Issue #22: Lunch, Interrupted

I forgot to schedule this. I apologize!

... 

[CHIEF OF POLICE DEAD!]

[GCPD Commissioner Mayfield: This is a dark day for our city!]

[The Reaper decimates Batman in the vigilante ratings!]

[$2,000,000 Bounty On The Reaper; Carmine Falcone Urges Citizens To Self Police!]

[Batman Still Nowhere To Be Seen!]

•••

We had just finished our lunch with the lovers when I decided to check on my bookmarked online news portals. Mother and Rachel had left the table, going to the powder room to do their business.

I have a nagging feeling mother would be dissuading the poor girl to not go out with Bruce Wayne right about now.

It was then that the headlines popped into my view, quite a few of which were behind a goddamn paywall.

"Looks like they're underestimating you." I tease Bruce as he languishes in his chair opposite to me.

"The death of the chief of police is no laughing matter, Edmund." He admonishes, which turns into a growl when I laugh.

"C'mon, you really think Solwell was a good chief?" I ask incredulously, "If it weren't for the previous commissioner getting to my house first, he would have been the one to intimidate me into submission."

He grunts in frustration. "Nevertheless, his death benefits no one, save the criminals of Gotham."

I scoff, but do agree with his sentiment. The Reaper's war on criminality is escalating to the point where even the city's biggest criminals are scared of him, offering bounties that rival even that of a third-world country's top leader.

Seeing the conversation stopping at its natural point, I turn towards the bathroom with a malicious grin.

I start with a light chuckle, "So… you and Rachel, huh–"

"Your birthday's coming up." Bruce skillfully dodges the question. "According to you and your mother, your body 'itches' a lot during the hour before and after midnight. Is that correct?"

"Well, yeah, but I've always chalked it up to seasonal weather…" I shrug my shoulders, uncomfortable with the question. "But, you know, ever since the magician and you told me about my powers… I thought it's connected to that."

He nods, taking a light sip of his martini. "That is my guess, too. That itching might be an explosive cellular reconstruction within your body, but since you don't exercise your powers to that degree, it's all going to waste by transforming into other forms of energy."

"Really? Then that thing where my cells change every seven years, bones every decade… it's all happening once a year?" I ask, curious about the limits of my first superpower.

"According to Luthor's data? Yes. But I don't trust his data, nor would I use it to create an epistemological system for you," He says calmly, like he isn't looking down on one of the world's most powerful men. "Speaking of powers… How's your portal manipulation going along?"

"I think it's just portal generation. Even Jake doesn't seem to have knowledge about moving portals after it's created." I correct Bruce.

"I see." He says.

I have an inkling that he's hiding something from me, either due to it being a dangerous secret or an unfounded theory based on what he has seen and surmised of my abilities. Either way, I'm sure it won't hurt me to trust him with it in the meantime.

"Give me the rundown." He orders.

"You know the basics, of course." He nods in confirmation, having given Alfred daily reports about any data I gleaned from using my powers. "Energy consumption is my foremost problem here, but also training my portal generation to be, uh, second nature…"

He nods along, "Good thinking. I've seen the data. Your output doesn't match the energy generated by the portals. It seems that other than your energy, the portals are taking in secondary power sources."

That part I do not actually know, I inform him so by tilting my head in confusion. "How do you…?"

"You lack foresight, and gaze only at the visible. You need to learn to see the invisible," He replies like a wise sage. "Besides, I didn't teach you how to read the energy meter's paper record."

"Well, that's not my fa–" My rebuttal comes short when a waiter, carrying a tray of dishes, is pushed away by a muscular figure in a drab black hoodie and baklava.

The patrons and staff gaze towards the man, but before someone could admonish his uncouth behavior, eight more men appear beside him in the same attire. All of them cut a tall, muscular, and somewhat insidious figure as they stood in front of the only door that leads down the first floor of the building.

None of them has a weapon in hand, but sure enough, when a surprisingly courageous waiter stands back up, he bumps chest with the original figure and finds out how hard the guy's chest really is.

"Hey, what is the meaning of this?!" someone shouts the most cliched line of all.

"Are they going to rob us?"

"Is it a street performance?"

"Maybe it's one of those flash mobs or something."

"Do we give them money or our leftovers?"

What followed the first outburst was a cacophony of inane and, quite frankly, privileged discussion amongst the wealthy patrons of this establishment. No offense to Bruce and my mother, but I would rather kill myself than listen to this any longer.

I try to stand up, but Bruce's arm has firmly placed a hand on my shoulder. His eyes glowing with softness as he shakes his head in disapproval.

