The Edge of a Blade
Chapter 4
By Draco664
The air whistled past Damien's ears as he fell. From his scouting, he knew the layout of this side of the building reasonably well, enough that he knew he could survive a fall from this height without going through the inconvenience of dying.
He grasped at the fire escape on this level, allowing the shock of grabbing the metal ladder to slow his fall. He allowed the ladder to slip from his grasp, and fell another few metres. Again, he reached out to the life saving railing, only to mis-time his maneouver. Damien let loose an involuntary grunt as his left shoulder was dislocated.
In an uncontrolled fall, he landed on the edge of a pile of trash, soft enough that he didn't suffer a mortal injury on landing, but he did shatter one ankle.
Ignoring the pain, Damien rose to his good leg, looking around desperately. He spotted his sword, still wrapped in the black material of Batgirl's cloak. He picked it up, unwrapping the blade. The flawless blade gleamed proudly in the dim light of the alleyway.
Reinforcements would be here soon, Damien had no doubt. Even injured, he was still an incredibly dangerous man, but if the young girl he just fought was any indication, he would need all of his skills to prevail.
Damien tossed the cloak over his head, obscuring his features. While it would fool noone, it may give him a few moments of peace if the surveilence equipment was only monitored by machines. Hopping, he left the alleyway and made his way into the apartment building.
"I suppose it is a good thing that I haven't unpacked yet," he mumbled to himself.
"Is she going to be alright?"
Alfred was tempted to sigh, but his training allowed him to keep his demeanor steady. "Master Timothy, I have not yet finished my preliminry diagnosis. Doing so will require my full attention, so I would politely ask that you keep both still and quiet for a short time."
Tim resumed biting his fingernails. "I mean, I sent her there. She didn't have to go, but I asked her, so-"
"Indeed. Perhaps you now have some measure of what the master feels when you or Master Dick do something foolhardy. Please hand me that scalpal."
"What?" Tim almost shrieked. "What do you need a scalpal for? You're not going to operate are you?"
"Of course not, Master Timothy. I merely need to remove her hood without inflicting more damage to the wound. Now do make yourself useful and pass me the scalpal."
"Ah, right," Tim said, and snatched the scalpal from the tray and offered it to Alfred, who glanced down at the proffered implement.
"Handle first is traditional in this context, unless you are intending to threaten me."
Tim blushed. "Sorry, Alfred." He reversed the tool and held it out. Alfred accepted it with genteel calm.
"That is quite alright. Now, if you would assist, I would be most grateful."
Tim nodded and followed Alfred's instructions, assisting in the removal of the skin-tight mask. Alfred gently sliced through the tough material, allowing Tim to peel back the thick material. An ugly bruise covered in sticky, partly-congealed blood appeared.
"Oh my god!"
Alfred allowed a small sigh to escape. "Calm yourself, or I shall sedate you. Are you capable of operating machinery in your present state of mind?"
"Um, sure."
"Then initialise the X-ray machine. I need to be sure there are no bone fragments loose before I begin a more thorough examination."
Tim nodded and ran over to the oft-used machine. Alfred took the blessedly quiet oportunity to test Batgirl's reactions.
The cave filled with the deep, throbbing hum of the Batmobile. The enormous car descended the ramp into the cave at high speed before coming to a screeching halt. As Batman emerged, the circular pad the car parked on slowly spun through a half circle, pointing the car back the way it arrived.
Batman stalked over to Alfred and glanced down at Cassandra. "Diagnosis?"
"From a severe blow to the head? At best, concussion. At worst, a slight skull fracture. Her vitals are strong, so she does not appear to be in any immediate danger. Her pupils react correctly to light and are equal in size, there is no bleeding or other discharge from the eyes, ears or nose. Her reflexes are sluggish, but present and correct. Until she regains consciousness, I have very little in the way of testing her motor skills or visual disturbances. I have just requested Master Timothy initialise the X-ray machine, to be sure. I'm afraid that she will be bed-ridden for at least a few days, more probably a few weeks." Alfred frowned, and inhaled deeply through his nose. "Do I detect smoke on you? Have you been in a burning building?"
