"Mommy, mommy!"
In the dead of night, the boy's wails cut sharply through the stillness, echoing far across the ruins.
Suddenly, the wind carried a new sound. The boy, clutching his mother, abruptly choked back his sobs. He turned in terror. Emerging from the gloom were several men in green uniforms, rifles raised, masks obscuring their faces. Emblazoned on their arms was a bright green question mark.
The boy recognized them. Just days ago, these same men had engaged in a brutal firefight with a crew in black. His father had been caught in the crossfire, killed by a stray bullet.
Seeing the green-clad men sweeping toward the rubble, the boy's survival instinct kicked in. He realized how deadly his crying had been. Desperately, he clamped both hands over his mouth to muffle his panicked whimpers, tears of pure terror cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face.
But the heavy crunch of boots grew louder, closer. Panicking, the boy remembered the narrow gap in the debris behind him. He turned and threw his meager weight against his mother, trying frantically to push her into the shadows.
"Boss, do we really need to be this thorough? Sounded like just a kid," a voice drifted over.
"'Just a kid'?" a second, harsher voice replied. "You forgetting the Riddler's orders? Patrol, capture soldiers, take hostages. Women and children are prime targets. We force the fathers, and use the families to guarantee their loyalty."
"What if we already shot the father?"
"Then they're still hostages. Quit whining and search. We don't meet our quota, we don't get paid."
In this war-torn zone, the lines between lunatics blurred. While the Joker's thugs killed without a bottom line, the Riddler's men preferred taking captives—not out of mercy, but because the living were useful.
The voices were right on top of them. The boy trembled violently, still shoving uselessly at his mother's limp form. He wasn't strong enough. It was too late.
"Hey, why did the crying stop?"
"Passed out from fear, maybe? Whatever. Sound came from these ruins."
Heavy boots stepped into the wreckage. The boy squeezed his eyes shut.
A soldier named Greg waded into the rubble, his rifle trained forward. He scanned the collapsed walls and shattered concrete, seeing only a few scattered corpses and smashed furniture.
"Greg, find anything?" another soldier called out, stepping up behind him.
"Nothing," Greg shook his head. "Just some bodies."
"Put a few rounds in them anyway. Then we'll check the other side."
"Sure."
Bang! Bang!
On the ground nearby, a different woman's body jerked violently as the bullets struck, letting out a final, breathless shudder before going entirely still.
"Damn, one of them was still breathing," the second soldier muttered. "Should've aimed for the legs. Could've used her." Dark, fresh blood began to pool, weaving through the cracks in the shattered concrete.
"Stop wasting time. Find where that kid went."
The boots crunched away, fading into the distance.
Down in the suffocating darkness of a narrow crevice beneath the rubble, half of the boy's face was pressed against the stone, slick with fresh blood. If a large, calloused hand hadn't been clamped securely over his mouth, he would have screamed the moment the shots rang out.
Slowly, Chuck shifted in the darkness. He had barely managed to drag the unconscious mother and the sobbing boy into the crevice just as the patrol arrived. He adjusted his kite-glider backpack—thankfully, the collapsed rig was compact enough to fit in the gap, otherwise they would have been caught instantly.
Removing his hand, Chuck pressed a finger to his lips, giving the boy a desperate, pleading look. He eased himself up to peer over the jagged concrete.
Clear. It seemed no one was left. It was a miracle he had landed on the far side of the ruins with enough time to pull them into hiding.
"I'm getting you two out of here," Chuck whispered, crouching back down. "But you have to stay absolutely silent. As long as they don't circle back—"
"Ha! Knew we missed a few rats!"
Chuck's blood ran cold. He froze.
Turning slowly, he found himself staring down the barrels of two assault rifles. The second soldier smirked. "What'd I tell you, Greg? Always check the rat holes."
Greg looked a little less enthusiastic, shifting uncomfortably, but his weapon remained completely steady.
Chuck threw his hands up. "Hey, hey, wait! Listen, I've got fifty thousand dollars. Let us walk, and it's yours. We won't say a word—"
"Shut up," the smirking soldier snapped. "Fifty grand buys your life, maybe. Not theirs. Hand over the kid, drop the cash, and walk away."
Chuck hesitated. He glanced back at the boy. Small, trembling, covered in a mix of dust, tears, and blood. His wide eyes held nothing but absolute, helpless terror.
An image flashed in Chuck's mind. Little Charlie, lying in his hospital bed.
"No, wait—how about this?" Chuck stammered, his mind racing. "Fifty thousand for their lives, and you take me. I'm useful! The Riddler can use a guy like me, I've worked for the Joker before—"
Bang!
Concrete splintered as a bullet grazed Chuck's boot. He flinched violently.
"I wasn't asking," the soldier sneered, entirely uninterested in negotiations. "Give me the kid and the woman, drop the cash, or die right here."
Chuck trembled.. These men were looking him in the eye, fully intending to leave him bleeding in the dirt. And worse, he was completely broke; the money was a bluff, every last cent he had already went into building the kite suit.
His vision blurred slightly, fear warring with something deeper. He didn't think about his next move. His body just reacted.
He stepped sideways, deliberately blocking the boy from their line of sight.
"No," Chuck said, his voice dropping the frantic pitch. "I'm not giving him to you."
The soldier scoffed, raising his rifle squarely at Chuck's chest. "Oh, look at this. We got a hero." His finger tightened on the trigger. "Too bad heroes always end up the same way."
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