Chapter 58: Eyes in the Shadows
The message arrived the previous night, cutting through the silence of the Hargrove Manor's master suite like a cold blade.
Erick lay on the king-size bed, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ornate ceiling lost in the twilight. The room smelled faintly of machine oil and new leather—remnants of the underground laboratory that never completely left the skin. The encrypted communicator vibrated once on the dark mahogany nightstand. The screen lit up with a cool blue light:
Mount Justice. 6:45 AM. Room 8F. Bring no one but Artemis.
Signature: B.
He didn't need to reread it. Batman didn't send casual reminders; he sent summonses that seemed like orders disguised as courtesy. And the fact that he'd included Artemis directly meant that the Dark Knight had already tied up the loose ends: street cameras, fragmented reports, rumors of rewards, mutilated bodies in alleys, and a warehouse soaked in flammable dispersant. Erick just closed his eyes for a second, feeling the fire elemental pulse slowly in his veins like a secondary heart. He'd been expecting this.
At 6:00 a.m., he descended to the underground garage. Among the high-tech vehicles—an armored SUV with rotating license plates, camouflaged electric motorcycles, prototype drones being recharged—he chose the perfect disguise: a metallic gray 1996 Honda Civic, discreet scratches on the bodywork, an engine that purred with the reliability of an old friend. It was the car he used when he needed to disappear into the Gotham crowd—ordinary, invisible, exactly the kind of vehicle no one gave a second glance in 2006. He wore worn jeans, a black t-shirt under a brown leather jacket, and casual boots. The black sports backpack in the back seat contained the folded Cloak Suit, the utility belt, and some essential tools.
She drove through the still-dark streets of Crestview Heights, the Civic's low rumble filling the car's silence. At 6:12 a.m., she stopped in front of the modest building where Artemis kept her apartment—a simple facade, a necessary disguise for someone with the last name Crock. She stepped out the front door wearing gray cargo pants, a dark green long-sleeved shirt, and sturdy black sneakers. The brown canvas bag slung over her shoulder held her folding bow and archer's outfit.
He got into the car without saying anything. He closed the door with a soft click, put on his seatbelt, and looked ahead. Erick accelerated slowly, maintaining silence for a few blocks. There was no need for words. They had already lined everything up the night before—the version of events, the calculated silences, the prepared answers. All that was left was to execute.
Erick parked the Civic on a discreet side street, two blocks from the entrance to the Zeta-Tube: a hidden alley behind an abandoned store, camouflaged by faded graffiti and piles of damp trash. They got out, locked the doors manually, and walked side by side down the alley. The morning air was cold, heavy with the smell of wet asphalt and distant smoke. Neither of them spoke. There was no need.
The teleportation swallowed them in blinding white light.
When their vision cleared, they were in the main lobby of Mount Justice. Metallic air, a subtle hum of generators, a lingering smell of ozone, and hot circuits. Automatic lights switched on in a smooth sequence, revealing polished floors, curved reinforced concrete walls, and embedded monitoring panels.
The synthetic voice echoed, calm and impersonal:
"Batman awaits Erick Smith and Artemis Crock in room 8F."
They began walking side by side, synchronized steps echoing in the empty hallway. Gazes fixed ahead, posture straight. There was no hesitation, no small talk. Batman would read any sign of tension as a crack.
They arrived at the secondary corridor B-7. The door to 8F was matte gray, with no handle, just a biometric panel that flashed green upon recognizing them.
The computer's voice returned, directed:
"Artemis Crock, enter first."
The door slid shut with a pneumatic whisper.
Artemis straightened her shoulders and went inside without looking back. The door slammed shut with a final click.
Erick leaned against the opposite wall, crossed his arms, and slowly sat down in the metal chair fixed to the floor—cold, functional, designed for controlled waiting under surveillance. He mentally counted the seconds, visualizing what was happening inside: Batman motionless, deep voice, probing weaknesses with surgical precision.
Twenty seconds.
The door opened.
Artemis left. His face was neutral, but Erick knew the nuances: subtle tension in his jaw, a quick glint in his green eyes when he looked at him for half a second longer. It was the silent signal of "he's in control."
She opened her mouth to speak.
"Erick Smith, entre."
The voice cut through the air.
Artemis closed her mouth, gave an almost imperceptible nod, and walked down the opposite corridor. Erick stood up, straightened his jacket, and crossed the threshold.