"What about mother?" I whisper.

"They have no weapons on them. I checked." He whispers back, "Don't worry. They will be safe. I already messaged Rachel. If anything else, I need to worry about you and the other people in here."

"Are you sure? These people sound insufferable. We could just–" I purse my lips when Bruce gives me a look.

"Not a funny joke, Edmund." He says, gravely.

'I mean, it isn't a joke, but it's best if you think that way.'

"I want every staff member on this side!" the leader of the men orders as he grabs the waiter that he had shoved earlier and pushes him towards the direction of the patrons. "Any person behind us in three seconds is getting killed."

"THREE!"

A litany of trays, plates, and glasses simultaneously drops to the floor as the staff of the restaurant huddles to the other side of the room.

"TWO! ONE! Good." The leader says, motioning for his men to fan out in three meter lengths.

After a few minutes of posturing, the lead figure steps up and takes out a scroll of paper from within his pants pocket. He unfurls it and begins to read from it with eloquence.

"Elites of Gotham. Hear me now or hear me not, for we are the Scythes of the Reaper. His unholy crusade has shown us that, for too long has the wealthy elite cannibalized the city for their own gain. Colluding with the criminals you say you loathe, yet used to instill fear amongst your workers and associates. You use the working people as cheap labor when you have all the riches in the world. You lobby against laws that make the common citizen's life easier in exchange for favors, money, and influence. You are a hindrance to society as much as supervillains like Poison Ivy and useless vigilantes like Batman. Worst to boot, you hide behind your hypocritical, self-serving symbols of peace and justice while the police, who are under your thumbs, use their military gear to instill further fear in the public. THIS CANNOT GO LONGER!"

The leader looks around the room, eyeing the ones who have a strange, angry glint in their eyes. It seems that most people in this room have a grudge against the Scythes' words and that makes them a ticking time bomb.

If one of them acts out and interrupts the leader, we may have a bloodbath in our hands. Sure, they don't have weapons with them, but so does Bruce, and there are nine of them.

He could take down four or five while I could take one, but the rest could go on and break a dozen necks before we are finished with them.

Bruce also seems to think so as he whispers, "We need to move. On my count, I'll pop out a smoke bomb and you go to the bathroom and wait. The Batmobile is on its way. Understand?"

"But you're injured!" I whisper a little too loud, earning one of the Scythes's attention.

We huddle at the table until his attention returns to the rest of the crown before I look back at Bruce. I could tell from the way he had sat from the beginning that his wounds had barely healed, and that he was not on his peak fighting prowess; and probably would not be for a few more days.

"Open a small portal just above the ceiling there," He motioned to the fixture directly above the hulking Scythes. "Once the bomb oxygenates, run as fast as you can."

"Understood." I say.

"Edmund," He locks eyes with me. "Don't be a hero. Save yourself before everyone else."

"Ditto." I wink at him, which elicited my favorite reaction: a deep grunt.

Like he had no bones at all, Bruce surreptitiously unclasps his belt and, from within the buckle, comes out four small black balls the size of breath mints. He grabs a few sharp utensils and a napkin before rolling a ball in between two fingers.

He nods at me as a small black line–no less than ten centimeters in length–appears next to his shins, below the table. Another one appears atop the fixture, hidden by the bright light that illuminated that part of the room.

"What the hell do you think this country is built upon? You poor motherfuckers…" Our operation was slightly disturbed when a pot-bellied man stood up with gravitas and unfounded confidence and began berating and interrupting the Scythes.

When one of the Scythes begins to move towards the cocky bastard, I widen the portal into an active state and control the portal's drain of my energy. Bruce flicks the bomb and lets it fall next to the leader of the Scythes before a poof of explosion rings out beside them. Along with it is the sizzling of dark, foggy smoke that startles everyone in the room.

"WERE ALL GONNA DIE!" A man yells hysterically.

"MOVE, BITCH!" Another woman shoves his husband down to make way for her.

Amidst the chaos and yelling, Bruce throws out all the smoke bombs in strategic locations, blocking out the security cameras and allowing me an unobstructed, albeit zigzagged, path towards the bathroom.

He pockets the utensils, ties the cloth napkin around his nose, and launches forward with a chair in hands. He leaps from the table behind us and uses that to gain aerial advantage to drop a goddamn chair in the leader's head, breaking the chair and cracking the leader's head.

Bruce then grabs a hold of the chair's broken legs and uses it as a makeshift baton to parry another Scythes' haymaker. He swings his other hand, hitting the Scythes' sides and causing him to double over in pain.

