Chapter 25: The Consultant's Price
The return was less of a journey and more of an emergency birth.
The pull of Zatanna's conceptual anchor was absolute. One moment they were in the crumbling marble citadel, the air filled with Klarion's screams and the roar of dying logic, and the next, reality reasserted itself with the force of a slap.
CRASH!
They landed in a heap of limbs and confusion on the dusty Persian rug of the House of Mystery library. The silence, compared to the chaos of the Dreaming, was so heavy and absolute it was deafening. The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, which had returned to its normal orange color, as if nothing had happened.
John Constantine was the first to react. He rolled out of the pile, his face a sickly green color, and vomited violently onto the thousand-year-old carpet. But it wasn't the nightmare soup from before. It was bile, cheap beer, and pure, earthly fear.
"Dirt!" he croaked, kissing the dusty floor. "Blessed, filthy, fucking dirt! I'll never complain about you again, I swear!"
Zatanna disentangled herself from the pile, trembling from head to toe. It wasn't from the cold. It was the hangover from psychic adrenaline, the sensation of having had her mind stretched to the breaking point and then snapped back. She hugged herself, trying to stop shaking.
Jason Blood crawled away from the group, his face pale and gaunt, looking to have aged a decade in the last hour. He leaned against a bookshelf, breathing hard, his hand on his chest. He could feel Etrigan inside him, but the demon was... silent. Curled in the darkest corner of his soul, refusing to come out, terrified.
Batman was the last to move. He landed on his knees, not out of weakness, but out of control. He was motionless for a second, his suit rebooting with a soft click of joints. His white lenses blinked as his systems came back online, purging the impossible data he had tried to record. He was recalculating. Re-evaluating.
And then, a pair of wooden sandals landed softly on the floor beside him, as quietly as a falling leaf.
Urahara Kisuke straightened up. He was standing in the middle of the chaos, without a single hair out of place. He brushed invisible lint from the shoulder of his haori and adjusted his hat. He wasn't panting. He wasn't shaking. If anything, he looked... invigorated, as if he had just stepped out of a relaxing hot spring.
He looked at the sprawled team, Earth's mystical and tactical elite, reduced to a trembling mess. A lazy smile drew across his face.
"Bit of a rough landing," he said cheerfully. "My apologies. The re-entry service on this airline leaves much to be desired."
No one laughed.
In that moment, the fear they felt in the Dreaming was replaced by a completely new kind of dread, one much more real and tangible. The look the team directed at Urahara was no longer one of skepticism or confusion. It was of pure, absolute terror.
Constantine, wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, looked at him. 'He's not a mage,' he thought, his mind screaming. 'He's not a sorcerer. He's not a player. He's the fucking game board. He used a Lord of Chaos. He used him like an attack dog on a leash. He used him to fight a conceptual god and WON. And he didn't even sweat. And he enjoyed it. Oh, fuck. He enjoyed every second.' The man who prided himself on being the greatest con artist across all planes of existence realized he had just seen a master of a level he didn't even know existed.
Zatanna looked at him, her fear mixed with an admiration that made her feel dirty. 'He saved us. He... saved us all. When my magic failed, when Batman's logic failed... he spoke. He spoke and dismantled the Censor. He used logic to defeat logic. And then he used Chaos to defeat Order. What is he? Whose side is he on?' She realized he wasn't on any side. He was his own side. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Jason Blood felt Etrigan's terror. The demon whispered to him, not with arrogant rhymes, but with raw fear. 'Silence, mortal! Silence! Do not look at him! That... that is not one of us! That... smells of the nothingness that came before! It smells of the laughter in the void! SILENCE!' The demon's fear was the worst confirmation. Urahara wasn't on their power scale. He was beyond it.
And Batman recalculated. All his previous assessments, erased. He had classified Urahara as an Omega Level threat/asset, in the same category as Superman or Darkseid. He was wrong. It was an entirely new category. 'Threat: Unknown. Level: Alpha. Priority: One.' This man didn't just have power; he understood systems in a way not even Batman could comprehend. He was a conceptual level manipulator. And right now, he was loose on his planet.
