"I heard countless familiar voices amidst the noisy cacophony. I had shared laughter and conversation with them in the luxurious mansion, but now, the hatred in their voices sounded as if they wanted to kill ."
"I know that breaking into soone else's ho is impolite and goes against the Gotham Gang's rules. But what drives to do this is an emotion I can't explain..."
"Why are you doing this?" Jason asked from the back of the truck, "Batman, give a reason. I believe you're not an impulsive person."
"Though we haven't known each other for long, I feel like you should be like , planning everything ticulously before doing sothing, trying to avoid surprises. But what are you doing now?"
"I don't know," Bruce gave an answer that even surprised himself. He said, "An emotion is compelling to do this."
The surrounding shouts grew louder, and gunshots began to ring out. Those living in the northern district were the leaders of the major gangs, so the area was well-lit and prosperous.
It was like an isolated island, standing above Gotham's society. Everyone here was a rule-maker and a follower, and they celebrated it.
Therefore, when a truck that should never have appeared here rushed in, everyone scread and shouted. The children inside the truck could see the intense flas rising through the gaps in the truck's roof.
But their first reaction wasn't to scream; it was to cover their mouths with their hands, making sure not to make a sound. This truck wasn't a good cover; if it exploded, no one would survive.
The first target hit on the truck was a tire. The gang mbers here weren't ordinary thugs; their marksmanship was precise. They knew that a blown tire could cause the truck to lose control, but as long as they could stop it, it would be worth it.
The front tire was hit, making a "bang" sound, and emitting white smoke. Bruce gripped the steering wheel tighter and used every ounce of strength left in his arms to turn the wheel and control the truck. He hit the gas pedal, making the truck go faster.
"Where is he trying to go?! Stop him!"
"Oh no! It's the Manor district! Hurry, shoot!"
"It's over, he's going to crash in! Quick, wake everyone up; sothing big is happening!"
"The cabin! Shoot the cabin!"
But the more critical the situation, the clearer Bruce's mind beca. The truck's route was mapped out in his head, every gunman's position, every gun's direction, every bullet's trajectory; they all turned into sparkling lines, all visible before his eyes.
The blue eyes beneath the Red Hood grew brighter, and the truck's speed increased, but the needle on the fuel gauge began to waver.
The gasoline in this truck had been added by Sliphead earlier, and he had taken it from the auto repair school. Being just a kid, he couldn't carry much gasoline. This amount of gas could only take the truck from the East District to the northern district, and it was already at its limit.
The truck continued to be shot at, but because the situation had escalated so suddenly, most of the henchn weren't prepared. By the ti they reacted, the truck had already passed through, so the firepower it faced wasn't too intense. However, there were still stray bullets hitting the truck, causing the injured children inside to scream.
The truck was like a short-lived tree, from sprouting to growing, and then withering, all in a few short minutes. After its most brilliant mont had passed, all that remained was an old and feeble carcass.
With a squeaking sound, the powerless brakes brought the truck to a stop at the entrance of a manor. Heavy rain poured down, and the storm raged on.
In the rain, the na on the mailbox fluttered like leaves in the wind, never falling. It bore a short but legendary na.
Out of the manor door erged Falcone. He stood at the entrance of Falcone Manor and received a black umbrella from a servant, staring expressionlessly at the rundown truck in front of him.
He noticed that the door of the cabin was open, but the driver didn't step out. Instead, he grabbed the door, used the handle to climb onto the roof of the truck, and looked down at Falcone.
The distance between the two was only a few dozen ters, and they could clearly see each other's figures. What Bruce saw was the Godfather who had co alone, like a stubborn root in the midst of a storm. The surface may no longer be lush and youthful, but the deep roots buried underground were impenetrable.
What Al Falcone saw was a figure wearing a red hood, standing on a decaying truck on a stormy and rainy night, bursting with intense emotions that reached the heavens.
"Godfather, good evening," a raspy voice barely audible through the howling wind.
Godfather waved his hand, signaling the gunn who were aiming to stop. He made the people around him step back and said, "Hello. Your truck is quite sothing, very much like what I saw years ago."
"Aren't you going to have them open fire?" Bruce asked. "Don't you think I'm one of those dangerous lunatics?"
"Are you referring to the one who always smiles, or the one who likes to steal, or the one who conducts human experints?" Falcone looked at Bruce quietly. "They won't co after because they don't like ."
Falcone lowered his head and looked at the puddle at his feet. He said, "They think I'm the most boring person in the world because I've created the dullest order in this world, so they've never co after ."