Before Bruce could cause further damage to this man, another pops out of the smoke and tries to sneak attack the caped crusader. That did not end well, however, as Bruce glides out of the way and kicks the back of the Scythes' knees, sending him rolling down the room.

I can't see what transpires next, for Bruce enters the smoke and my feet begin running towards the bathroom, running low and nearly on fours to avoid being stomped by the stampeding civilians.

If I'm a betting man, I would wager that the Scythes would go after the fat cats and the privileged white women running around like chickens without heads.

"Get that fucking kid!" The Scythe leader, having awoken shortly after being hit by the chair, roared and pointed towards me.

'I'm glad I'm not a betting man.'

A Scythe runs after me, shoving patron after patron with laser eye focus on me. I curse my luck, sprinting to a nearby table and sliding under it.

Momentarily hiding from his view, I conjure a black line that is long enough to fit me and place the secondary portal to the edge of my vision where the dead-end wall next to the bathrooms lay. Te lunch I had just eaten threatens to revolt against my stomach, halted only by my impending sense of doom.

I activate and widen the black line when the chair next to me is thrown away by the unsurprisingly hirsute hands of the Scythe. I crawl through it, emerging from the other side just in time to feel the table be sent flying by the strength of the Scythe.

"You!" He shouts from across the hall as he sees the closing end of the portal.

"Me!" I shout from across the hole as I flick a middle finger at him before closing the portal.

He rushes towards me in a fit of determined anger, stomping through the crowd yet keeps finding himself being bog down by the panicking crowd.

I, on the other hand, am already on the door to the ladies' bathroom, banging on the door and shouting as loud as I can.

"Let me in! Mom, it's Edmund. Please, I don't want to die!"

There is a second of yelling I hear from within before the door swings open and Rachel grabs me by the scruff of my shirt and pulls me through. She closes the door, locks it, and places a mop handle through the door handle for extra protection.

Mother rushes at me, hugging me with tears flowing from her eyes. She pats my extremities, checking if I had incurred any damage during the chaotic hubbub. I did, but informed her of the severity of the situation. Our reunion is cut short, however, when a loud thud echoes out of the doorway. The broom handle nearly breaks in half when the Scythe's heavy frame bangs against the other side of the door.

'About three or four more times before it breaks.'

There were seven women, including my mother and Rachel, inside when the Scythes took over the second floor, which means I need to ensure the safety of seven women.

"Mom! I need you to trust me. All of you, too." I shout at the terrified women. "I need you to pick a stall, stay there, lock the door, press your bags or purse against the door, and make sure to stay there! Understood!"

"What? You're just–"

"Shut the fuck up!" I roar at the woman farther ahead, my glare terrifying her further. "I don't give a fuck about you, but my mother is here. And I won't fucking risk her safety even if there were a thousand of you."

"Eddy, please calm down." Mother grabs me by the shoulder, but flinches when the broom handle breaks and the frame caves in. "T-they're just scared."

I look at her and give her an easy smile. "Do you love me?"

"I do, honey. You're my son." She readily answers.

"Then don't question what I do. Just enter the middle stall with Rachel, lock the doors and make sure he doesn't get in." I plead with a grave tone. "Please."

Another bang causes me to flinch and so do the other women, which elicits a chain reaction of their feet going towards the various stalls. Rachel looks at me with a pleading look and drags my mother in with her, but not before mother gives me a quick peck on the forehead.

"Be safe, Eddy. I love you." She whispers.

I nod as the spikes of the door's upper hinges launch off its place. Rachel leaves mother's side for a moment, reaching deep within her purse and taking out a bottle of bear spray.

"I don't know why I'm trusting my life to a kid, but… I'll pray for you." She says before giving me the bottle.

"Don't." I say with an affable grin, easing her nerves and those who can see it. I motion for the guy breaking the door with fury. "Pray for him. He's gonna need it."

She heads towards the stall and closes the door while I loosen the handles on all the faucets and closes the drains to let the water overflow. I hide the bear spray below the counters, under the metal pipes and begin to limber up.

With one final bang, the door flies inward and slams against the wall. The Scythe's chest is heaving up and down, tired from the egregious activity just to get to me.

"I finally got you, you little shit." He says as he cracks his knuckles. "I'm gonna make sure your parents pay handsomely for all my troubles."

I put my fists up and offer him a pity smile. "Don't you worry about that. After I'm finished with you, I'll be glad to pay for your medical expenses."