Chapter 23 Chapter 23 Even the law has not sentenced me to death...
With the Templars' operation clearing him of all charges, Little Quinn returned to his thawed mansion, feeling elated. He immediately summoned his subordinates and delivered a crucial speech about the next phase of development. After ensuring they had diligently taken note of the meeting's key points, Little Quinn dismissed them with satisfaction and retreated to his study.
He still had a lot to do. As the pioneer of the Templars' arrival in Gotham, young Quinn carried a glorious burden on his shoulders. He wrote and drew, trying to absorb the news he had missed during his imprisonment as quickly as possible. First, the latest news reported that the assassin rehabilitation project he had participated in a while ago was a complete success; second, the urban planning of Blüdhaven...; third, Gotham's business cooperation plan...;
Last but not least, it seems a new assassin is stirring up trouble in Blüdhaven. The Templars mentioned it casually, along with a wanted portrait.
Little Quinn glanced at it, concluding that it was indeed the least important point. The Templars' hold on the city was too entrenched to be shaken by a mere assassin and his tiny hidden blade. How could such a mountain of power—even detectives and prosecutors, the very symbols of law and justice, stood in awe before this towering mountain—be moved by the antennae of an ant?
Perhaps he was concentrating too hard, or perhaps the door of the study was too heavy; it was not until the guard at the door fell to the carpet with a heavy thud that little Quinn in the study vaguely heard some movement.
"Who?" he asked without looking up.
But contrary to his usual behavior, the guard at the door did not tell him who was visiting. Little Quinn frowned, and just as he quickly put aside the sound that seemed to be a knock on the door, the door was kicked open heavily.
An impolite young man strode in. He was so fast that a gust of wind blew around him, blowing up the hem of his clothes. Little Quinn, who finally reacted, dropped his pen, jumped up from his chair, and tried to hide behind the table in panic, shouting, "Guard! Guard!"
But no one responded to his call. Little Quinn realized with a sweat that his house had already fallen into a dead silence.
As expected, the assassin caught him. Little Quinn closed his eyes in despair, but he didn't wait for the fatal blade. He trembled and opened his eyes to see the assassin pull down his hood, revealing a face identical to the one on the wanted poster—distressed black hair, piercing green eyes, and a scar running across the bridge of his nose and down below his left eye.
This must be a dream, otherwise how could the assassin appear before him in the blink of an eye? Little Quinn thought desperately, what had he done wrong?
"I come for my friends," the assassin said condescendingly, "though I doubt you remember their names either."
Little Quinn asked hopefully, "Who?"
The assassin's thin lips uttered two names. Little Quinn tried to recall them, but to no avail. The assassin looked at him mockingly and raised his wrist.
"You thug!" cried the shattered little Quinn, struggling. "Even the law doesn't—"
bass!
"Sentence me...to death..."
Under the assassin's mocking smile, Quinn slowly slid down. As his vision darkened, the assassin put on his hood again, swept away the documents on his desk, opened the window, and leaped away as nimbly as a cat.
"...Liam Quinn, who was released on bail yesterday, was found dead in his study this morning. Preliminary police investigations indicate he was stabbed in the chest..."
"Wait, Liam Quinn?"
Jason, who had been sprawled comfortably on the sofa, took up the red-covered hardcover book he was reading and jumped up in disbelief. Tim, who had finally found time to play games, sat there, still browsing Buckingham Palace, and responded without thinking, "That Liam Quinn you said you'd give him a hard time?"
There was a subtle silence. The Waynes, father and son, who were playing chess, looked over.
"Well done, Todd," Damian said approvingly. "But I have to say, it was inappropriate for you to leave the body where it was. If I were there, I could think of at least a dozen simple and efficient ways to dispose of it."
Bruce looked at him with a headache, "Damian."
Damian snorted and shrugged. Their gazes crossed the air a few times, symbolically ending with Bruce raising an eyebrow.
"What's the matter, father?"
"Put back the chess piece you just quietly removed."
Damian puffed up his cheeks and reluctantly put the repentant pawn back.
The previous topic seemed to have been lightly brushed aside. Sitting on the sofa, Jason breathed a sigh of relief, but a surge of irritation immediately welled up within him. It was hard to tell if it was Bruce's silent gaze or the fact that Bruce hadn't asked anything in the end. He turned and cast a dangerous glare at Tim, the man whose outrageous words had just triggered this invisible storm.
