The Flightless

Life and Death

"Jim!"

I pull myself out of Oswald's grasp and rush down the stairs. My fingers desperately search for the entry wound. Jim groans as I apply pressure to the bleeding injury.

"Come on, Jim."

"We've gotta get him out of here, Sera!"

"Don't—"

I hoist my brother in my arms. His dead weight feels like nothing against my un-choked power.

"Are you sure you should be—"

"Let's get him to the GCPD. Lee can take care of him there."

My hand clasps tightly around Jim's in the back of the cop car. I keep a steady grip on his wrist to manage his pulse. Color slowly drains from his face.

"Come on, Jim."

The plea is a desperate one. Whatever I knew about loss and pain is nothing compared to this heart attack in my chest. My thoughts are too scattered to collect and too frantic to make sense of it all.

We rush him inside the precinct. Lee's face looks almost as ghostly as my brother's as I lay him on the morgue table.

"Okay," she begins, forcing down the heartache anguish. "Okay. Let's— I—"

"Pull it together. He needs you right now. Put in an IV, Lee. He needs blood and fluids."

The doctor nods. She runs to grab the supplies. I set up a monitor to regulate his vitals and attach a blood pressure cuff and a heartrate sensor to his finger. She returns and deftly inserts the needle into the crook of his elbow.

Just as Lee does that, Jim's pulse plummets. The piercing flatline rings through our ears.

"Sera!"

Panic surges through my veins. I lay one single hand on top of my brother's chest. With all of my might, I press down on the delicate body. He jolts and gasps for air. His pulse returns to the monitor, but he doesn't wake.

"There's no exit wound," I say. "You'll need to fish the bullet out."

"I haven't done general surgery since med school."

"I have."

Lee offers the medical kit. "Then you do it."

"I can't." The tremor in my hands is nearly out of control with my distress. "Stitching is one thing. It's another to retrieve a bullet from inside someone's abdomen."

She starts without hesitation. I assist as much as I can, grabbing tools and keeping his skin separated. At some point, Harvey Bullock comes in.

He pieces the bullets together to form a Z. The person who shot my brother must be Victor Zsasz. Even after my brother saved his pitiful life, he came after Jim. Zsasz will regret it. Of that, I am sure. I will make him suffer from every agony imaginable. Everyone will know that I, the Cardinal, am the one who will exact revenge in this town.

Dr. Thompkins sauters the wound, and we begin to play the waiting game. It's up to Jim, now. He has to fight. He has to heal. My brother is one hell of a soldier. If he can push through everything Gotham's thrown at him, he can surely endure through this ordeal.

I wonder if he thought the same as I died.

We sit side by side in the silence. Misery loves company. It's nice to know neither of us are alone. The panic is not so mind-numbing; the sorrow isn't as bone-shocking. It's difficult to breathe, but it's easier with her around.

Dinah kicks to remind her mother that she's here, too.

Oh god. What if his child grows up without a father? It's a scenario I can't even comprehend. What if Dinah doesn't have Oswald? What if she's forced to wonder and listen to fond stories about the most influential person in her life?