The tension was so thick it was almost physical. The spoils of war, the unconscious Felix Faust, lay forgotten on the floor.
And then, the other spoils of war made itself known.
From the sleeve of Urahara's kimono, where he had kept it, the silk handkerchief slipped. The Dreamstone, Morpheus's Stone, fell to the floor. It made no sound as it landed on the thick carpet.
But it didn't stay still.
As if it had a will of its own, as if drawn by the greatest concentration of will and trauma in the room, the pulsating ruby rolled languidly across the rug. It passed Zatanna's foot. It avoided Jason's hand. And it stopped, with almost mocking precision, right at the tip of Batman's armored boot.
The "bomb" was in the room.
All eyes fixed on it. The gem that had brought the world to the brink of apocalypse, now free, masterless. It glowed with an ominous purple light, whispering promises into their minds.
'Fix it...' thought Constantine, his eyes widening with a new and terrible greed. 'I could... I could fix everything. Astra. Newcastle. I could rewrite that night...' He began to crawl across the floor toward the gem. "The... the ruby... we have to... we have to secure it..."
"DON'T TOUCH IT, JOHN!" screamed Zatanna, her voice hoarse with panic. "No one must touch it! The power... is corrupt! It's free!"
Batman didn't listen. Or if he did, he didn't care. His logic was simple: secure the artifact. Contain the threat.
He crouched down. His Kevlar-gloved hand, designed to stop knives and bullets, reached out to "secure" the artifact. It was his duty.
The instant his fingers were an inch from the gem's smooth surface, the Ruby pulsed.
Just once. A bright purple light.
And Batman's mind flooded.
Alley. Rain. Cold. The smell of gunpowder and perfume. His parents in front of him. Their faces were masks of terror.
But the gun... the gun wasn't in Joe Chill's hand.
It was in his.
It was hot in his small eight-year-old hand. He could feel the weight of the metal. He could see the fear in his mother's eyes. And a voice, his own voice, his cold adult logic, whispered in his ear: 'It is logical. Attachment is a weakness. The source of pain must be eliminated. It is the only way. Pull the trigger, Bruce. End the story.'
He saw his own finger squeeze the trigger.
BANG!
"NO!" roared Batman, a raw, animal voice that wasn't his own.
He leaped back, stumbling backward as if burned by acid. He crashed hard against a bookshelf, books raining down around him. He was gasping, his heart pounding against his armored ribs. The Ruby, free of a master of Order, now fed on the Chaos of his own regrets, showing him not just his fear, but his worst and most illogical guilt.
Before Constantine could seize the opportunity, before Zatanna could recite a containment spell, Urahara stepped forward.
With the calm of a man picking up a cigarette butt from the floor, he bent down. He pulled a clean silk handkerchief from his sleeve—the other one, of course. With a fluid motion, he scooped up the Dreamstone, wrapped it carefully in the silk, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his kimono, next to his chest.
The purple light went out. The threat vanished.
Urahara turned to the shocked team. His smile was kind, almost compassionate.
"Dangerous toy, Batman-san," he said cheerfully. "It doesn't respond well to such... structured guilt. It's too noisy."
He looked at the group, his control over the situation now so absolute it was almost a mockery.
"I'll keep it for now."
The library of the House of Mystery had settled into a tense, expectant silence. The Dreamstone was now safe, wrapped in a silk handkerchief inside the sleeve of Urahara's kimono. Felix Faust lay unconscious on the floor, bound by the remnants of Zatanna's spell. Etrigan had reluctantly retreated into Jason's soul, leaving the mortal man pale and shaking, leaning against a bookshelf. Constantine, having caught his breath, was trying for the third time to light a cigarette with hands that still trembled.
Batman was the one who broke the silence. He had straightened up, a tower of dark armor, and every ounce of his being radiated impatience and mistrust. His white lenses were fixed on Urahara.
"The price."
The voice was a low growl, a demand. There was no gratitude in it. Only the conclusion of a transaction.
Urahara blinked, as if waking from a pleasant dream. "Ah, excuse me?"
