THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 13: GOTHAM’S STORMY REVELATION

The night was thick with rain, each droplet cascading down in relentless sheets, soaking the ruined streets of Gotham. Slade Wilson emerged from the basement, his keen eye scanning the lifeless forms of the men in black. Their weapons lay scattered, some still warm from recent use. He crouched, rifling through their ammunition, pocketing whatever was useful. A knife and a staff were reliable, but there were times when firepower was necessary.

He straightened, the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp catching the golden sheen of his mask. Without another glance at the bodies, he made his way back into the ruined police hall. Cindy was already there, waiting at the entrance, standing motionless in the doorway. Her face was tilted upward, her single eyepiece catching the faint glow of something high above.

Slade followed her gaze. Beyond the swirling storm clouds, a beacon cut through the night—a bat-shaped light illuminating the sky.

"Are you thinking about the end of the world?" he asked, his voice calm, almost teasing.

Cindy didn't turn to him. Instead, she let out a slow breath, her fingers twitching slightly as if grasping something unseen. "Why do you think our world is like this?"

Slade was silent for a moment before responding. "I don't know. But I do know that, while I don't want to die, I also don't feel fear. Just calm."

She nodded, then shook her head, as if uncertain whether she agreed. Stepping under the eaves, she stretched out a gloved hand, palm facing upward. Rain collected in her fingers before slipping through the gaps. "The military took away our fear. They conditioned us to be weapons. That's what we are now, isn't it?"

Slade observed her carefully. He had read about this in the comics before—Deathstroke, the mercenary with enhanced cognition, whose brain processed information nine times faster than the average human. It wasn't a disease, nor a side effect. It was just who he was now.

"Maybe," he said. "But we're not perfect weapons. They left us with something they shouldn't have—feelings."

Cindy let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "You're right. And because of that, they lost us."

There was no regret in her tone, only the dull acknowledgment of a truth she had long since accepted. Even outside of the military, she was still a weapon, still doing what she was made for—killing.

A noise behind them drew their attention.

Barbara Gordon struggled at the edge of the corridor, her wheelchair halted by the basement stairs. She hesitated, biting her lip, reluctant to call for help. The rain made her hair cling to her face, the glow of her laptop's screen flickering against her soaked raincoat.

Cindy sighed, striding over without hesitation. With an ease that spoke of her enhanced strength, she lifted Barbara—wheelchair and all—and set her down onto even ground.

Barbara's grip tightened on her laptop. She looked between them, uneasy. Her concern for her father was evident, but so was her wariness toward Slade. She didn't understand what he was after, and the uncertainty made her nervous.

Slade noticed her gaze flicker to the carnage around them. The police hall was a graveyard. Civilians and officers alike lay where they had fallen, their blood mixing with the rainwater pooling on the tiled floor. Barbara shut her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to steady her breathing.

Slade turned away. They needed to move.

The three of them trudged toward the parking lot, stepping carefully over debris. The storm had done little to mask the devastation—the vehicles that had once lined the lot were reduced to twisted metal husks. Burnt wreckage stretched out in all directions. Even in the heavy downpour, the acrid scent of scorched fuel lingered.

Cindy folded her arms, unfazed by Slade's questioning look. "It was me," she admitted. "I figured the signal jammer had to be in one of the vehicles. Since I didn't have the equipment to track it, I improvised."

By improvised, she meant she had detonated the fuel tanks, obliterating everything in the vicinity—including their means of transportation.

Slade exhaled sharply, scanning what remained. He found one police cruiser that looked relatively intact. The frame was dented, but the doors were still in place. He reached for the handle—

Before he could touch it, the car's tires violently shot off, flung through the air like discarded debris. Steam burst from under the hood, thick black smoke curling into the storm. The metal creaked in protest, useless.

Slade stared for a moment before glancing at Barbara. "Any other garages?"

She wiped rain from her face, raising her voice to be heard over the downpour. "Underground garage! But—" She hesitated. "The entrance is probably rigged to explode!"

Before they could make a decision, headlights cut through the misty darkness.

A vehicle barreled down the flooded street, its tires kicking up waves of water before skidding to a stop near the park. The van had once been white, but the journey through Gotham's storm had stained its surface with streaks of muddy grime. A satellite dish jutted from the roof, trembling in the wind.

Even through the filth, Slade could make out the yellow lettering across the side—GCTV1, Gotham City Television News Channel.

Slade tilted his head slightly, rubbing the side of his helmet as if stroking an invisible beard. "I suddenly have an idea."

---

A Few Minutes Earlier...

Inside the van, Vic Vale adjusted her camera settings, checking her reflection in a compact mirror. She pushed back damp strands of golden-red hair, carefully reapplying her lipstick. The bumpy ride made the task almost impossible.

"Slow down, Pete!" she snapped at the driver. "I have a date tomorrow. I'd rather not die today."

From the front seat, Pete sighed dramatically. "You're the one who told me to floor it for the sake of breaking news. Now you want me to slow down so you can touch up your makeup? I'm a photographer, Vic, not your chauffeur."

"Same thing," she replied dismissively. "Are we there yet?"

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Pete scowled, barely dodging a burst water pipe in the road. "Almost. But this storm is a mess. If the van stalls, I'm not pushing it."

Vic barely listened. She was already in the back, fine-tuning the microphone, her mind buzzing with anticipation. She had caught wind of something big—gunfire at the Gotham Police Department, heard firsthand by one of her sources.

A blind informant, to be exact.

Pete remained skeptical. "You trust a guy who can't see? How does he know what he heard?"

Vic smirked. "Ever heard of heightened senses? Blind people's hearing is sharper than ours. And when my source says there was enough gunfire to sound like 'a rabbit with diarrhea'—"

Pete grimaced. "What does that even mean?"

"It means this is big," Vic said, ignoring him. "And when we get this exclusive, our boss can't complain about us borrowing the news van, now can she?"

Pete sighed. He was in too deep to argue.

The van finally reached its destination, rolling to a stop in front of the police station's destroyed entrance. Pete grabbed a flashlight, immediately catching sight of the wreckage and scattered bodies.

Vic grinned. "Two hundred bucks well spent."

Without hesitation, she threw on her rain poncho, handed Pete the camera, and jumped out into the storm.

She adjusted her hair under the hood, positioning herself in front of the camera. "Rolling?"

Pete gave her a thumbs-up.

The red light blinked on.

"Good evening, Gotham. I'm Vic Vale, reporting live from the Gotham Police Department, where something horrifying has just taken place..."

As she spoke, she didn't notice the shadowed figure watching from the darkness—his golden mask gleaming under the streetlights.

Slade Wilson smirked.

Time to put his idea to work.