Aharon nodded. "As many as died by my hand in the camps, when I failed to use my powers in their defense, when I stole their food to feed myself, when I ingratiated myself with the commandant so that he would choose someone else to be shot at random. We do what we must to survive, Joseph; in that, we are all alike. Do you imagine that your friend Dick has never pulled the trigger on someone when he had to? He may not have enjoyed it, he may have even despised it, but he did it all the same. You have done no worse than any of us, and at least you have the excuse of having no choice in the matter."
Taking a roll of gauze from the bedside table, he deftly removed the IV from Joseph's arm and bandaged the small puncture wound. Then he rose from his seat and walked to a nearby closet. Pulling Joseph's clothes from their hangers, he tossed them on the bed. "Get dressed. There's somewhere else you need to be."
Joseph looked down at the clothes, then up at Aharon. 'Where?'
Curiosity. Aharon smiled to himself; a good sign, indeed. "The sooner you get dressed, the sooner you'll see."
He led Joseph out of the infirmary and up to the attic. "Many Holocaust survivors wrote about their experiences, to preserve an eyewitness account for history and to warn future generations of the peril that lies in hatred," he said as they climbed the last of the stairs. He swung open the door to reveal a fully-stocked art studio. "You are an artist; you can do the same -- if for no other reason than to get the emotions out where you can deal with them. It will not be easy. It will not be pretty. But it is necessary."
Leaving Joseph in the studio, Aharon descended to the main floor to find Bruce waiting for him. "Your choice of therapy is certainly... unorthodox."
Aharon shrugged. "He is known the world over for his ability to draw emotion out of mere canvas. Perhaps it is time for people to see the emotions he lives with now. It could even help others, as the works of Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel have; time, as they say, will tell."
"And you? Will you also help others, or will you be content to watch?"
One silver-white eyebrow arched upward. "This, you call giving me time to think about it?"
"The war won't wait for you, Aharon. The Sentinels won't wait. In half a year, maybe less, they'll be ready to mobilize against the other nations. Canada has already allowed the European Union to build missile sites along the border. We will have exactly one chance to stop the Sentinels, and for that to be successful, we need you, and your power, at the heart of it."
It had been five years since Bruce Wayne had donned the mantle of Batman, but he had lost none of his analytical, organizational, or persuasive skills. He didn't have to blatantly mention past history, as others might have done. He knew exactly what Aharon's weaknesses were and used them subtly and surely.
And successfully.
"They know me, my friend," Aharon sighed. "How will you reconcile my escape with my return to the Containment Facility?"
Bruce's expression didn't waiver, as though Aharon's decision had never been in doubt. "Sentinels are just computers," he said, leading Aharon in the direction of the mansion's R & D wing. "They store a vast amount of information, and they can use that knowledge to adapt their behavior, but they can't truly think. As long as your disguise is innovative and complete, it could be the most ridiculous concept on the planet and still work perfectly." He unlocked a large mahogany door and stood aside so as not to impede Aharon's view.
"A wheelchair??" For a man who had lived as long as Aharon, and who had seen as many things, he had no ability to conceal his dismay. Perhaps if he had mastered his emotions more thoroughly, Magneto would not have been unsuccessful in his many bids to take over control of the Earth.
"In addition to being unanticipated, this ferrous-alloy wheelchair can be converted into a weapon at the proper time. Keep in mind that any disguise is effective if it's perfect. In order for this to be a perfect disguise, it will require training, so from now until the day we send you back to the Containment Facility, you need to practice being in that chair."
"Charles," he murmured, "you will always have the last laugh, will you not?" He sat in the chair and found it oddly comfortable. Not surprising, really, since Bruce would have had it designed specifically to fit his proportions. "A clever idea, to be sure, but you know as well as I that Sentinels use alpha-wave scans in addition to visual images to identify mutants. My mind will betray me the moment I come with scanning range."
Bruce picked up what appeared to be an ordinary inhibitor collar. "By the time we're ready to send you back, we'll have finished this cloaking device. It will mask your power levels as well as your alpha-waves with a more generic pattern."