"The price," repeated Batman. "You said if you survived, we'd have a talk. About my contingency plans. That was your price."
Constantine and Zatanna froze. Zatanna's eyes went wide. "Batman, no. You can't be serious."
"Fuck!" hissed Constantine. "I knew it! I knew it! He saves us from the fire just so he can rob the house! You're a bastard, shopkeeper! He doesn't want weapons, he wants blackmail!"
Urahara let out a giggle, a light, carefree sound. "Ah, that's right! I almost forgot. Excellent memory, Batman-san."
The shopkeeper approached Batman, his smile that of a scholar who has found a fascinating and rare text. "Indeed. That was the price I had in mind. I want access to those files. All of them. The plans to neutralize Superman. The countermeasure for Flash's ring. The protocol to blind Martian Manhunter. The strategy to break an Amazon's will. Everything."
He fanned himself, his gaze bright and curious. "As a researcher, I am fascinated. It is the most brilliant psychological study of this era. One man's paranoia that has cataloged the weaknesses of a pantheon of gods. It is... a work of art. And I want a copy for my library."
The silence that followed was absolute. Batman stared at him. The tension was so thick you could cut it. Urahara had saved the world. And now, he was asking for the key to destroy it.
Batman remained motionless for a beat. Two beats.
"No."
The word was as absolute as the darkness he embodied. It wasn't a growl. It wasn't a negotiation. It was a fact.
Constantine let out a choked laugh of disbelief. "Did you just... did you just say 'no' to the guy who saved us and has Hell on speed dial?"
"The world is safe," said Batman, his voice an icicle. "The Ruby is contained. My answer is no. Choose another price."
Urahara stood still. The lazy smile didn't disappear. Slowly, very slowly, it grew wider. His gray eyes lit up with a delight so deep it was almost terrifying.
'Oh, how wonderful!' he thought, a wave of intellectual ecstasy washing over him. 'He refuses! Even now! Even after seeing what I have done, even knowing the power I hold, his principles are so absolute he would rather risk my wrath than compromise his mission! What a gloriously inflexible character! This... this is even better than I planned!'
"You're right," said Urahara aloud, closing his fan with a snap. "How boring. The files are just... paper. Ink. Predictable. No, you are absolutely right, Detective. What a pedestrian request on my part."
He feigned thinking for a moment, tapping his chin with the closed fan. "No, no. You're right. The price must be something... more personal. Something that fits the nature of the favor. A mystical favor for an... unforgettable price."
He leaned forward, his smile now pure mischief. "I want something from you. Something you have tried so hard to hide. Something that, once given... you can never take back."
The temperature in the library seemed to drop even further. Batman's gaze hardened. Urahara's description sounded exactly like an infernal pact.
"Something," continued Urahara, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that I've heard it said... breaks the soul."
Constantine took a step back, eyes wide. 'Fuck. He's going to ask for his soul. Or his name. Or the memory of his parents. He is the devil. He is the fucking devil in a hat.'
Batman stared at him. He weighed the options. The man in front of him had just defeated a conceptual god using logic and a Lord of Chaos. Right now, Urahara held the Dreamstone in his pocket and the grudging gratitude of the entire mystical pantheon. Refusing to pay a debt was an act of dishonor that could have cosmic consequences.
And this new price... was humiliating. It was abstract. It was... personal. But it didn't compromise global security. It didn't endanger his friends. It only endangered him. And that was a price he was always willing to pay.
"I accept," said Batman, his voice a stone. "Where. When."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Urahara, clapping softly. "I knew you would see the logic of it! I'll be in touch."
A tense silence took over the library. The transaction was complete. A price had been agreed upon, one so absurd and so deeply humiliating that Constantine didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Batman, having given his word, had become a statue of contained fury. The air vibrated with the sheer awkwardness of the situation.
"Excellent!" Urahara clapped, breaking the silence as if he had just closed the sale of an expensive fan. His cheerful voice echoed in the dusty sanctuary. "I knew you would see the logic of it! A deal is a deal! I will contact your agent to schedule the date, Batman-san."