Tim, intently focused on driving the carriage, was oblivious to the turbulent currents around him. After all, this was a rare mission requiring no scratches; and as everyone knows, Assassin's Creed vehicles are always as smooth as soap. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, but just as his carriage was about to reach its destination, his second brother, who had been watching him, swiftly made a move and flicked Tim's wrist with a sinister flick.
Tim yelled, "Ouch!" He watched as Jacob's carriage shuddered, then, like a wild horse, violently knocked over the nearby carriage and rushed to the side of the road. An "Infuriating" achievement popped up, and Tim promptly dropped his game console and pounced on Jason, who was laughing wildly.
"You bastard!" The enraged Third Robin attempted to murder his predecessor. "Compensate me for the perfect synchronization!"
The second Robin burst into laughter, wrestling with him, falling off the sofa and onto the carpet. By the window, the Waynes, father and son, oblivious to the situation, played chess and bickered. In this peaceful atmosphere, unchanged from any other time, Jason and Tim cursed each other affectionately, rolling in and out from under the dining table. The clinking of the cutlery played the rhythm of the Robin war.
Until Jason's arm bumped into something. Tim's face was filled with fear, and Jason realized something and turned back sheepishly. The only thing that stood between them and their careless murder was a pair of legs in suit trousers and spotless, shiny leather shoes.
Alfred, holding tea and snacks, looked at them with a smile.
As the housekeeper thanked them for sweeping the dust off the floor, Tim and Jason got up, their faces covered in dust. They followed Alfred's instructions and tumbled into the garden to trim the shrubs, but they still did not forget to argue quietly.
"You started it!"
"You started it, baby bird." Jason rolled his eyes. "Why don't you think about what you just said?"
Tim summoned his memory, and an eerie silence fell. They crunched the brush, and the fresh scent surrounded the vigilantes. Just as Tim was about to apologize, Jason stopped and waved his hand.
"It doesn't matter, we're even." He smiled evilly, "You didn't save it."
“…Do you think I can count on the devil kid to save it for me when he passes by?” Tim felt hopeless.
"What did you call him?"
"Devil cub."
"That's right."
Tim's soul was clearly drifting from his dull blue eyes. Jason patted his shoulder sympathetically. It was true. They would go to great lengths to watch and protect each other's backs in real battle, but they would also go to great lengths to hold each other back in everyday life.
Tim wiped his face sadly. "Never mind," he said. "Let's get back to little Quinn. Who do you think did that?"
Jason didn't even look up. "You don't think it was me?"
"Come on, we all know you like guns." Tim glanced at his face, "But if the news says that eight mafia boss lieutenants lost their heads last night, and you've been hearing chainsaws in your safe house all afternoon..."
Jason couldn't help but laugh. "Okay, I'm past the age where I need to make a name for myself. And let me be clear, those eight wimps didn't take up my entire afternoon. Only two hours."
Gotham's rare sunshine parted the thick clouds, gently shimmering down. Those criminals terrified by the Red Hood's infamous reputation would never have imagined that beneath that hood and domino mask lay such a young and handsome face. And generally speaking, no one would have considered his age to be "full of hope and a future."
Tim rolled his eyes at Jason's correction about two hours, but smiled.
"I heard on the news that he was stabbed in the chest," he said, "and I saw the report that just came out from the forensics department."
"'By the way?'" Jason teased.
"Don't act like you haven't peeked at the Gotham Police Department's files." Tim shook his phone screen. "There's a clean, penetrating wound to the front, signs of a struggle at the scene, and an uncapped pen dropped. But there's no notebook or book on the table, so we can safely assume the killer, in addition to killing him, also took some information."
Jason put down the scissors and leaned over to look at them. "Uh-huh."
"But the most crucial thing is that at the time of the murder, all the guards in the mansion were in a coma. Upon examination, there were still ligature marks on their necks that had not faded." Tim enlarged the screen, and they saw the photo clearly.
Tim, who had never dealt with assassins, looked at Jason for confirmation, and the latter nodded affirmatively.
"An assassin." Jason stroked his chin. "Did anyone send a message to the old man?"
Tim imitated him and touched his chin. They looked at each other, understood each other, picked up the scissors again, quickly completed the task assigned by Alfred, and then slipped into the Batcave impatiently.
The author has something to say:
----------------------
*Raging Fire Achievement: Assassin's Creed Syndicate, wreck twenty carriages.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
