DCU: Split

Nolan stepped down from the plane and paused at the bottom of the stairs, drawing a slow breath through his nose. The air in Star City felt different from Gotham’s. It was warmer, cleaner, carrying the faint scent of rain and the ocean instead of Gotham’s familiar mixture of exhaust, concrete, and damp stone. After the constant travel of the previous few days, the simple sensation of standing on solid ground felt almost restorative.

"The weather is perfect," Nolan said, shrugging out of his long coat.

"I couldn’t agree more, sir."

Brock stepped forward and took the coat from him. He was a large man, considerably taller than Nolan and broad enough through the shoulders to make most doorways look slightly too small. Brock claimed the size came from a lifetime of eating oats, a fact Nolan had never bothered to question because he had no desire to discover how much truth there was behind it.

As they crossed the tarmac toward the waiting vehicles, Nolan glanced sideways at him.

"Say, don’t you have family around here, Brock?"

The big man hesitated.

"Yeah." His expression tightened. "My ma lives in Star City."

There was something in the way he said it that caught Nolan’s attention. His eyes had dropped toward the pavement, and whatever humor had been there moments earlier had disappeared.

Nolan slowed slightly.

"When’s the last time you spoke to her?"

Brock didn’t answer immediately. He opened the rear door of the SUV for Nolan, then waited until his employer had climbed inside before walking around to the opposite side. Only after he had settled into the seat and buckled himself in did he finally answer.

"Years."

The word carried more weight than it should have.

Nolan looked at him for a moment before reaching over and giving his shoulder a gentle pat. He understood that kind of distance better than he wanted to admit. People convinced themselves that there would always be another opportunity to make the call, apologize, or walk through a familiar door. Eventually, enough time passed that contacting someone became more frightening than remaining silent.

"Well," Nolan said quietly, "it’s never too late to reconnect, Brock."

Brock looked at him.

Nolan reached beneath the small bar built into the partition and retrieved a bottle of vodka. He poured two shots, handing one across the seat.

"Besides," he added with a faint smile, "if she throws something at you, you’ll at least have had a drink first."

Brock laughed under his breath.

"Thanks, boss."

They touched glasses.

"To mothers," Nolan said.

"To mothers."

He wished he knew his. Did he even have one?

The glasses clicked together before they drank.

For a few moments afterward, neither man said anything. The SUV pulled away from the airport, merging into Star City’s morning traffic as Nolan watched the city pass through the tinted windows.

He wondered how many people had spent years telling themselves they still had time.

****

Quentin found Dre in one of the Continental’s private rooms.

He took one look at him and immediately laughed.

"Well, you look like shit."

Dre glared at him from beneath a swollen eye. His face was bruised and discolored, several cuts still visible along his cheek and forehead. His ribs were wrapped tightly beneath his shirt, and one arm rested in a sling. Even sitting still, he looked uncomfortable.

"Thanks, boss," Dre muttered. "I got his ass, though."

Quentin’s laughter immediately returned.

"Yes, you did."

He crossed the room and clapped Dre on the good shoulder.

"I’m proud of you. I never doubted that you’d get Brickwell eventually, although I was beginning to wonder how much of Star City you planned on destroying before you managed it."

Dre chuckled before wincing.

"Careful."

"Right. Sorry."

Brock entered behind Quentin carrying a bottle of vodka and several glasses. He poured one and handed it to Dre before passing him a cigar.

Dre accepted both with a grateful nod.

Quentin took the seat opposite him.

"Now," he said, settling back comfortably, "tell me what you learned."

Dre lit the cigar and took a slow drag, allowing the smoke to linger before exhaling.

"Brickwell was a sneaky bastard. He knew we had him beat when it came to strength and resources, so he refused to fight us straight. He used hit-and-run tactics, kept his people mobile, and relied heavily on the police to make sure we couldn’t hit him twice in the same place."

Quentin raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

The question was deliberately innocent.

Dre gave him a knowing look.

"You already know."