Batman didn't respond. The slight creak of his gloved fist was the only answer.
"And now," continued Urahara, becoming completely professional, "before we go off to celebrate, I think we have some... loose ends to tie up."
His gaze landed on the unconscious heap on the floor that had been Felix Faust. Then, on the Dreamstone, now resting safely and wrapped in silk inside his kimono. And finally, on Jason Blood, who was still pale and trembling, leaning against the fireplace.
"We can't leave this mess for the ghosts to clean up, can we?" said Kisuke cheerfully.
Batman moved first, his purpose returning. He walked over and, with ruthless efficiency, grabbed Felix Faust by the collar of his robe and hoisted him effortlessly onto his shoulder. "He comes with me. Arkham has a special cell for him."
"Sure, sure. Take him," said Urahara with a dismissive gesture. "Although, after what the Ruby did to his mind, I doubt he's more than a babbling vegetable. What a boring end to his story."
"And the Ruby?" asked Zatanna, her voice a cautious whisper. Her gaze was fixed on the bulge in Urahara's kimono. "Kisuke... that thing... belongs to no one. It's too powerful."
"Exactly!" he agreed. "It is too noisy for Batman-san, his orderly mind cannot handle it." Urahara cast a mocking glance at Constantine. "And it is too... tempting for Constantine-san, his chaotic mind would desire it too much."
'Bastard. He knows,' thought John, looking away, but the desire for the gem still burned in his gut.
"No," continued Urahara, his tone turning light, but with an edge of absolute steel. "I will keep it. I'll put it on a nice shelf, next to a dusty lucky cat and a strange alien rock that sings. Don't worry, it will be perfectly safe. I consider it part of my consulting fee."
No one argued. The idea of Batman or Constantine having that stone was almost as terrifying as Faust having it. Urahara, at least, seemed to treat it as a curiosity, not a weapon. He had taken total control. He had solved the crisis, acquired unforgettable blackmail material on Batman, and now possessed one of the most powerful artifacts in the universe.
"And you, Blood-san?" asked Urahara, turning to the last member of the group. Jason had stood up, but looked frail, mortal.
"I... I'm staying," said Jason, his voice a croak. "This is my... my prison. And his." He could feel Etrigan curled in his soul, the demon refusing to emerge, terrified by what he had just witnessed.
Urahara nodded. "A sensible arrangement. Well then, if everyone has used the restroom, I believe our visit is over."
He headed to the exact spot where they had entered, where the brick wall of the Gotham alley had dissolved.
"It has been an absolute pleasure doing business with you, Batman-san, Zatanna-chan," he said with a radiant smile. "And Constantine-san... always a pleasure to watch you suffer."
"Go to hell, shopkeeper," muttered John.
"Already visited! Too humid for my taste and the decor is a cliché!" replied Urahara cheerfully.
With a lazy wave of his hand, he tore reality.
The portal opened, not to Kyoto, but to the same dark, rain-soaked Gotham alley they had come from. The smell of trash, cold rain, and desperation flooded the dusty library, a jarring reminder of the real world.
"Exit this way," said Urahara, holding the "portal" open like a polite doorman.
Batman walked out first, carrying Faust, one shadow disappearing into another. Zatanna followed, shooting Urahara one last look of fear and fascination before vanishing into the rain.
Constantine was last. He stopped at the threshold, half in the library, half in the alley. He looked at Urahara, his face a mask of hatred and grudging respect.
"One day, shopkeeper," he hissed. "One day, I'll find a way to screw you over. I swear on my soul."
Urahara smiled at him, his sweetest and most charming smile. "Get in line, Constantine-san. It's long. And, by the way, that oath isn't worth much, is it? Considering who holds the mortgage on your soul these days. Regards to the First of the Fallen."
The blood drained from Constantine's face. Urahara knew. Of course he knew.
Without another word, John stumbled away and disappeared into the Gotham night.
Urahara Kisuke was left alone in the House of Mystery. He gave Jason Blood a final bow. "Thank you for the hospitality, Blood-san. Though the house is a bit... noisy."
Jason just looked at him with tired eyes.