Room 8F was small, austere, lit by a single cold lamp on the ceiling. A rectangular table of polished metal stood in the center. Behind it, Batman sat—motionless as a Gothic statue, cape folded over the back of the chair, arms resting on the armrests, hands clasped under his chin. The cowl cast deep shadows on the opaque white eyes of the mask. He didn't move an inch when Erick entered. It was a presence that sucked the oxygen from the room, calculating risks, loyalties, possibilities of betrayal or downfall.
On the table, a slim 27-inch monitor turned sideways, dark screen.
"Sente-se, Erick."
A deep, controlled voice, without unnecessary emotion.
Erick pulled up the chair opposite him, sat down slowly, back straight, eyes fixed on the mask.
Is there anything you'd like to tell me?
Erick let the silence linger for two seconds—a calculated amount of time to demonstrate calmness.
"Yes. You should know that, in the last few days, while most of the team was off-planet, Artemis and I have been developing a private hunt."
Batman tilted his head a millimeter—a minimal movement, laden with judgment.
"A major manhunt." Dry tone. "One of Gotham's biggest mobsters has put a seven-figure bounty on both of your heads. And you chose to completely ignore the safety net that the League and its allies offer. Why?"
"We felt it wasn't necessary to activate the network. If we really needed to, we would have called. But we didn't need to."
"Your actions don't indicate that." Batman leaned slightly forward, his body still as rigid as granite. "You faced Slade Wilson. Deathstroke. One of the most dangerous assassins on the planet. Someone who has wounded members of the League itself. And yet, you didn't ask for help."
Erick allowed a slight smile — not arrogance, but a cold observation.
"He fell into the trap I set. Concise plan, precise execution. I didn't need reinforcements because the plan worked."
Batman pressed a key on the built-in keyboard.
The screen lit up, a ghostly blue glow.
Grainy image: distant security camera, side entrance of the abandoned warehouse. Rusty door deliberately ajar.
Two figures emerge: first Artemis, bow in hand; then Erick, hood raised, gait deliberate.
Batman fast-forwarded the video fifteen minutes.
GCPD vehicles arrive. Police officers jump out, weapons drawn.
A black sedan with no license plate blocks the road. Three men get out—faces hidden by balaclavas. One holds up a gold badge that gleams in the dim light.
Police officers retreat immediately.
Batman pausou.
"The Terminator was taken by federal agents. ARGUS. Rick Flag commanded the extraction."
Erick shrugged.
"So the case is closed."
"No." Batman leaned closer, hands still intertwined. "I don't know the state you left Slade Wilson in. And the information you passed on earlier... isn't reliable."
Erick sighed briefly, resigned.
"I was expecting this."
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"You want to hear it from me. Fine. Ask."
Batman didn't blink.
"The warehouse was soaked in military-grade flammable dispersant. Chemical traces confirmed. Would you like to explain?"
"It was part of the trap. I lured Slade there. I knew he would come personally after I eliminated the other hunters. The shed was the terrain I chose. The liquid was the insurance."
"Did you ever think that you could have killed Slade Wilson?"
Erick held the gaze.
"I considered the risk, yes. But he accepted a twenty million dollar contract to kill two people he barely knew. Artemis and me. Thanks to the trap, we survived. And now we are stronger. I'm not going to ask for forgiveness for what I did. He could handle it. You know better than anyone that Slade Wilson can take much more than most."
Batman remained silent for a long time, motionless as a gargoyle. His opaque eyes pierced through layers, searching for the lie that didn't exist.
"You're walking down a very dangerous path, Erick." A low voice, almost paternal, but laden with warning. "A path I've seen many walk. And almost none returned unscathed."
Erick tilted his head slightly.
"I know. That's why I plan every step. Every risk. Every consequence. I'm not impulsive. You saw it in the reports. You saw it on the cameras. You saw it in the warehouse. I don't kill for pleasure. I kill—or almost kill—when it's the only variable that keeps the people I protect alive."
Batman didn't respond immediately. He remained motionless, processing.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, a fluid but deliberate movement.
"For now, that's all."
Erick stood up slowly.
"If you need more details about what happened inside... I'll provide them. Unedited."
Batman pressed a key. The screen went dark.
"I'll decide when and how I need more details."
Erick nodded once and turned towards the door.
When his hand touched the panel, Batman's voice reached him one last time, low, almost inaudible:
"Be careful with the fire you carry, Erick. It burns whoever is closest first."
Erick paused for half a second.
Then he left.
The door closed with a soft click.
In the hallway, Artemis waited, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, bag over her shoulder. Their eyes met.
Neither of them spoke.
But the slight arch at the corner of her mouth—and the quick glint in his eyes—said it all.
They had survived Batman.
For now.
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