but worn out that sudden-cut jump scare, but nobody wanted it to happen in real life.

Fortunately, there was nothing ahead.

The man breathed a sigh of relief and grasped the gearshift.

But when he glanced at the rearview mirror, he was horrified to discover a dark figure there.

His oblivious partner was still tuning the radio. Trembling, the man reached for his gun.

"Next, we'll bring our listeners Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' Let us remember the great Freddie Mercury through his music, and everything he did for charity."

A brief flash lit the car's interior.

Bang!

Cracks spread across the windshield.

Blood ran down the back of the leather seat.

A hand reached out of the darkness and dragged both bodies into the back seat.

Stuart took a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment and put one between his lips. He turned the radio all the way up and sang along.

"Mama, just killed a man

Mama, I just killed a man

Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead

Put a gun against his head, pulled the trigger, and now he's dead

Mama, life had just begun

Mama, life had only just begun

But now I've gone and thrown it all away

But now I've destroyed it all with my own hands

Mama, ooh, didn't mean to make you cry

Mama, oh, I didn't want to make you cry

If I'm not back again this time tomorrow

If I haven't come back by this time tomorrow

Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters...

Please go on, go on living as though nothing ever happened..."

He didn't return to the East End. Instead, he turned the wheel the other way and drove toward the Diamond District.

He parked outside a house in the wealthy neighborhood.

Opening the mailbox, he fished a spare key out of the cobwebs.

Humming a tune, he crossed the weed-choked yard and tore a court notice off the front door.

"You're going to auction off my house just because I haven't tidied the yard for a year?"

He crumpled the notice and tossed it behind him.

Once inside, Stuart headed straight for the basement, switched on the backup power, and opened a storage cabinet in the corner with his fingerprint.

Inside lay a neatly folded set of black-and-orange leather combat gear.

After putting it on and sliding his two swords into the scabbards on his back, he leaned toward the mirror and lifted his right eyelid.

All his injuries had healed, but his right eye had lost most of its sight. A cloudy film covered the dull gray eyeball.

"What a headache. Now you've given me even more reason to hate you."

As Stuart pulled down his mask, yellow and black divided his face into even halves.

Perhaps it was no longer appropriate to call him Stuart.

Slade Wilson had regained his memories.

Deathstroke was back.