"From the cacophony of noises, I discerned countless familiar voices. I've laughed and talked with them in luxurious mansions, yet now, hate was so palpable in their tones that it felt like they wanted to kill me."
"I know it's impolite to barge into someone's home, it's against the rules of the Gotham Gang. But what pushes me to do this is a feeling I cannot explain…"
"Why are you doing this?" Jason asked from the truck: "Batman, give me a reason. I don't believe you are this impulsive."
"Although we haven't known each other for long, I feel like you and I are similar, liking to plan out everything before doing something to avoid as many surprises as possible. But what exactly are you doing now?"
"I don't know." Bruce gave an answer that even surprised himself. He replied, "An emotion is pushing me to do this."
The surrounding shouts became louder, gunshots gradually sounded off. Most of the residents of the North District were mob bosses, so lights brilliantly lit the prosperous area.
This place was like an isolated island, standing above Gotham society. All its residents were both rule-makers and rule-followers, singing praises for this.
Therefore, when a truck charged in, a vehicle completely out of place here, everyone shouted and hollered. The children inside the vehicle, through the cracks in the ceiling, could see intense flames rising skyward.
But their first reaction wasn't to scream, instead, they covered their mouths, making no sound. The truck wasn't a good place to take cover, if it exploded, no one would survive.
The first thing to get hit on the truck was the tire. Gang members here were no ordinary petty henchmen, their shooting skills were fairly accurate as they knew that a blown-out tire could potentially cause the truck to lose control. But if it could make the vehicle stop, it would be worth it.
The front wheel was hit, emitting a 'bang' sound and white smoke. Bruce's grip on the steering wheel grew tighter, the remaining muscles on his arm exerted all their strength to manipulate the steering wheel, controlling the truck while he accelerated even faster.
"Where the hell is he going?! Stop him quickly!"
"Damn it! It's the Mansion District! Hurry, shoot!!"
"It's over, he's going in, quick! Get everyone up, a major incident is happening!!"
"Shoot at the cabin!!"
But in these critical moments, Bruce's mind became sharper. The route in his mind, the position of each gunman, the direction of each gun muzzle, the trajectory of every bullet, all transformed into flickering lights before him, crystal clear.
The blue eyes under the red hood brightened, the truck sped faster, but the fuel gauge needle began to sway.
The gasoline in the truck was what the Little Sly added earlier. He took it from the auto mechanic school. He was just a kid and couldn't carry much gasoline, just enough for the car to drive from the East District to the North District, already at its limit.
The truck was constantly under fire, but because the incident happened unexpectedly, most gunmen were unprepared when the truck had already charged past, so the direct firepower was not particularly intense, but stray bullets still hit the cabin, causing the children who were hit to scream.
This truck was like a short-lived tree, from sprouting to maturity to wilting, all in mere minutes. Its most glorious period had passed, leaving only an ageing, worn body of machinery.
With a 'screech', the sound of defeated brakes echoed, the truck, billowing white smoke, stopped in front of a mansion gate. Torrential rain poured down, storm howling incessantly.
In the falling rain, the name on the mailbox fluttered like leaves in gale winds, but they never fell. The letters etched onto it were short, but the legend they held was lengthy.
The man who walked out from the mansion gate was Falcone. Falcone who stood at the door, taking a black umbrella from one of his men, expressionless as he looked at the rundown truck parked in front.
He saw that the cabin door was opened, but no one came down. Instead, a hand reached out, nimbly flipping onto the roof of the truck, standing above him, looking down on Falcone.
The distance between them was merely a few dozen meters, both could clearly see each other. What Bruce saw was the lone figure of the Godfather, like an enduring tree stump amidst a storm, while the part outside the ground has lost its youthful vitality, the roots run deep underground, hardly seen.
What Alpha Falcone saw was a strange figure in a red hood, standing atop a rundown truck on a stormy rainy night, a surge of intense emotion breaking forth, piercing through the stormy night.
"Good evening, Godfather." A voice as hoarse as gravel, barely audible, carried by the storm wind.
The Godfather waved his hand to halt the gunmen aiming their guns, letting everyone around him to retreat. He said, "Hello, your truck is very impressive, quite similar to the ones I saw in my early days."
"Don't you intend to let them fire?" Bruce asked, "Don't you think I'm one of those dangerous lunatics?"
"Are you referring to the one who's always smiling, or the one who likes to steal, or the one who enjoys human experiments?" Falcone quietly looked at Bruce and said, "They wouldn't come looking for me because they don't like me."
Falcone lowered his gaze, looking at a puddle at his feet, he said, "They think I'm the most boring person in the world as I, according to them, created the most boring order in the world. That's why they've never sought me out."
