"Naive... The Pentagon is using a self-deceptive approach to impose its ignorance on the fate of all humanity."
"That sounds just like the usual manner of the gentlemen of Washington, sir."
Alfred gently placed the wine glass in the center of the silver plate, his tone clearly tinged with emotion.
"Trading undefinable freedom for a fleeting illusion of respite from the storm..."
But sir, given the scale of the operation so far, this might be the best we can do...
" Alf, you don't understand human nature."
Bruce looked up, his gaze slowly settling on the gray dot in the center of the screen, and pondered for a moment.
Alfred put down the linen and bowed his head slightly.
"Excuse my boldness, sir... your seventh and eighth ribs are not yet fully healed; you will need at least three more weeks of rest."
"The risk for you going this time will be extremely high..."
Bruce did not answer.
He turned and walked toward the armored display case standing in the shadows.
The thick, mechanical-looking outer layer reveals a heavy, matte ink sheen in the dark.
[ Mechanical Batsuit ]
He then put on his battle suit.
"Click-clack!"
Soon, the crisp click of the clasp engaging echoed repeatedly in the empty cave, dull and muffled, like a lock snapping shut.
"That ship remained silent in orbit for a full four hours... They were searching for him."
"And we have absolutely no idea... what will happen in an hour."
Bruce pressed the wristband's clasp firmly into the slot, a resolute glint in his eyes.
"Since we can't determine the nature of the problem, we can't just sit here and wait to die..."
If this is a test, we must find out what truly hangs over the heads of all humanity.
Alfred watched the figure slowly donning his robes in the shadows, his eyes crinkling slightly.
He then sighed softly.
He didn't try to dissuade him further, but simply picked up the glass of single malt whiskey that had been poured, walked slowly forward, and steadily presented it to Bruce with both hands.
"Then please remember that, sir."
The old man's gaze met the pair of eyes, as cold as a deep pool, behind the mask in silence.
His words were humble and respectful, yet each one carried immense weight.
"Whatever you face on your journey... please return alive to this manor that needs you."
"..."
Bruce glanced down at the amber-colored liquor in his glass, but didn't take it.
Instead, he flipped on the full-coverage night vision helmet.
"Click!"
The neck servo hook is engaged, and the polarizing lens on the faceplate suddenly lights up as the internal LED beads close the circuit.
A giant bat-like shadow struck the rock wall in an instant.
" Alf, take care..."
After saying that, Busilu turned and walked towards the elevator platform, slamming his left palm heavily onto the red valve!
"Boom--!!"
The black basalt walls at the end of the underground river suddenly slid apart to both sides, and the surging curtain of water from the underground waterfall was whipped into patches of white mist by the high-temperature air waves.
Three minutes later.
The refitted and repaired Batplane, like a black blade breaking through water, whistled as it pierced the surging haze.
At the same time.
The Pentagon's four underground levels house the military command center.
The air duct was filled with the smell of cold air and the acidity of coffee.
On the giant electronic screen in the conference room, the entire North American Air Defense Identification Zone had long since collapsed into a malfunctioning display of snow noise.
Here, several officials wearing general's stars on their chests gathered together.
But in the blind spot of the long table's shadow.
A civil servant wearing the badge of a deputy assistant to the Department of Defense is holding his briefcase neatly on his lap.
His fingers were clasped together, but his pupils were blank and unfocused.
But beneath that disguised cornea.
Hundreds of millions of micro-silicon lattices are being folded by algorithms at an extremely fast speed.
A flash of cold, blue light disappeared in an instant, and the parsed waterfall flow code quickly yielded the result:
[Target: Carl El ]
[Environmental Monitoring: Deep Space 'Yellow Light' Polarization Permeability 87.4% (Early Stage of Parallax Pollution)]
[Agreement confirmed: Maintain Level 3 silence; action may be taken if necessary]
[Command: Do not expose]
After the analysis was completed, the civil official's lips curled up slightly in a stiff arc.