"I like hearing it from you."

Dre shook his head and took his shot.

"He had someone inside the police. Every time we started getting close to one of his locations, the police would suddenly show up. Sometimes they were there before we even arrived. Brickwell could call them whenever he wanted, and that made it impossible for us to take our time. We couldn’t sit outside one of his places for hours waiting for him to make a mistake."

Quentin nodded thoughtfully.

"So how did you work around it?"

Dre leaned back, taking another pull from his cigar.

"After the mayoral office went bad, I knew Brickwell would disappear. He’d lost too many men, and he knew we’d be looking for him while he recovered. So I used something he couldn’t control."

Quentin waited.

"Our reputation."

Dre smiled faintly.

"We were still new to Star City. Nobody knew exactly how far the Underpass reached, which meant I could have people approach Brickwell pretending they’d been burned by us. I had a few people take bribes, switch sides, and feed his organization information."

Quentin’s eyes brightened.

"Spies."

"Exactly. Brickwell thought he was getting people from our organization who were willing to sell us out."

Dre took another drag.

"Eventually, one of my spies told him where I was going to be. I made sure the information sounded valuable enough that he wouldn’t ignore it."

Quentin smiled.

"And you knew he’d come personally."

Dre grinned.

"Because that’s what I’d do."

He pointed the cigar toward Quentin.

"And that’s what you’d do."

Quentin laughed quietly.

"Good answer."

Dre’s expression became more serious.

"But I learned something from it."

Quentin leaned forward.

"Go on."

"You can’t expect people to follow you and trust your judgment if you’re not willing to stand beside them when things get dangerous. Especially after you’ve already taken a hit."

Quentin’s brow rose.

"Explain."

Dre shifted in his chair, thinking through the words before speaking.

"We failed at the mayoral office, but Brickwell still took a major loss. A lot of his people died that night. He was wounded, too. If he’d sent another group after us while staying somewhere safe, his own men would’ve started wondering why they were the ones taking the risks while he hid somewhere comfortable."

He tapped ash from his cigar.

"Brickwell was smart enough to understand that. He knew resentment would spread if he kept sending people to die while he stayed behind. So when the opportunity came to hit me, he had to show up personally. And because he didn’t believe there was any real chance of losing, bringing his full force didn’t seem like a risk."

Quentin nodded slowly.

"So he had to be there."

"Yeah."

"And that’s why he died."

Dre nodded.

"That’s why he died."

Quentin leaned back, considering the answer. He had already known most of the details, but hearing Dre explain the reasoning behind them was something else entirely. The man sitting across from him wasn’t simply recounting a victory. He was dissecting it, identifying the decisions that had made it possible and, more importantly, understanding the decisions Brickwell had made himself.

That was growth.

Quentin stood and walked around the table. He placed a hand on Dre’s good shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze.

"You’ve grown."

Dre looked up.

"As a fighter, you’ve always been useful. But that’s not what I’m talking about. You’re starting to think like a leader."

Dre’s expression softened.

"You’re learning to anticipate what your enemy is thinking instead of simply reacting to what they do. More importantly, you’re beginning to understand your own people. That’s the part that matters."

Dre smiled.

It wasn’t the guarded grin he’d been wearing throughout their conversation. This one was genuine, almost boyish despite the bruises covering his face.

Quentin gave his shoulder another pat.

"Take it easy for a while. The list of managers can wait until tomorrow. You’ve earned a day to recover."

Dre nodded.

"Thank you, boss."

Quentin smiled.

"Get some rest, Dre. You look like you’ve been hit by a fucking truck."

Dre laughed, then immediately regretted it as pain shot through his ribs, "Probably feels like it, too. That fucking cannon you call a gun did most of the damage!"

Quentin chuckled as he walked toward the door. Behind him, Dre settled back into the chair, the cigar burning between his fingers.

For the first time since Brickwell had begun hunting him, the weight in his chest was gone.

He hadn’t failed.

He had learned, he had grown and his boss was proud.