Chapter 3 Chapter 3 But it was too late.
After four years at Bludhaven University, Elio could boast to anyone that he knew every corner of the campus like a pro. Not to mention his extensive experience in escaping, shaking off pursuers was no problem for him as a child.
He had outrun the sticks of gangsters, the punishments of the orphanage director, the bullying of his classmates at Gotham High School, and the guns of the mafia... He struggled to run into the university campus, and for a time he thought that fate had favored him, allowing him to rest, escape, and enter a normal life.
But today, Elio started his escape again.
And his luck...finally ran out.
"Stay away from there!" the officer following closely behind him shouted. "Don't be impulsive, young man!"
Elio paused at the edge of the rooftop, where the rubble crumbled downward, and he gasped, looking down at the rushing river.
“…It’s too late.” He said, his voice so low that it seemed like he was talking to himself.
"Don't!"
Don't look down, Elio told himself.
'Don't look down,' a vague voice in his memory told him gently, 'it will scare you.'
Elio obediently raised his head and gazed across the river at Gotham. That was the place he had come from. Lights flickered on one by one, the subways snaked along the tracks, and a gentle evening breeze blew from the towering buildings of Uptown, caressing his cheek. It was as if Gotham, hearing of the wanderer's return, had opened its soft arms.
Elio took a deep breath.
The footsteps were already behind him, but it was too late.
Elio turned his head. The wind whistled, and at that moment he finally saw the officer's face clearly. The young officer's black hair was combed back messily by the rushing wind. Beneath his full forehead were a pair of blue eyes filled with anxiety.
He looked… not much older than Elio.
Elio couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. He knew it was not easy to watch someone die in front of you. But it was too late.
The young officer's grasping fingers brushed against Elio's cuff.
Witnessed by the setting sun, that glimmer of hope slipped away. As if a force surged through his veins, guiding him, Elio naturally stretched his arms and fell downward, feeling no fear. Time stretched, extended, and expanded like butter. Within this height difference, Elio's senses filled with everything he could see, hear, and smell.
Maybe he should have done this earlier. Elio couldn't help but have an absurd thought. He saw the police officers clearing the students and faculty from the floors one by one, and saw the classmates who met his eyes slowly open their eyes and mouths...
He saw where the river ended and the ocean began, a golden-red curtain gradually descending over the Bludhaven sky. Boats cut through the waves, white birds foraging for food darted among schools of leaping fish, circling. The wind from Gotham sang as it swept in, like a long-lost warm embrace gathered by a current of air.
Spring is coming, Elio thought unconsciously.
——With a loud bang, water splashed everywhere.
·
"If he were an assassin, he wouldn't have died so easily."
"You also said if."
Dick was silent for a moment. Even on the phone, Jason could imagine his disapproving glance and a tut. But he didn't shut up, because he didn't have that kind of virtue.
"And not every assassin can perform a Leap of Faith, have you forgotten?" Jason took off his hood and casually placed it next to the keyboard. "In the Altaïr movie, someone broke their leg."
"You said you weren't interested in Assassin's Creed," Dick said, unable to hold back. "Admit it, you've played my cartridges."
"That was just a necessary operation to gather intelligence."
Tim woke up on the couch just in time to hear his two brothers "exchanging opinions." He rubbed his eyes as he overheard Dick and Jason arguing about everything from "Is playing Assassin's Creed a game or gathering intelligence?" to "Can Blüdhaven connect to the Gotham Revolution?" to "What? Bruce's already reached Legend?"
"Where the hell does he find the time to play games?" Jason was puzzled. "Did he just hack into it?"
"Impossible," said Dick.
"Why?"
"Because that wasn't Abstergo's system," Dick explained. "That was the Brotherhood hacking into Abstergo Entertainment and releasing content through their games. So… if Bruce wanted to give himself a Legend title, he actually had to hack into the Brotherhood."
"No wonder this game's connection is so terrible," Jason's thoughts wandered. But it wasn't his fault. Games that supported online play typically reached players worldwide, but Assassin's Creed's connection was so poor it felt like someone was barbecuing in the computer room every day.
But if it was the Brotherhood's server, then it would be fine. They might have to flee with the server soon, Jason reasoned, so it was normal for the network to be poor.
Tim interjected, "Then why didn't he do that?"