"I just want to ask you one question…." Bruce's voice echoed in the rainy night. He slowly walked towards the back of the truck, then he tore an opening in the side of the truck. When wind and rain swept in, all the children avoided it fearfully.
It wasn't just the biting cold wind and rain that got into the cabin, the smell of the injured children's blood started to waft out, blowing towards Falcone.
"Godfather, you spent forty years creating rules for Gotham. These rules may not be perfect, but they are effective... I just want to ask, who did you create these rules for?"
Falcone gently stroked his wrist, he said: "Don't beat around the bush, child. If I say it's for Gotham, you would say that the children aren't faring well. If I say it's for myself, you would tell me to make it about Gotham."
"But in truth, I laid down these rules simply because I came from such an era where I had no choice but to make this selection."
"Forty years have passed, it and I are both old, we have both fulfilled our mission, but I won't reform it from top to bottom. You know why?"
Bruce silently looked at this old Godfather, watching his figure waver in the storm, yet never moving.
"By example, I showed them how we swayed the course of history with laughter during the golden age." The Godfather's voice always had a sense of specific era, as if it was taking us back to the time when the torch of the Statue of Liberty lit up the world.
"I allowed them to imitate me, to be civilized amid chaos, like taming a dog. These rules are the leash I use to control them."
"I don't have the patience to teach a dog how to be a man, because I know dogs will always be dogs. They plunder for my benefits, and I use these gains to light up the city."
"A society wealthy enough will no longer breed dogs but will surely produce people with compassion and empathy. Among them, the courageous, wise, and bold ones will eventually stand before me and tell me to release my leash and set them free."
The Godfather looked through the vibrant red mask, through Bruce's eyes, and beyond them into his soul. He said:
"These children are proof of your compassion, this truck is proof of your courage, this journey is proof of your wisdom, and standing face-to-face with me is proof of your audacity…"
"Now, you can say what you are supposed to say, and after you, I will have my say."
An intense emotion within Bruce suddenly dissipated, replaced by a slightly bitter sentiment.
He fought and struggled all the way, but waiting for him at the end wasn't the Demon King, but rather the last hero.
The last hero of a generation, due to his perspectives, knowledge, wisdom, and societal constraints, could not reach the finish line.
In the roaring wind, Bruce's voice came: "A friend of mine told me, victory isn't about reaching the end."
Apparently, this wasn't the phrase the Godfather was expecting, he hadn't thought someone reaching this point would say this to him.
But, unpleased, he said: "If this makes you falter and feel like quitting, then you are destined to fail. Don't waste my time."
"Even if there's no perfect solution to this problem, the answer of a mob-dominated society is definitely the worst." Bruce paused for a moment, but still said the words, "The old rules should retire now, your honor Godfather."
Falcone turned around and slowly walked towards the manor. Every splash made by his leather shoes on the puddles seemed like the gold dust floating around in that chaotic era.
In the end, he stood under the lights at the manor gate, made the sign of the cross on his chest, and said quietly: "God bless Gotham, Amen."
After his silhouette disappeared, the lights inside the manor gradually went out. Never before had the Godfather gone to bed this early, but as the light from his bedroom window disappeared, the beacon of Gotham Lighthouse became dimmer.
Every era passes by, the arm holding up the torch will eventually crumble under every storm, the rotted wood sinks to the bottom of the sea, witnessing the wheel of history rolling over it from above.
Standing in the roaring night on a dilapidated truck, Bruce watched the lights in the North District gradually fade, leaving only the deafening sound of rain, and the red mask which was especially conspicuous in the dark rainy night.
Lying in the truck, Jason understood these conversations more than those ignorant children, or even more than Bruce.
In this dream filled with confusion, Jason abruptly awoke, sat up from his seat, reached one hand out the window, the wind used the rain to inscribe a long poem on his arm.
Bruce took off his mask, this camouflage was no longer necessary.
He threw the mask on top of the truck, it slid down the rain-wet metal surface, and like dewdrops on a fresh leaf, slowly drip down.
The red mask was caught by a tender hand, the fingers slowly closed, in the pitch-black rainy night, Jason held the only dash of color tightly.
As his fingers slowly elongated, the shallow scars came forth, after putting down the pile of papers on his hand, Bruce looked at Alfred with a touch of expectation.
Alfred, who was holding a candle, slowly walked to the door, turned and said to Bruce, "I thoroughly enjoyed the final scene, sir, you have written it very well."
"Why? Is it because it's the climax of the narrative?"
"No, because I like the color of the mask."