The Death knell

Coming out of the basement, Albert replenished some ammunition from the fallen men in black. After all, it wasn't always possible to solve problems with knives and sticks.

He made his way back to the police station lobby, where Cindy was waiting.

She stood by the entrance, staring at the dark sky outside, lost in thought, allowing the rainwater to soak her and trickle into the room.

"Are you thinking about the end of the world?"

Albert walked over and looked outside. The sky was choked with black clouds, and nothing was visible except the bat-shaped signal glowing against the darkness.

Cindy was probably staring at that too. Her one-eyed eyepiece reflected the shape of the bat symbol.

"Why do you think our world is like this?"

"I don't know," Albert replied. "But even though I don't want to die, I feel no fear in my heart. Just… calm."

Cindy shook her head and then nodded, as if uncertain. She stepped forward, reaching out her hand to catch a handful of rainwater, but it quickly slipped between her fingers.

"After being transformed by the military, we all lost our sense of fear and reverence for life. Isn't that what weapons are supposed to be like?"

Albert, whose soul came from another world, had not undergone transformation, but he knew enough from the comics to understand what she meant.

Deathstroke's issue wasn't a disease or a side effect. His brain processed information nine times faster than a normal person's, making his rationality overpower everything else.

"Yes, but we aren't perfect weapons," Cindy said. "The military left us with emotions."

"Haha, you're right," Albert chuckled. "That's why they lost us."

Cindy let out a dry laugh, though whether she was mocking the military or herself, it was unclear. Even after breaking free from them, some things could never be undone.

She had been used as a weapon for so long that she had come to see herself as one.

At that moment, Barbara rolled her wheelchair out from the corridor. She had been stuck in the basement, unable to get up the stairs. She spotted the two of them but hesitated to call out.

Cindy walked over and effortlessly lifted the wheelchair.

Barbara, wrapped in a raincoat and clutching her laptop, looked tense. Worry was written all over her face—concern for Commissioner Gordon, uncertainty about Deathstroke's true motives.

But the atmosphere in the lobby was strangely calm—if one ignored the blood and bodies littering the floor.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Albert had assumed finding a car would be an easy task, but as they stepped into the parking lot under the pouring rain, they discovered a problem.

Not only had the vans belonging to the men in black been destroyed, but every police car in sight was also reduced to charred wreckage.

There was no smoke—the heavy rain had washed everything away.

There was no backup, and the cars had not been rigged with remote-controlled explosives. That left only one explanation: Cindy had blown them up.

When Albert turned to look at her, she simply shrugged.

"Yeah, that was me," she admitted. "I didn't have any specialized equipment, so I guessed the signal jammer was in one of the vehicles. At the time, I wasn't thinking about bringing Barbara along. You and I only needed a single motorcycle, so I set off the fuel tanks. The explosion took out the police cars too."

The result? The signal had been restored.

Albert walked toward one of the few police cars that seemed somewhat intact. As soon as he placed his hand on the door, all four tires exploded, and black smoke billowed from under the hood.

"Not a single working car," he muttered. "Does the police station have another garage?"

He used the rain to wash the soot from his hands and turned to Barbara. The wind and rain forced her to shout her response.

"Underground garage! But… the entrance is rigged to explode!"

Albert was about to find the entrance when the situation changed.

A van suddenly sped down the street and drifted to a stop in front of the police station.

It was white—mostly—but covered in mud and rainwater, looking like a hastily painted canvas. On its roof sat an odd device that resembled a radar.

Faintly, through the grime, a row of yellow letters could be seen: GCTV1, Gotham City Television News Channel.

A grin spread beneath Albert's helmet.

"I suddenly have an idea," he murmured.

A Few Minutes Earlier…

Inside the moving van, a young and beautiful female reporter was adjusting her golden-red hair. The vehicle's bumpy ride made it difficult, and in the dim lighting, she almost jabbed her lipstick into her eye.

"Oh! Slow down, Pete!" Johnson huffed. "I don't want to die today. I have a date tomorrow."

From the driver's seat, a man responded loudly, struggling to see through the heavy rain.

"You're the one who told me to drive faster to get the story! Now you want me to slow down for your makeup? I'm your photographer, not your driver—or your boyfriend!"

"Well, it's all the same," Johnson quipped. "Are we there yet?"

The man, Pete, sighed and kept his eyes on the road.

"It's gonna take a few more minutes. Roads are flooded. The van could stall at any time."

Johnson pursed her lips, checking herself in the mirror before flashing a confident grin.

"Then don't let it stall."

"What do you think I've been doing?" Pete growled.

He used to think he had a good temper. But after working with Johnson, he found himself yelling more often.

After a moment of silence, he asked, "Is your info even reliable?"

"Of course!" Johnson beamed. "Remember that blind beggar we interviewed?"

"The one who called the cops on a fast food joint, claiming they were serving human flesh?" Pete scoffed. "He was blind. The story turned out to be false."

Johnson grinned smugly.

"Not false—just slightly off. Turns out, Batgirl uncovered a laundromat that was actually making human sausages. No kitchen, just a garage, but still—close enough!"

Pete rolled his eyes.

"Right. And now our source is a blind man who 'sees' the news?"

Johnson shook her head.

"Not sees—hears. He took shelter in the city court during the storm and overheard something happening at the Gotham Police Department. Said the gunfire was so loud it sounded like a rabbit with diarrhea."

Pete blinked.

"What kind of metaphor is that? Do rabbits even get diarrhea?"

"Point is," Johnson continued, "if there was a shootout, that means big news. Exclusive news."

Pete hesitated, then nodded.

"Alright. If we land this exclusive, maybe the station won't fire us for stealing the van."

The two shared a conspiratorial grin, like foxes sneaking into a henhouse.

Back at the Police Station…

As soon as they arrived, Johnson knew her $200 tip was worth it.

Wrecked cars, fallen officers—this was a huge story.

She and Pete quickly donned rain ponchos, covered their equipment, and started filming.

Facing the camera, Johnson adjusted her bangs and spoke with practiced intensity.

"Viewers, I am your old friend, Emima. We have arrived at the Gotham Police Department. As you can see, the scene behind me is devastating."

Pete panned the camera over the destruction.

"We don't yet know what happened here, but stay with us as we uncover the truth."

She pointed at the lens, flashing a confident, playful smile.

As they stepped into the station, the carnage became even clearer.

And then Pete froze. His face drained of color.

"Relax, Pete," Emima teased. "I know you want to be an anchor, but your expression is way too exaggerated—"

That's when Pete screamed.

Emima turned—and saw what he had seen.

A figure in the shadows. Watching them.

The Death Knell.