Epilogue
EPILOGUE:
Doctor Jonathan Cage checked his notes for a fourth
time. His eyes darted across the theoretical formulas,
danced over the conditional variants and sauntered round
the predictive conclusions. In essence, for the fourth
time, Doctor Cage absolutely saw nothing that was
written on the pages.
He was distracted. This was hardly surprising
considering the news from Miss Gordon that morning. The
culprit had been caught and was now in custody. But
there had been so many deaths. So many utterly pointless
deaths.
Gotham was hardly new to high death tolls, but this was
something beyond his comprehension. What was worse, he
had almost stopped it. He was almost sure he had beaten
the nanobots. Almost.
He flipped his clipboard onto the desk and leaned back
into his wooden chair. The grumpy old television set sat
in the corner of his office. It was muted and fixed on
one of the many sports channels he subscribed to. Sports
were his escape from the dark world he fought against.
On this occasion, even Sports 29 didn't interfere with
Channel Jonathan Cage reporting images of carnage and
destruction straight into his head on the hour every
hour. The same questions in his head going over and
over: Could he have known? Should he have known? Could
he have done it different? All were traditionally guilt
ridden and totally dominating over all other affairs.
Finally, after a sixth attempt to repeat the blasted
notes on the blasted clipboard, he changed the channel.
If his head wasn't going to let go from it's Gotham
fixation, he might as well indulge it and watch the news
reports.
The national media was typically horrified about the
"atrocities"; yet still found time to indulge in
senseless and gratuitous images of pain and suffering.
They had such painful pictures of the dead as well
intrusive interviews with the bereaved and the wounded.
Some of the homeless victims, in whom the nanobot
contagion had only been half successful, were found
alive with their bodies half eaten. John watched the
reporters with revulsion. Under the veneer of concern,
he knew, was a belly full of excitement and thrill at
such a "story". The "sickening" pictures were just
another item to glue viewers to the news channels in
fear. The only question was which channel scared people
the most? That of course, would be the most successful
and all the broadcasters John flicked between seemed to
be fighting for that.
No mention of little mad Alice, clearly there was a
press "gag" on the issue of the teenager's involvement.
Too sensitive, too soon. Barbara said she was now in
"police custody". Her father, Commissioner Jim Gordon,
was up to his neck with political strife over the whole
affair.
No word from the Justice League either. They were
somewhere else once again, deep in space or time or
whatever. Seemed they spent more time off planet than
on. What could they have done? Anything?
His phone buzzed. Dr Palmer would be late tonight. He
thanked his secretary and looked back at his notes. They
still weren't going in.
"Stare at them too long and you'll go blind."
John looked up, brushing his blond hair back.
There was no one in the office.
"Behold therefore the goodness and severity of God: on
them which fell, severity; but toward thee, goodness, if
thou continue in his goodness: otherwise thou also shalt
be cut off..."
John screamed. His hands instinctively lurched towards
his face. The flash of agony, the fear and confusion
meshed into a haze of crimson rush.
His vision blurred red. "My eye..." he stammered. He
looked down at his hands, his sight was a mess, but he
could see blood pouring down onto his notes, the table
and over his body.
"It offended. I plucked it out." The voice crackled
slightly with static.
John looked up. His vision’s focus was a mess. The TV.
Was there a face on the TV? He couldn't see clearly, but
he could make out what looked like a round, pale face.
It had eyes that bore deep into him, regardless of his
broken vision. They were eyes of a brilliant white,
punctured with just a tiny stab of black,
"Oh my god." John coughed. The tint of blood covered his
tongue and rolled over his teeth. “What’s happening to
me?” he cried with futility. The television buzzed with
contempt.
"You offend. I pluck thee out."
***
They found him a little later that night. Doctor Ray
Palmer, long time colleague and partner on the White
Dwarf project was the man who discovered the remains of
Doctor Jonathan Cage. His close friend smeared across
the back wall of their shared office.
He had stood in that room for a good twenty minutes
before calling the police, the static from the
television humming tunelessly behind him. Blood smeared
across the wall, cascading lines that connected and
dotted to make words.
DON'T MESS WITH ALICE.
END |
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