"Because it would be humiliating. Batman hacking into the Brotherhood's intranet just to get the title of Legend, the thought of it makes me laugh out loud." Jason spun his swivel chair around in front of the Batcomputer and turned to look at him. "Are you awake, Red?"
"Is Tibble here too?" Dick asked.
"Hey everyone," Tim said, throwing the blankets off him, "So when did I fall asleep?"
"When I came here," Jason said without blushing, "I saw you slumped over at the table, so I kindly moved you to the sofa. You should really thank me. Look at the dark circles under your eyes."
"Did you leave something out, Red?" Tim rubbed the back of his neck and hissed. He asked suspiciously, "Like 'kindly' knocking me out?"
"I don't."
"I'm going to check the surveillance."
"No, you can't."
"Why not?"
Batman finally coughed, interrupting the two children's meaningless bickering.
"B, you're still listening?" Dick asked in surprise.
"I've been listening the entire time," Batman pointed out. "This channel isn't for you guys, Robins."
“I’m not Robin,” Jason muttered loudly, “I quit a long time ago!”
"Me too, unfortunately," Dick agreed briskly.
Tim agreed guiltily, "Red Robin doesn't count as Robin."
"That's why you all fell at my hands," the current Robin, Damian, snorted childishly over the call channel. "Your attention spans are too easily distracted! Now only father and I remember the original topic. The assassin."
Tim said, “I think one part is still up for debate.”
"I wouldn't mind proving just how much of a loser you are one more time, Derek."
"That fugitive and suspected assassin," Batman had to interrupt them again, "Elliot Smith, we should keep an eye on him. Do you think he's come to Gotham, Nightwing?"
"Yes. I managed to search the entire river, and luckily, I didn't find his body."
Although he unfortunately found some human bodies, some stolen goods, and a lot of garbage.
Nightwing, still dripping with water, sneezed on a rooftop and couldn't help but envy the game mechanics that allowed assassins to dry themselves off once they reached land.
"I have no evidence, but this is the most likely speculation." Nightwing looked at Gotham across the river. "Also, his file shows that he is from Gotham."
And his hometown, Gotham, never rejects any child who longs to return to her arms, no matter if they are criminals, mental patients, or outright lunatics.
There were also people who returned with upright and glorious identities, but almost all of them were swallowed up by the dark swamp of this city, and their ideals and ambitions that once shone like stars were also ruthlessly obscured by the fog of the night.
There was only one exception. Only one person struggled hard every night, illuminating the darkness with the bat totem.
That is why, when the people of Gotham look up at the night sky, they see hope.
Of course, some people also saw fear.
·
"The previous bartender broke his bones," the bar owner said, taking a drag on his cigarette. "He's still lying at home, gasping for breath like a stray dog with a kick in the ribs. Graham recommended you to fill his shoes, kid. I hope you don't follow in his footsteps so quickly."
"By whom?"
"What by whom?"
"The last bartender. Who beat him up?"
The bar owner blew out a smoke ring impatiently and rolled his eyes upwards, revealing large patches of yellowed whites.
"Who else could it be?" He gave the newcomer a vague look, "Of course it's the bat flying in the sky!" But his voice was lowered vigilantly, as if he was afraid of something.
"I thought it would be a gang from the neighborhood," the newcomer explained calmly.
The bar owner stared at him for a moment, then chuckled as if he'd heard something funny. The bartender, passing by with a case of soft drinks, also laughed out loud. "If they smash our guys, who's going to make them drinks?"
The newcomer showed an expression of sudden realization at the right moment, "So..."
"Be smart and keep your mouth shut," the bar owner tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. "They won't touch you. Now, if you don't have any more silly questions—and you better not—get your ass over there! Can't you see everyone's busy?"
The newbie rolled away without a word of objection. The boss watched him walk to the counter and begin mixing drinks with the experienced bartender, Tom. Seeing his movements improve from awkward to proficient, without mixing up the steps or the recipe, the boss finally felt satisfied.
It seemed Graham hadn't lied to him. The bar owner relaxed his portly frame and sank comfortably into his chair, thinking, "This guy has done similar work before." This eased his displeasure at hiring such a dull employee, but only slightly, because he'd rather have someone who could speak well. It wasn't that he liked to hear sweet talk, but rather that the patrons who frequented the bar did.
And they all have bad tempers.
The author has something to say:
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Hiding one's identity as a bartender is the first step to becoming an assassin (not
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