Poor Gordon

"There is no sickness in Gotham. It is the inhabitants of Gotham who are sick. All we have to do is change the inhabitants. It pains me to kill so many people, but that is what a strong man has to do."

 Falcone tries to pour himself a drink, but Sophia takes the bottle and not only pours it for him, but also refits some from Gordon's glass.

 "This much? That's eight million! Eight million people!"

 Gordon angrily plunges his glass on the table, spilling its golden wine.

 "Father, Chief Gordon seems unwell. Shall I take him to rest?"

 Sophia asked Falcone with a smile, but there was a crackling sound in her bones, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The cat on the carpet was roused from its sleep and looked around in alarm for the source of the sense of crisis.

 Falcone soothed her, smiled and said no, and took out some pieces of paper himself to wipe the table:

 "It's okay, Gordon's been like that since I've known him... When this is over and he sees the new Gotham, he'll understand. And, though you're a girl, don't make threats. We Falcones are all about honor and discipline, about reasoning. It's disgraceful of you."

 'Yes, Father, I'll take good care of that.'

 Softens, Sophia picks up the cat on the carpet and plays with it by pinching its ears.

 Falcone gave her a kindly look, nodded, turned his face to Gordon and said:

 "I see, my daughter learned some skills in the Far East, so young, so full of energy. Sometimes it is easy to be rude, please forgive me in the future."

 Gordon already felt unable to communicate with two psychopaths, but Falcone's words reminded him.

 "Barbara! Where's my daughter, Barbara? '

 He sat up straight and looked at Falcone.

 The smile on the Roman's face stiffened at last, and he hesitated for a moment before speaking softly to Sophia.

 "Turn on the TV and show it to Gordon," he said. Then he looked at Gordon apologetically. 'I'm sorry Gordon, I know you love her very much, but there's been a bit of a mixup with our invitation...'

 Gordon got to his feet excitedly, but when Sophia walked past him to turn on the TV, he felt her legs flop and plopped back onto the sofa.

 "What have you done to her? How is she? ' Gordon struggled, still staring dead at Falcone.

 "It's not what we did to her, it's that you pissed some people off earlier, and someone's out to get you." He motioned for Gordon to watch TV.

 It was just another round of news, and Gordon had not turned his head to the television when he heard a hoarse, demonic voice coming from it.

 'Good evening, presenter, good evening! Gotham!"

 ...

 When Gordon came to his mind, he felt nothing but despair, tears streaming down his face as he replayed in his mind the footage of Barbara's tiny, emaciated body lying in the rain as the killer in the black and yellow mask shot her.

 He hated himself. Why had he wronged someone, but it was always his own family that got hurt? Barbara is only 17 years old. Why is that?

 Falcone, who was nearby, also picked up his handkerchief and wiped the corners of his eyes, looking very sad, while Sophia was absorbed in sucking the cat, her mind on the white cat in front of her.

 "Sorry Gordon, I'm so sorry for your loss, but this wasn't the way it was supposed to be your father and your daughter enjoying a happy family reunion with us in the safety of the underground... But I had no idea that Deathstroke had been invited from the city. I'm sorry, but my grip on the city is not what it used to be. I'm not getting any news. '

 Falcone said, and found out a new handkerchief and handed it to Gordon, saying earnestly that he had never meant to hurt the Gordons.

 "I.... What on earth have I done? Who have I offended? It's me who deserves to die!!" Gordon was pulling his hair and frantically banging his own head against the sofa armrest.

 Falcone winked at Sophia, who immediately pressed her hand on Gordon's chest, and Gordon found himself unable to move anything but his head as tears streamed from his eyes.

 'Gordon, my lad, don't beat yourself up, it's not your fault, you just want to make the city a better place, you're the same as me, we're both good people.' Falcone came over and helped Gordon to rest comfortably in his chair. He pressed his chest and said to Gordon, "It's the people of this town who are wrong. They're crazy. We've got to fix them.

 Gordon did not answer him, but his eyes wept silently and his mouth murmured.

 "Barbara... Barbara..."

 He had cut himself off from the cognitive connection to the real world and was so absorbed in his own grief that it was now completely inaudible to talk to him.

 Falcone looked away at Sophia. This was not the Gordon he wanted. He had to kill Deathstroke and lift Gordon up before Gotham could be reborn.

 "Sophia, are you sure you can beat her?"

 Sofia knew who he was talking about, and her face changed several expressions, loss, anger, resentment, the one that no Falcone wanted to see.

 She lay feebly back on the sofa and shook her head gently. "Sorry, father, but I'm no match for her."

 "How can that be? Your teacher said that you were a once-in-a-century genius, and that you could go anywhere in the world after that." Mr. Falcone, frowning with heavy authority, suspected that his daughter was afraid of trouble and reluctant to act.

 Sophia sighed, and she was not lying at all: "Then she must have told only half the story, for there is plenty to go around, but there are some people you are better off avoiding, and Deathstroke is one of them."

 "Is she really that strong? I've never seen her in Gotham before." Falcone sat back in his place, already convinced of Sophia.

 "Strong as hell, she's very young, maybe younger than I am. If you let me deal with Bliss, I could even hold her right in front of you with just my legs, because bats don't kill people."

 Sophia shook her head with a wry smile, she knew her own strength: "But Deathstroke is not, she is not only a master of unarmed combat, but also a master of all weapons." All weapons means that she is proficient in everything that can be used to kill people, whether it is knives, spears, axes, hooks or forks, submachine guns, howitzers or even tanks."

 "What did your master say?" Falcone calms down and caresses the rose petals.

 Sophia nodded and absentmindedly touched the white cat's head, which was stained with her lipstick: "Yes, because I may be close to Deathstroke's age, the teacher sometimes brings it up to educate me. Even after I started, Deathstroke was the one she asked me to avoid."

 "HMMM...." Falcone ponders.

 "The teacher said I had a sixty percent chance of surviving if I confronted Deathstroke with my bare hands, a thirty percent chance if Deathstroke used a sword, and a thirty percent chance if she used a heat weapon at the same time, I... I was certain to die." When Sophia had said these words, she was silent.

 Silence had returned to the room, save for Gordon's desperate murmurs.