Batman nodded. "Our man got away. He lit a fire in the apartment building Tim had Batgirl stake out; I assume it was in his own. Either he hadn't unpacked or the fire was extremely thorough, because there was nothing there to indicate his destination once the fire was extinguished."
"Nothing, sir? You've infered a great deal of detail from simple smudges before."
Batman pulled back his cowl and became Bruce Wayne. His voice lost its deep, threatening tone. "Nothing, Alfred. From what I can gather, he had only just arrived, and had little in the way of luggage."
"Have you learned anything else about this man at all?"
Bruce nodded. "Probable meta-human, with incredible healing capabilities. From Spoiler's description of the fight, he and Batgirl appeared almost evenly matched. He took a blow to the shoulder which sent him reeling, and Spoiler claims she heard bones breaking. But then used that arm to capture Batgirl's wrist in an aikido hold and end the fight. Apparently, he took one look in Spoiler's direction, and leapt from the building."
Alfred frowned, looking down at Cassandra. "If I may, sir, no disrespect intended to the Spoiler, but why would a man capable of dispatching someone of Mistress Cassandra's skill have anything to fear from-"
Bruce held up a hand. "If you ran into one masked vigilante who fought like Batgirl, and only just prevailed, would you remain to fight another?"
"Point taken," Alfred acknowledged. "What is your plan of attack?"
Bruce rubbed his eyes. "It's morning, so Tim needs to go home, and I need to appear at a press release in two hours. Will you need Leslie's assistance with Batgirl?"
Alfred shrugged. "Perhaps. I shall know more once I have taken some images of her skull. I cannot make anything any worse, and I shall call her immediately should I find my skills not up to the task. You, however, will rest for at least an hour before leaving, do I make myself clear?"
Bruce smiled ruefully. "Crystal."
Damien rubbed the back of his neck, watching the Batman leave. The massive car tore through the streets of Gotham, leaving an array of bewildered and wary residents behind.
From this distance, there was no way to tell for sure just who he was, but the Batman was an exceedingly dangerous individual. Through a set of powerful binoculors, Damien had studied the man, the way he moved, the way he examined his environment, the way he distorted the people around him.
Yes, that was it. When the masked figure arrived, both police and fireman alike stepped aside for him. But it was not fear that these people displayed. No, it was respect. The head policeman, Damien didn't know his name or exact rank, allowed him full and instant access to the destroyed room, something any other policeman in any other city would do only once in a career. The other seasoned members of the police force all gave the Batman a great amount of leeway.
The firemen acted similarly, but subtly different. While primarily known around the world as a somewhat mythical crimefighter, he was also this city's protector. The firemen gave him the respect due one of their own. The police saw him as someone who could cross a line they could not.
Damien had no doubt that each and every one of the fire fighters in the city had witnessed the Batman rescue people from burning buildings and other dangerous situations. He also had no doubt that every policeman and woman in the city had cases blown away by the unconstitutional beatings criminals received at his hands.
Odd that it was the police chief who was closest to him.
Damien glanced down at his notepad again, reading the shorthand he had taken over the last hour. The Batman obviously outweighed him by forty kilograms or more, was stronger by far and had access to a variety of highly advanced weapons and devices. He moved like a stalking panther and was as patient as a corpse.
The attention to detail shown made Damien slightly nervous that he had left some clue behind.
He couldn't have the Batman come after him so soon. Not until he had taken more Quickening, and become more powerful. Only then would he challenge the Batman. If the man behind the mask was an immortal, and it was beginning to appear as though he was, Damien shuddered with anticipation to think of how much power he would absorb.
Yes, the Batman was in all probability immortal. No mortal man could attain all the skills he was rumoured to have in less than forty years. But Damien wasn't going to assume he was immortal until he could stand next to him and feel his Quickening.
Damien nodded to himself, and busied himself in finding a new base of operations.
Bruce rubbed his eyes. He had only managed to rest for an hour that morning before heading out to have his photo taken repeatedly. The press still hounded him with questions about his escape from custody and where he had hidden himself while on the run.