"Bruce?"
Both men turned toward the door, where Dick Grayson stood. As the official Commander of the Gotham City Resistance Post, he answered to no one... technically. In reality, there was little that went on in Gotham, whether in the R.P. or outside of it, that Bruce did not control in some fashion or another. As long as Dick was given the space to do what he did best, he didn't seem to have a problem working with his former mentor in such close quarters.
Working with the former Magneto, however, was another matter. Neither Bruce nor Dick entirely trusted Aharon, though neither could deny his contributions to the Resistance. His past history simply couldn't be ignored, and while Aharon understood that, it still irritated him. No matter that he would have been equally suspicious were their roles reversed.
"I suppose now is as good a time as any to begin practicing," he said casually, rolling the wheelchair with surprising accuracy toward the door. Dick stepped aside to allow him to pass, watching silently as Aharon maneuvered the chair down the hall and around the corner. Once he was out of sight, Dick gently closed the heavy wooden door and turned back to Bruce.
"I thought that after Bane, you never wanted to set eyes on a wheelchair again."
"Not for myself," he conceded. "But wheelchairs are wonderful tools of humility, and that's one of many things Aharon has yet to learn." He set the collar back on the desk and sat down, motioning for Dick to do likewise. "How's the family?"
Dick smiled. "As usual, Mariand'r calls the shots. Other than her hair, I swear that kid is a perfect clone of Kory; if this next one turns out the same way, I'm going to suspect that Tamaraneans might be parthenogenic."
"And Rose?"
"Her girls are shy, but they seem to be doing fine. It helps that Gar is still so playful with them. I'm not sure that a Resistance Post is the best place for them to grow up, but since they may well be mutants, I can't deny that it's the safest place." Dick leaned forward slightly. "But I know you're really asking about Joe."
Bruce sighed. "He can't stay here, Dick. Everything we are, everything we do -- it's too much for him. He needs a place where he can relax and recuperate. Wayne Manor isn't it."
"Don't tell me you want to send him to Kenya, Bruce," Dick said, knowing full well that was exactly what his foster father was telling him.
"Is there something in his relationship with his father I should know about?"
Dick shrugged, for once at a loss for words. "Slade is just... Slade. He's not what I would picture as the patient, empathic sort one would want for a person trying to overcome the sort of trauma Joe's been through."
"Wintergreen mellowed him quite a bit over the years, son. He isn't the same Deathstroke the Terminator you remember from your Titans days."
"Wintergreen died last year," Dick reminded him unnecessarily, "and even though Slade is officially retired, that doesn't mean he's lightened up. Adeline described him as a 'cold, self-centered bastard', and while she had her biases, her assessment of him was dead-on. How much can a person like that change?"
"You might be surprised," Bruce replied, but didn't elaborate. "You never told her, did you?"
The 'her' was Rose, of course. "He'll recover," Dick bristled.
"Dick..."
"I'm not in denial, Bruce; I know it's a very small chance, given the length of his captivity. But why dash her hopes when there's a possibility they'll be fulfilled?"
"She'll stand in the way if she doesn't know," Bruce reasoned. "You know how stubborn she is. You'll need her backing if you want the transition to go smoothly."
Dick shook his head. "Considering her feelings about Slade, she may not back it, regardless."
Bruce nodded to himself. "Perhaps we should contemplate informing her of her father's substantial role in our operations."
"Speaking of which..." Dick proffered the piece of paper he'd been holding during their chat. "R & D sent us a message, via Russia this time. They estimate another three months maximum before they have working models."
Bruce scanned the message. "Kaia Kapp is a superb engineer." Knowing Bruce as he did, Dick recognized the intensity of that compliment. That Bruce had said anything at all was surprising; he was a man of few words when it came to discussing other people. If Dick ever met the former Hound, he would have to convey Bruce's praise to her; he could only hope she would be able to understand it.
