Chapter 14: Ch.13 Gotham’s Most Dedicated Reporter

Chapter 14: Ch.13 Gotham's Most Dedicated Reporter

Emerging from the basement, Su Ming replenished some ammo from the black-clad assailants, knowing that not every situation could be solved with just a blade and a staff.

He made his way back to the police station's main hall, where Cindy was waiting for him.

She seemed to be staring blankly at the dark sky outside, letting the rain pour down on her, with the water gradually seeping into the building.

"Thinking about the end of the world?"

Su Ming walked up to her side, also looking outside. The sky was filled with dark clouds, and the only visible light was the bat-shaped signal in the sky.

Cindy was probably looking at the same thing since the reflection of the bat signal was visible in her monocular eyepiece.

"Yeah. Why do you think our world is like this?"

"I don't know. I don't want to die, but at the same time, I don't feel fear. I'm calm."

Cindy shook her head and then nodded as if lost in her thoughts. She walked to the edge of the roof and extended her hand, catching rainwater. The water quickly slipped through her fingers.

"After being modified by the military, we lost our fear and our respect for life. Weapons are meant to be that way."

Su Ming, though not a modified soldier, knew enough from the comics to understand the situation.

Deathstroke's issue lay in his enhanced brain, capable of processing thoughts at nine times the speed of a normal person. His rational mind overshadowed all else, making fear a non-factor—not a disease or side effect.

"Yeah, but we're not perfect weapons because the military left us with emotions."

"Ha, you're right. That's why they lost us."

Cindy's laughter was directed at both the military and herself. Even though she had left the army, some things had changed forever.

She had grown accustomed to being treated like a weapon, and she treated herself as one too.

At that moment, Barbara wheeled herself out from the basement corridor. She was stuck at the stairs, unsure of how to get up. Seeing the two of them there, she hesitated to speak.

Cindy casually lifted both Barbara and her wheelchair with ease, setting them on the landing.

Barbara, wrapped in her raincoat, clutched her laptop close. She was nervous and uncertain, worried about Commissioner Gordon's fate, and still unclear about what Deathstroke's real goals were.

But for now, the atmosphere seemed peaceful, as long as she didn't look at the blood and carnage around her. So she shut her eyes tightly.

Su Ming had assumed finding a car would be an easy task. However, when they reached the parking lot, they found not only the black vans driven by the assailants but also the police cars originally parked there had all been blown up. All that was left were scorched metal frames and charred wreckage, the rain putting out any lingering smoke.

These black-suited individuals had no backup, and the vehicles weren't rigged with remote explosives. The only explanation was that Cindy had blown them up.

When Su Ming looked over at her, Cindy shrugged, confirming it had indeed been her. With no specialized equipment to locate the signal jammer, she had taken a guess that it was in one of the vans.

At that time, she hadn't thought about bringing Barbara along. Wherever she and Su Ming went, they could just use their monowheels. So she blew up the vans' fuel tanks, triggering an explosion that also set off the police cars nearby, resulting in the current mess.

And, as it turned out, the signal had indeed been restored.

Su Ming walked over to a police car that looked relatively intact, but as soon as he touched the door handle, all four tires blew out, and thick smoke started rising from the hood.

"There's not a single working car here. Does the police station have another garage?"

He washed the soot off his hands with the rain and asked Barbara, who, in the storm, had to shout back with all her might:

"The underground garage! But you'll need to blow open the door!"

Just as Su Ming was about to search for the underground garage entrance, something unexpected happened. A rather "shiny" van sped down the street, screeching to a halt in front of the police station with a dramatic drift.

The van was mostly white, but it had clearly been driving through the rain for some distance, as mud and water splattered across its surface like a messy painting. There was a dish-like radar on the roof.

Peter thought about it. She had a point. If they got the scoop, the whole stealing-a-van thing would be written off as the passion of dedicated reporters. No harm, no foul—there might even be a bonus!

