Behind the Mask

Epilogue

The streets were deserted. It was to be expected. The city was old, rusty, falling apart, crumbling into ruins. He didn’t mind; in fact, he preferred it that way. Of course he couldn’t stay there – too close to it all – but if he could’ve, he probably would’ve. He would’ve liked the rotting feel of it, off the beaten path, everyone else too caught up in their own deteriorating thoughts to pay anyone else any mind. He could see himself starting a life here, starting over, moving on. But Donovan got here first, polluting the city with memories and reminders that would slowly rip him to shreds the longer he stayed. Yes, he would’ve liked to stay, but he couldn’t, so he had to leave.

He’d dropped the boy off with Donovan, taking the money, the promises, and his new identity and leaving, not even allowing himself a backwards glance. Donovan had been vaguely upset at all the injuries the boy had accumulated – shattered knee, crushed and nearly dismembered hand/arm (so that might’ve been a little overkill), a few cracked ribs, and a particularly nasty cut on his face and eye which would probably result in blindness in at least one eye, if not both – but the boy was alive, so he expected the deal to be upheld. He’d even taken the liberty to remove all of the trackers on the boy; who cared if he was a little beaten up?

Donovan had agreed and upheld the deal, asking him, of course, to stay and continue in his service, but he’d declined. He got what he wanted. So he’d left, with a smirk and a laugh, promising he’d never be seen again. The boy had been already been taken away; the procedure was to start soon and he had to be prepped.

Once he’d made it back out into the world, he’d set out on a course due west and kept walking.

Now he sighed, removing the red facemask from his face and running a hand through his black hair, lingering momentarily on the white stripe over his forehead. He had a new life, a fresh start. Everything else was behind him, only a distant memory, like an ill-fated dream, lingering in the back of the consciousness. Passing a rusty dumpster, he dropped the mask inside, listening as it clattered to the bottom, a dull ring of metal striking metal echoing across the street. But no one heard, and if they did, they didn’t care. No one cared about him anymore. Batman, no doubt, cared about the mask – at least, what the man in the mask had done – but that mask was gone. And no one care about the man behind the mask.