Then, he nodded to the general at the head of the round table in front of him, who was covered in military stars but had a similarly dull look in his eyes.
Kansas.
At midday, the autumn sun peeked through the leaden clouds, casting dappled light across the boundless wheat fields.
A strong wind blew, and the dry wheat stalks rubbed against each other, creating a murmur like the sound of waves.
Kent Farm, in front of the log cabin.
"Sizzle--"
The old-fashioned radio was like a broken machine, emitting bursts of piercing static.
At this moment, Martha was standing on the porch steps with a frown on her face.
She was wearing a classic floral apron, wiping her hands back and forth on it.
No matter how much he wiped, the cold sweat seeping from his palms wouldn't come off.
"No, no..."
She murmured to herself, tilting her head back to look at the sky, which seemed devoid of anything of value, her breathing noticeably rapid.
"Joe... is what they said on TV true?"
Martha's voice trembled violently, and her eyes were red-rimmed.
"Those aliens... are they looking for John?"
But how could they know... how could they possibly have found this place?
But Old Joe, who was standing next to her, didn't say anything.
The farmer, who was over sixty years old, was only wearing a twill work shirt, and his back was slightly hunched.
A pair of calloused hands pressed laboriously against the porch railing, the tendons protruding like tree roots.
He looked at the distant horizon.
At the end of the once tranquil wheat fields, a line of earthy dust rose up.
It was tumbling at an extremely fast speed, pressing towards the farm.
That wasn't clearly a harvester, nor was it Stormfront.
It was armored vehicles, bulletproof cars... things he'd never seen before.
"Honey, come inside."
Old Joe finally spoke.
"Joe--"
"Quick! I told you to come inside! Lock the door!"
The old man suddenly turned his head, his eyes filled with bloodshot, and growled in a low voice.
"Don't come out! No matter what noise you hear, don't come out! I'll hold them off!"
"No--"
Martha covered her mouth, and two lines of tears silently slid down her cheeks.
But looking at her husband's resolute face, as hard as stone, she finally trembled and retreated back into the hallway.
The wooden door creaked shut with a heavy thud, and the heavy iron bolt came down.
Then, silence returned.
"Call--"
Old Joe took a deep breath.
He then turned around and looked at the barn door in the shadows beside him.
" John, come out..."
The old man's voice lowered, carrying a hint of indescribable weariness.
Soon, a tall, slender figure emerged silently from the shadows.
John was wearing a plain dark gray hooded sweatshirt, his hands in his belly pockets.
On his feet were a pair of faded white sneakers.
"Whoosh--"
A gentle breeze ruffled his golden bangs, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes as clear as the sky.
"Dad."
Old Joe looked at the son he had raised for twenty years with some pain in his eyes.
"They're here."
He pointed to the armored turret that had been exposed at the end of the wheat field, his voice even drier.
"Those crazy aliens on TV... they're going to take you away."
The Pentagon won't reason with them... John, those politicians will do anything when they're scared."
As he spoke, the old man placed his hand on John's shoulder.
His two rough, large hands trembled slightly, but the determination in his eyes was exceptionally firm.
"Hurry up, child, run north, or head towards the sea."
You fly faster than their missiles, and as long as you don't want them to find you... no one can catch you.
"Dad, what about you?"
John looked down at the old man's hand on his shoulder.
He could clearly hear the frantic pumping of blood from deep within the old man's chest.
One hundred and twenty beats per minute.
He could still smell the familiar smell of old engine oil and sweat that had accompanied him for twenty years on the old man.
Old Joe twitched the corners of his mouth, forcing out a smile rougher than tree bark:
"This is Kent Family's land... My name is on the land deed for forty years."
Without a search warrant from the judge, these thugs won't even be able to take a single piece of cow dung from our house.
"Besides... your mother is hiding. As long as I don't say anything, they won't do anything to me."