Kisuke turned and walked through his own portal. The alley door vanished, and the cut in reality closed behind him with the sound of a page turning.
He landed back in his Kyoto shop. It was already night. The air smelled of cherry wood and tea. With a sigh of satisfaction, he took off his hat and hung it on a rack.
He walked to the highest, dustiest shelf, and placed the Dreamstone, still wrapped in silk, between a lucky cat missing a paw and a strange alien rock that sang softly when it rained.
'What a troublesome addition to the collection,' he thought.
He checked the time. It was still early.
'I wonder if Kara-san has had dinner yet.'
He headed to his control room. His gaze passed over the screen monitoring the global panic, which had now settled. His eyes landed on his true work: the research board on Tibet and the Cosmic Silence.
'But first,' he thought, as his hand strayed toward a special communicator. 'I have to make a call. I need to book a nightclub in Gotham.'
ONE WEEK LATER. GOTHAM CITY.
The Iceberg Lounge, the Penguin's former nightclub, was dark and silent. The place had been closed since Cobblepot had been sent to Arkham, and the air smelled of stale fish, spilled champagne, and dust. It was completely empty.
Well, almost.
The vast main room was dark, except for a single, pathetic stage light illuminating the circular stage with a circle of yellowish light.
In the rest of the room, sitting at round tables covered in white sheets, was the Justice League.
They weren't in costume. They were in civilian clothes, and they looked deeply, painfully confused. Superman (as Clark Kent) adjusted his glasses, looking around in bewilderment. Diana Prince (Wonder Woman) sat with regal grace, but with an expression of total bafflement. Flash (Barry Allen) wouldn't stop fidgeting in his chair. "Is anyone going to tell me what we're doing here? I had a date with Iris." J'onn J'onzz, in his human form, simply watched, sensing the wave of collective confusion.
They had all received an anonymous message on their League communicators, with the words "EMERGENCY. LEVEL ALPHA. ICEBERG LOUNGE. 8 P.M. CIVILIAN CLOTHES. DO NOT MISS." They had expected an Injustice League trap, a Darkseid attack, the end of the world.
They hadn't expected... this.
And at the table in the front row, right in the center, were Urahara Kisuke and Kara Zor-El.
Kara looked around, completely mortified. She wore a simple black dress. Urahara had appeared at her closet door in Metropolis an hour ago, dressed in an elegant black silk haori over his usual kimono. He told her to dress up, that he was going to collect his "payment" for saving the world, and that she was his "plus one." She had imagined a dinner at a fancy restaurant in Paris, or maybe a mystical gathering on another planet.
She hadn't expected... this.
"Kisuke, what are we doing here?" she whispered, wrinkling her nose. "This place smells like rotten fish. And why is the whole League here? Clark keeps texting me question marks. This is... weird."
"Patience, Kara-san," he replied, his gray eyes shining in the gloom. He was quietly drinking a cup of tea he had brought in a thermos. "The main act is about to begin. And believe me, you won't want to miss it."
He pulled a small device from his sleeve: a high-definition crystal recorder. He placed it carefully on the table, pointing at the stage. "For the archives," he murmured.
Suddenly, a groan of pure misery came from a dark corner near the stage. Kara started.
"I hate you both!" hissed John Constantine. He was sitting on a bar stool, face in his hands, looking like a man who had just been condemned to hell again. Beside him, Zatanna sat on a dusty grand piano bench, her face a mask of absolute humiliation. She wore a gown, as if about to give a performance.
"Zatanna? John? What are you doing here?" asked Kara, confused.
"We are... the fucking band," growled Constantine. "The bastard in the hat forced us to come! Said it was part of the 'atmosphere'!"
"Shut up and get ready, John!" hissed Zatanna. "Let's get this over with."
The stage light flickered. And in the center, a figure stepped out of the shadows.
The entire League fell silent.
It was Batman.
Complete.
With the suit. The cape. The cowl. The expression of a man who would rather be dissolved in a vat of Joker venom than be there.
An old-fashioned microphone on a stand was in front of him.