He was glad Nightwing had taken it apon himself to dress in the Mantle of the Bat a few times while Bruce had been in prison. With Batman sightings made while Bruce Wayne was in prison awaiting trial for murder, it deflected a great deal of unwanted attention. More and more people knew of his secret, and it would only take one who accepted just one of the multi-million dollar bountys placed by various criminal gangs to rat him out.
This much press attention was a severe inconvenience when Bruce Wayne was out and about the town, but it did provide a plausible explanation as to why he had become somewhat of a recluse in recent days.
The main screen faded into life, Oracle's face appearing. "Bruce?"
"Yes, Oracle?"
She set her lips. "How's Cass?"
Bruce sighed. "She is out of danger, but she'll be bed-ridden for several days at least. I convinced Alfred to ask Leslie to take a look, and she concurred."
Oracle let out a sigh of relief. "Good old Alf. Oh, I have some information on the vic with no head."
Bruce nodded. "Go on."
"I know nothing about him."
Bruce blinked. "Sorry?"
"Fake ID, fake passport, fake everything. It was good, and would have fooled a great many people, but nothing about the man was real."
"Perhaps including the body," Bruce murmered under his breath. Out loud he said, "Perhaps he was running from something. After the city was reopened, millions of people stormed back to claim what had been theirs beforehand. Others came too, to claim things that other's didn't."
Oracle nodded. "That's what I thought to start with, but the neighbours remembered him from years ago. As a matter of fact, according to one resident, he was one of the original inhabitants of that particular building block, though her testimony has been called into question."
Bruce frowned in thought. "How long had he been living there?"
"Almost sixty years, according to some of his neighbours. One was an old woman who moved in as a teenager. She remembered him from when she first moved in. Apparently he helped her veteran father carry their bags up the stairs, since he had lost a leg to a mine."
"That can't be right. What else does she remember?"
"Just that he became a recluse. That building escaped the quake with little damage, unlike most in the city, so many people stayed in their homes during NML. Why can't it be right?"
"Because I'd put his age somewhere in his early thirties."
Oracle smaile. "Bruce, that building was erected in the late forties. Almost sixty years ago. And that's why the old lady's testimony was considered worthless. She identified the face as looking exactly like the man who helped her father."
Bruce nodded absently, his mind whirling. A new theory formed. "Oracle, do a search in as many other police databases you can. Look for unsolved murder by decapitation. Check out the victims, their history, their identity. Any discrepencies at all."
Oracle frowned. "You want me to go after the victims? What are you looking for?"
Bruce slowly shook his head. "If you can heal injuries extremely fast, why not the effects of aging?"
The woman known to her associates as Elle McGinty hurridly tossed her suitcase into her waiting car before running back into her home for more of her possessions. Her mentor had often told her that she should be ready to move away from a home in an instant, but her upbringing had instilled a great sense of sentimentality. Items she had had for over a century were difficult for her to just leave behind.
She had just returned from a business trip out of state to discover that a fellow Gothamite had died tragically a few days before, his head severed. The police had no suspects, no witnesses, and no motive.
That told her all she needed to know.
The car horn sounded. "Come on, Honey!" her husband Malcolm hollered.
Elle rolled her eyes and was about to shout something scathing back when she stumbled, allowing the bottom of the cardboard box she was carrying to give way. As heavy momentos crashed onto her toes, she shouted, "Merde!"
She took a deep breath, waiting for her husband to race in to help her. As much as she despised his weakness, his need to be controlled, he was a kind-hearted man.
She frowned after a few moments. Normally, he would be at her side in seconds after an outburst like that.
"Sweetheart? Malcolm?" she called out.
The silence that followed chilled her stomach, before she was overwhelmed by the expected yet unwelcome nausea she had experience only a handful of times in her long life.
"Lady Chantelle de Bernard?"
Elle stiffened and forced down the unpleasant sensation of being in the presence of an evil immortal. She turned to face her executioner and swallowed. "Oui."
"Your husband will not be joining us. You will be joining him shortly."
Elle forced the painful knowledge that she was again a widow out of her mind and began backing away. She looked the man up and down, wondering how someone so slight could exude such a corrupt, stinking menace. The odd-looking sword held loosly in his hand indicated the ease at which he found himself in these unfamiliar surroundings. But it was not held so nonchalantly that he would be taken by surprise.