Dick shifted in his seat. "This whole plan hinges on Aharon," he observed with obvious discomfort. "Do you really trust him that much?"
The former Batman's face was unreadable. "I have to, Dick. He's the only one with the power level we need to pull this off. The jammer will free all the mutants in the Containment Facility, but only the raw force of Magneto can destroy the Sentinels' main compound and that damned Nimrod machine. If we have to take Aharon out after that, we can."
Dick wasn't so certain, but that was an argument he didn't want to start again; at least, not tonight. "If they survive their mission, maybe the Rasputins can keep him under control."
"Kate has always been the voice of reason," he agreed. Dick grinned; ever since Kate Pryde-Rasputin had convinced her fellow former-X-Men to work undercover at the Containment Facility, Bruce had held her in high regard. Doing what you were told was certainly one way to get on Bruce's good side. Maybe even the best way.
Following that logic, he let the issue drop. If Bruce trusted Aharon enough to give the man the opportunity to take control of what would be left of the Sentinel computer system -- and, in effect, gain control of American government in the process -- he would just have to trust that Bruce knew what he was doing.
If unrest was brewing, there was no evidence of it. The months that passed were quiet, at least within the halls of Wayne Manor. Aharon perfected his use of the wheelchair, Rose taught Lily, Rita, and Mariand'r the basics of martial arts, Gar flew a couple of reconnaissance missions as a crow, and Koriand'r Grayson gave birth to a son she named for her late brother, Ryand'r.
Like an autistic child, Joseph had focused completely on his artwork, to the extent that he spent day and night in the studio, sleeping curled up in one corner whenever he got tired. After two years in a concrete cell, the wooden floor must have seemed like a luxury; so far, Rose had met with no success in getting him to sleep in a bed. The one time she had entered his bedroom late at night to check on him, she had found him sleeping on the rug at the foot of the bed. It made her cry to realize that her brother no longer saw himself as human, and avoided furniture like a well-trained pet.
Dick had advised her to let Joseph set the rate of his recovery, so she had long ago stopped trying to force him to come down to the dining room for meals and simply brought food up to the attic for him. He had gotten used to her visits, and no longer flinched when she walked into the room. That, at least, had raised her spirits, and allowed her to hope for a day when her brother would once again be the man she knew.
She knocked on the studio door to announce her presence, then entered. As she bent to pick up the dishes, she noticed that Joseph was not in the studio. Immediately, her eyes darted to the window, but it was still closed and locked, and she sighed in relief. Most likely he was taking a shower; that was one thing no one had needed to prod him to do. He had actually smiled the first time Rose had shown him the bathroom attached to his bedroom in Wayne Manor. Privacy was a foreign concept for Hounds.
This was a perfect opportunity for her to peruse the work he had done in the past few months. He had never told her she couldn't look around while he was there -- he wouldn't dare say such a thing to anyone, these days -- but she knew that her presence made him uncomfortable when she didn't have a specific reason for being in the studio, so she had never asked.
The first painting she saw had been titled "Life in the Kennels"; it was a still-life, which in itself spoke volumes. The bare concrete room that served as a setting housed a small, battered wooden table, its perspective deliberately warped to provide a better view of what lay on it. At first glance, the items seemed to be mere tools, but a closer look revealed them to be well-worn torture implements, casually displayed on the table as though their very existence was not an obscenity. Light from a barred window set high in the wall cast a prison-grid shadow over the scene, imparting an oppressive, claustrophobic feel to the painting.
The next one was no cheerier. "The Hunt" featured a soldier walking through the deserted rubble of an abandoned town, the leashes of half a dozen Hounds wound tightly in one hand, a loaded gun in the other. Instead of their usual studded black outfits, the Hounds wore striped Holocaust camp uniforms, their ID brands replaced by the various Nazi symbols used to categorize prisoners. One of the Hounds pointed to the quarry, and the soldier's gun was aimed in the same direction: straight at the viewer. You're next , the painting whispered ominously. Rose quickly moved on. End, Part Two