"No..." whispered Kara, eyes wide with disbelief, hysterical laughter beginning to bubble in her chest. "Kisuke... no. You didn't..."
"Silence, Kara-san," said Urahara, his voice full of an almost holy joy. "It's about to start."
Batman stood motionless, stiff as a board. His white, expressionless eyes stared directly at Urahara in the darkness. Urahara raised his tea cup in a silent toast.
Batman closed his eyes for a second. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the breath of a man heading to the gallows.
Zatanna, with a look of pure resignation, began to play a slow, mournful, and surprisingly beautiful blues melody on the piano. Constantine, with suicidal fury, began to bang a tambourine against his knee, completely out of time. Thump-chicka-thump-THUMP.
And then, Batman... the Dark Knight, the Avenger of Gotham, the Shadow... sang.
His voice wasn't a growl. It was a surprisingly smooth baritone, but it was filled with a pain so deep, so existential, so utterly humiliating, that it was almost comical.
"... Am I blue?..."
Batman's voice filled the empty fish club.
"... Ain't these tears... in my eyes... tellin' you?..."
Urahara was in ecstasy.
His smile was so wide it almost fell off his face. His shoulders shook with silent laughter. The crystal recorder glowed, its red "recording" light capturing every agonizing second.
'OH, THIS!' he thought, tears of laughter streaming down his own cheeks. 'THIS IS BETTER THAN THE DREAMSTONE! THIS IS BETTER THAN ANY XYLONIAN ARCHIVE! It is the most improbable and impossible story of all! The jewel of my collection! The Dark Knight, singing the blues to an audience of his confused peers while a drunk wizard plays the tambourine! WHAT A MASTERPIECE!'
Kara was jaw-dropped. She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or hide under the table from secondhand embarrassment. She was witnessing the impossible. She saw Clark Kent take off his glasses, clean them, put them back on, and then simply look at the floor, his body shaking in an attempt to suppress superspeed laughter. She saw Diana Prince watching with the same expression of fascinated horror she would have looking at a three-headed hydra.
She looked at Urahara, who was enjoying this more than he had enjoyed anything, and the sheer audacity, the sheer genius evil of it, hit her.
Uncontrollable laughter bubbled in her chest. Quickly, she pulled out her own communicator/phone (a gift from Urahara) and, without hesitation, hit the record button.
The song, which seemed to last an eternity, finally ended. Batman stood motionless, his last blues note echoing in the dust.
Absolute silence.
Urahara was the only one who applauded. Slowly, deliberately, and loudly.
"BRAVO!" he exclaimed, standing up. "BRAVO! What a performance! Touching! Full of pathos! A true work of art!"
He turned off his crystal recorder. "Right. The debt is paid. A pleasure doing business with you, Detective."
Batman didn't say a word. He didn't bow. He simply turned around and, with his cape billowing in air that wasn't moving, disappeared into the shadows at the back of the stage.
Constantine threw the tambourine to the floor with a clatter. "I hate you, Urahara! One day, I swear to God, I'll find a way to kill you!" He stumbled out a side exit, undoubtedly in search of the nearest bar.
Zatanna closed the piano lid with a thud. She looked at Urahara with a look that was half murder and half hysterical laughter fighting to get out. She shook her head and disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke and glitter.
Urahara and Kara were left alone in the empty lounge, with the rest of the Justice League still frozen in a state of collective shock.
"Well," said Kisuke cheerfully. "Hungry? I know a great ramen stand in Tokyo that's just a door away. The broth is divine."
Kara looked at him, her face still stunned, but the laughter she had been holding back finally exploded. She laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"You're... you're a monster, Kisuke," she gasped. "An absolute and terrible monster."
"I am a patron of the arts, Kara-san," he replied, offering her his arm with impeccable elegance. "A patron of the most elusive arts."
And together, they walked laughing out of the abandoned lounge, leaving behind only the smell of fish, a very confused Justice League, and the memory of a very, very dark blues.
- - - - - - - - -
Thanks for reading!
If you want to read advanced chapters and support me, I'd really appreciate it.
Mike.
Patreon / iLikeeMikee