"I just want to ask you one question..." Bruce's voice echoed in the rainy night. He walked slowly toward the truck's cabin and opened a slit in the side of the cabin. When the wind and rain blew in, all the children inside cowered in fear.
Not only did the cold wind and rain enter the cabin, but the scent of the injured children's blood also wafted out and reached Falcone's nose.
"Godfather, you've spent forty years creating rules for Gotham. These rules may not be perfect, but they work... But I just want to ask, whom did you create these rules for?" Falcone lightly rubbed his wrist and said, "No need to beat around the bush, children. If I say it's for Gotham, you'll say these children aren't living well. If I say it's for myself, you'll tell to do it for Gotham."
"But in reality, I made these rules because I co from a ti when I had no other choice. In that era, I could only make this choice."
"Forty years have passed, and both I and those rules have grown old. We have fulfilled our missions, but I won't reform them from the top down. Do you know why?"
Bruce silently watched this old godfather, observing his figure swaying in the storm but never moving.
"I set an example for them, perford for them. In that glorious era, we decided the course of history with laughter. My aim was to make them imitate , to beco civilized amidst the chaos. Just like taming a dog, these rules are the chains I use to restrain them."
"I didn't have the patience to teach a dog how to be a human, because I knew that a dog would always be a dog. They existed to plunder interests for , and with those interests, I illuminated the city and built this society."
"A society prosperous enough won't breed dogs; it will produce people with compassion and empathy. Among them, those with courage, wisdom, and determination will eventually stand before and say, 'Release your chains, set them free.'"
Godfather looked at the bright red hood, gazing through it into Bruce's eyes, and through his eyes into his soul. He said, "These children have proven your compassion, this truck has shown your courage, this journey has demonstrated your wisdom, and facing here has proved your determination."
"Now, you can say what you need to say, and after you've finished, I'll say what I need to say."
Bruce's intense emotions suddenly dissipated and turned into a sowhat bitter feeling.
He had overco nurous challenges, but waiting at the finish line wasn't a demon; it was a previous hero.
In the previous era, due to limited vision, knowledge, wisdom, and societal conditions, that hero hadn't reached the end.
Amidst the howling wind, Bruce's voice ca through, "A friend of mine once told that winning isn't about reaching the finish line."
Clearly, this wasn't the response Godfather was expecting. He hadn't anticipated that the person who ca here would say this.
But he wasn't pleased; instead, he spoke, "If this makes you hesitate and gives rise to feelings of surrender, then you're destined to fail. Don't waste any more of my ti."
"Even if there's no perfect solution, the Gangsociety is undoubtedly the worst answer. The old rules need to step aside, Godfather."
Falcone turned around and slowly walked towards the manor, his leather shoes stepping on puddles, each water splash resembling a piece of gold sifted from the gravel in those tumultuous tis.
Finally, he stood in the light at the door of the manor, made the sign of the cross on his chest, and whispered, "God bless Gotham, an."
After his figure disappeared, the lights in the manor gradually dimd. Godfather had never gone to bed this early. But as the light in his bedroom window vanished, the light from the Gotham lighthouse beca fainter.
Every era cos to an end, and the arm holding the torch that can't be put down will eventually beco a rotting shipwreck at the bottom of the sea, watching the giant wheel of history sail over it.
Bruce stood on the stormy night, on the decrepit truck, and saw the lights in the entire northern district gradually extinguish. Only the deafening sound of rain remained, along with the Red Hood, especially conspicuous in the dark rainy night.
Jason, lying in the truck, understood this conversation more than the bewildered and ignorant children did. In this dreamlike and perplexing journey, Jason abruptly woke up. He sat up from his seat, extended one hand out of the car window, and the wind and rain wrote a long poem on his arm with raindrops.
Bruce removed his own hood; this disguise was no longer aningful. He tossed the hood onto the truck's roof. It slid down the rain-soaked tal surface, like dewdrops on a young leaf, falling gently.
The red hood was caught by a young hand. The five fingers closed slowly, and in the pitch-black rainy night, Jason tightly held onto the only splash of color.
His fingers gradually extended, scars climbing up shallowly. After putting down the stack of papers, Bruce looked at Alfred with a hint of anticipation.
Alfred, holding a candle, walked slowly to the door, turned his head to look at Bruce, and said, "I liked the last scene; you wrote it very well, sir."
"Why? Because it's the climax of the narrative?"
"No, because I like the color of the hood."
User Comments
0 comments from readers