Blood Red Blades

Epilogue

Love,

Third Person

  "We found this on the Batsignal," Commissioner Gordon said, handing a file over to the Dark Knight, "Did a couple of tests, came through clean."

The Bat flipped it over, clearly not happy with what he saw. "Black Mask," he stated, "How did he get so close to the GCPD?"

"It suddenly appeared," Gordon stuffed his hands in his pocket, "Must be something with the cameras."

"I'll run more tests."

"I doubt it's necessary," Montoya pulled out a piece of paper, "We found this on the file."

Neat writing on expensive paper, the ink smudged as if written in a hurry.

Batman grunted, before tucking away both items. "I will get back to you."

"Sure," the older man nodded, watching the retreating mass of black.

"Is it me," Montoya tilted her head, "Or is he grumpier than normal?"

----

" 'Don't get your Kevlar in a twist – this is not rigged at all. Why you would think I would rig a file is beyond me, but I've heard rumors that the big, brooding Bat of Gotham is rarely wrong.

So, I will tell you what is in the file, starting with the block of C4.

Ha, got you there.

No C4, just a bunch of intel on possible ships and their cargo that could be used by the Kelpies and a possible way to smuggle the bodies into Gotham. Please find them and – seeing how you have a no-kill rule – make a strong court case against them, or whatever you Bats do besides sending them to a hospital. I would do it myself, but by the time you get this I would be out of the country for stuff.

You're Welcome, by the way. I totally expect you guys to keep the end of the deal we made before.

(Just to be clear, the name is Officer Richard Grayson. Bat-level information, tell the Oracle they might be summoned by a freaky cult.)

Your not-buddy,

Black Mask.' "

Stunned silence echoed across the cave as Batman finished reading the note out loud. Barbara breathed out, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Tim frowned and brushed his fingers against the keys of the Batcomputer, eyes darting between the information in the file and the on the screen.

"It matches the intel we have here," Drake sighed, turning to Bruce, "It's just on paper."

"Why would a villain give us information?" Robin sulked, fingers curling in his Great Dane's fur. "He doesn't need us to google a BPD officer."

"Unless-"

"Old name, new face," Babs cut Red Robin off, pushing glasses further up her nose, "Maybe he isn't what we thought he was."

Tim scoffed. "That should've been clear after what happened in that warehouse."

Tense silence filled the cave like a heavy blanket.

"Are the scans still running?" Batman grumbled in an attempt to break the stillness.

"Yeah, the report of the... thing will come out in a few," Tim answered.

"The GCPD are identifying the bodies one at a time and making the necessary calls to ensure that families are informed," The red head supplied.

"Good work," The tank of a man praised, earning narrowed and widened eyes from the three, "Go to bed. We will debrief the rest tomorrow."

   As the rest left, Bruce turned and headed towards the glass cases that were lined up. They vaguely reminded him of the toy soldiers a younger, freer version of himself had, positioned like a firing squad. They were collecting dust in the attic, much like the man's childhood.

Feet padded over to a case he was far too familiar with, a gloved hand resting against glass. It was cold, that type that seeps into your bones and rests there like lead, tiring beyond explanation. Pulling back the cowl, Bruce warily stared at his weary appearance that reflected off the memories swirling in the case. Multicoloured post-its firmly (stubbornly, too) stuck to the glass; the various varieties of text illuminated by soft candlelight that emitted from inside the case.

Warmth erupted in his tightening chest, vison blurring as he read the writing until he settled on familiar handwriting.

A good son, it read.

Bruce tore it off, crushing it until the yellow parchment had disappeared within the expanse of black.

A 'good son' was an understatement. Words could not describe how Bruce felt, how he would ever feel, about his son. The lengths he would go, the risks he would take and the sacrifices he would make. No words, not even the from ancient texts, could explain his love.

"Always thought that that was too little," Kate softly smiled from her spot behind Bruce, the flickers of candlelight dancing along forest orbs, "Maybe it needed a change."

She held out a pale hand, which loosely clutched a pad and a sharpie that were hesitantly taken. Bruce shuffled, uncapping the marker but not writing. His cousin wrapped her hands on his shaking hand, wrapping herself around him in a fierce hug.

"Don't worry," she whispered, "He knows."

A lone tear escaped blurry vison, streaking down his cheek before gracefully falling onto the paper in silent hurt. It was all Bruce wanted to say, but never found the words to. It was the volumes of emotion raging inside him, the part of him that was fracturing from a hole in his heart.

It was on the case – different words of affection, promise and of hope, but none spoke as loud as the yellow paper that had no words on it, but a single stain the size of a teardrop.

A single tear that read uncontaminated love.

{Recording finished. Proceeding to case notes.}