They exchanged a grin, like two foxes heading toward the henhouse, filled with anticipation for the rewards to come.

When the van pulled up in front of the police station, it was clear from the wrecked cars and scattered bodies that Vika's $200 tip had been worth it.

If this wasn't big news, what was?

Vika and Peter quickly threw on their rain gear, protecting the camera and microphone from the downpour. The rain was so heavy that Vika had to shout to be heard over the noise.

The reporter adjusted her makeup one more time, fixing her hair into a cute fringe under her raincoat. She glanced at Peter, who gave her a thumbs-up, indicating that the camera and mic were working fine.

She hopped out of the van, with Peter close behind, carefully picking an angle for the shot. She chose a wrecked police car frame as the background, with the station's blown-out doors and bodies scattered around.

Vika signaled Peter to start rolling. As soon as she saw the familiar red light on the camera, she put on her most poised and intellectual expression.

"Good evening, viewers. This is your trusted reporter, Vika Vale, coming to you live from outside Gotham City's police station. As you can see, a tragedy has unfolded behind me."

Peter, knowing her style well, immediately zoomed in on the wreckage and corpses behind her for a long, dramatic shot.

"We don't yet know what exactly transpired inside the station, but stay with us as we investigate further. And remember, you heard it first from Vika Vale's exclusive report."

She playfully pointed at the camera, flashing a cute smile like she was sharing a private joke with her audience. It was this style that made her popular with the city's viewers.

Leading Peter into the station, she continued emoting for the camera.

"Oh my God, this place looks like hell on earth!" She gasped in horror, like a little girl who had just discovered a monster under her bed.

"Who are these black-clad assailants?" She furrowed her brow in confusion, playing the part of a detective trying to solve the mystery.

"These brave officers fought until their last breath. May they rest in peace, and may their families know they have my deepest condolences." She bowed solemnly toward the bodies on the floor, her sadness even more professional than a city council spokesperson's.

In short, Vika was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance, showing off her ability to act through every emotion—something that made her stand out in the news world.

As they entered the main hall of the station, the scene became even more gruesome. Outside, the rain had at least washed away some of the blood. But here, it was a full-on massacre.

Civilians and officers lay strewn across the floor, making the place look like a slaughterhouse.

"Oh my God, viewers, Vika is truly terrified right now. I don't know if the killers have left, but as a journalist, I must uncover the truth! Stay tuned for more of my reports. I'm Vika Vale."

She struck the perfect balance of fear and determination, embodying the image of a journalist driven by a higher calling to uncover the truth, even at personal risk.

But in reality, she didn't feel any danger. This was clearly the aftermath of a firefight between gangs and the police. They weren't deranged serial killers; they wouldn't hang around the crime scene.

She was just here to get some attention, boost her popularity, and eventually, if things went well, leave Gotham and start fresh in Metropolis.

Just then, Vika noticed Peter's expression had changed. He looked genuinely terrified, like he was mimicking her fear, but it didn't suit his large frame.

"Cut, cut, cut!" Vika lowered her mic, annoyed. "I know you want to be an anchor too, but honestly, your body type isn't right for the job. Not everyone can make it in this business."

Peter's mouth was agape, and now he really did look terrified.

"Oh, come on. What's with the wide-eyed stare? You're overacting."

Vika shook her head, amused by Peter's exaggerated performance. "Male anchors have it even tougher than us women, but since we're partners, I'll help you out. Watch my face. Slowly raise your eyebrows and open your mouth just a little."

Vika patiently demonstrated a slow-motion version of the expression. The news segment was pretty much done, and once they got back to the van to edit the footage, they could send it off to the station.

Then that smug producer in the studio would have nothing to say. Vika was feeling generous and decided she'd give Peter a few pointers. After all, in the world of television, connections mattered. If you couldn't even get along with your own partner, your future prospects were dim.

Peter seemed to take her correction to heart but didn't follow her advice. Instead, he kept his camera on his shoulder, wiped his eyes, and then covered his face as he began to scream.