Taking another by surprise was the only way Elle had ever won a battle with another immortal. She didn't even carry a sword. Her innocence and charm had been her most powerful weapons. She had only taken two heads in her two hundred years.
"Please, you don't need my power. I don't have much," she begged, her hauntingly beautiful features contorted with shame at having to debase herself so.
"I can tell. Your Quickening burns so dully, compared to others. Need it I do, however, as there can be only one."
"Please, no," she almost whispered, as her back reached the wall. She raised her eyes, shimmering with tears, to look directly into his own cold, green orbs. "Who- who are you?"
A slow smile spread over his features. "I am Damien, bastard son of Henry, who overthrew his brother Robert to become Duke of Normandy. I was born in the year eleven hundred and seven, and it shall be I who will win the prize."
Elle fell to her knees, abasing herself in front of this man. "Please, no. I want to live," she whimpered, tears of fear and humiliation running down her face.
The red haired man snorted with disgust. "Your father would be so ashamed of you at this moment, he would kill you himself."
Mention of her father sparked something deep within. Elle swallowed, and stood up straight, though her quivering legs gave her little support. In a voice that sounded less defiant that she wished, she said, "No, I shall not beg. And do not dirty the memory of my father by speaking of him."
Damien's smile grew evil. "Ah, but surely one can speak of one's... aquaintences?"
Elle gasped. "You knew my father?"
"The guillotine was such an elegant method of exterminating you cowardly aristocrats. The job of executioner to spinless noblemen was one I found... most satisfying. It was I who released the blade that severed your father's head. He died somewhat bravely, more bravely than many of his useless peers. I saw his family struck down and killed the following night, only to discover later that the remains of second eldest daughter apparently disappeared. Odd, wouldn't you say?"
Elle started moving along the wall to the right, dry heaving at the unpleasant memories. "I remember. I remember that night. I was stabbed by a filthy farmer, for merely being the daughter of a great man."
Damien snarled. "You were born into wealth and privledge, and you did nothing but live off the toil of those farmers. You are a parasite, and parasites need to be exterminated."
Elle looked around wildly. "But you are the son of a Duke!"
"Unacknowlegded bastard son. I was afforded no wealth, no rank. I was assassinated by my Uncle's henchmen, merely to hurt my father." Damien snorted. "I was there, hidden in the roof of the building when my father received the news of my death. He laughed. He could not believe that my Uncle's retainers believed that I meant anything to him. My death was a waste. I then swore to whatever power that had saved my life that I would not waste my remaining years."
Elle reached the kitchen door, and slowly backed out of the room. The sharp blade never ceased pointing directly at her heart. "If I scream, you'll be caught. We are in a good neighbourhood."
"You truly believe that? Do you have any idea how many heads I've taken? And how many times I've been caught?"
Elle clutched her stomach, wincing. It was true, this man had killed many of their kind. He was almost incandescent with Quickening. Steeling herself, she leapt as quickly as she could and snatched a carving knife from a rack on the wall, then whirled around and stabbed out, hoping against hope to strike before Damien did.
And fell over from the lack of resistence. Damien stood smirking in the doorway, not having moved a centimetre. "You do not have a sword?"
Elle shook her head frantically.
"Well then, now that our banter is done, shall we conclude our meeting?"
Damien almost blured, slicing the knife blade off at the join with the handle, then burying his sword into her abdomen. He drew the blade out, allowing Elle to clutch helplessly at the wound. He watched as she slid to the side, lying on the floor, gasping softly. He crouched down in her field of vision, an expression of disappointment on his face.
"You shall not die just yet, Lady Chantelle. No, a person such as yourself needs to be punished before descending into the pits of hell. You need time for... retrospection." He leaned forward, filling her diminishing vision with his features. "You will beg for death many times before I grant it. It has been many centuries since I had the pleasure of torturing a victim who would not die."
Elle opened her mouth and whispered, "I shall be remembered fondly."
Damien chuckled. "No. You shall be remembered with pity."