Multiverse: Deathstroke

Chapter 196: Ch.195 Gunslinger

At this moment, from a window on the fourth floor, an old man was peering outside, trying his best to lift himself from his bed to catch a glimpse of the Brooklyn antique shop.

But this building was no Empire State Building. Its four floors were not high enough to give him a view of something several blocks away.

This place was a care home, and the hallways were filled with the stench of urine and decay, where many abandoned elderly people were sent for professional care, or simply to wait for death.

"When I get old, I asked them to send me back here," the old man leaned against his bed, speaking to the doctor beside him. His hair and teeth were long gone, his loose skin covered in liver spots, but his eyes remained bright. "Not in Texas, not in Boston. Cough... cough..."

The doctor and nurses rushed over, helping to steady his body. The doctor with the small mustache gently patted his back, comforting him. "Take it easy, Mr. Hawke. It\'s going to be alright."

However, the reality was that the old man\'s condition was far from optimistic. He had cancer and had been in a coma for several days.

But this morning, he suddenly regained consciousness. If he were able to move, he would have gone to see the streets nearby.

Dr. Hollaway, who had grown up in Brooklyn, knew the streets well. He knew the antique shop the old man was talking about and was aware that its owner was a graceful, still-elegant elderly lady.

But, Mr. Hawke, given your situation, as your doctor, I\'ve seen this too many times. You should take the opportunity to say your final words, or perhaps enjoy one last meal, rather than thinking about meeting women.

Mr. Hawke calmed his breathing and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. "It\'s fine. One way or another, everything began in New York. I want to witness it all with my own eyes."

"Witness what?" Dr. Hollaway asked, sitting at his bedside, the first time he had a real conversation with his patient since taking him on.

"Witness... the beginning of the future."

For the rest of the afternoon, Dr. Hollaway sat quietly, listening to the old man speak of the future.

In the old man\'s stories, he spoke of gods and monsters, masked heroes, and most of all— the man with the shield.

Dr. Hollaway took notes in his little notebook. Listening to a patient\'s final thoughts could be considered a form of palliative care.

Normally, this would be a priest\'s duty, but in these times, even priests went to the battlefield, just like the German priests, shouting God\'s name as they shot at each other or tossed grenades.

But at moments like this, God often favored trained killers over devout believers.

As Dr. Hollaway recorded the old man\'s tales, he initially thought they were mere ramblings. But the clarity in the old man\'s eyes and the logic in his words told a different story—he was describing the future.

A network connecting everyone, ships that could leave Earth, stones that could destroy the world in an instant.

Dr. Hollaway had to admit, it all seemed true. The old man wasn\'t senile at all. These were his sincere final words.

The doctor had always been fond of stories of heroic justice. If not for the harsh times they lived in, he might have been like Zorro, righting wrongs.

But now, he was the last doctor left at the care home, unable to leave.

That evening, a young nurse entered the doctor\'s office, informing him that Mr. Matthew Hawke had passed away.

Dr. Hollaway returned to the old man\'s room. In the dim yellow light, the old man lay pale and peaceful on his bed.

"Can you sign the death certificate, doctor?" the nurse asked.

"Uh, yes, of course... Such a shame. He was a good man," Hollaway nodded, for that was a doctor\'s most solemn duty in a care home—signing death certificates.

The nurse agreed, nodding thoughtfully. "He passed away in his sleep, a kind old man. Oh, right, doctor, he asked me to give this to you before he went to sleep."

The black-haired nurse lifted a sizable wooden box from the medicine cart nearby. It had beautiful carvings and appeared quite valuable.

"Before he went to sleep?" Hollaway asked.

"Yes, he seemed to know... that he wouldn\'t wake up again."

In the early hours of the morning, Hollaway returned to his home on the Upper East Side. He had a cozy study, a luxurious carpet, and could enjoy the finest Skywalker whiskey at any time.

Before taking the care home position, he had been New York\'s top surgeon. If not for the many high-ranking officials and aristocrats who required his services and forced him to stay, he would have gone to the battlefield.

But even his medical skills couldn\'t cure cancer.

Cancer had been documented as far back as 3000 B.C. in ancient Egyptian papyri, but humanity still had no answers for it.

Under the lamplight at his desk, Hollaway opened the wooden box the old man had left him.

Inside was a pair of revolvers, a Zorro-style mask, and a small note.

"To Dr. Thomas Hollaway."

He didn\'t even need to read the note. The doctor already knew what it was. He pounded his head, cursing his carelessness.

Matthew Hawke, the elderly lawyer from Texas and Boston, was just a pseudonym. His real name was Matt Hawke—the Gunslinger.

He had come from the West, a masked vigilante who had roamed the Old West decades ago.

He rode a black stallion, wore a black eye mask, and wielded a pair of \'Peacemaker\' revolvers.

His aim was dead-on, fearless and brave. He single-handedly took on gangs of over a hundred men and safeguarded several gold rush towns for nearly ten years.

Until his enemies were vanquished, he rode off into the desert wind, disappearing forever. Only later did people learn his name, and his fate remained unknown until now.

If what he said was true, he had traveled to the future.

Dr. Hollaway had grown up reading his stories. The legend of the Gunslinger was known throughout all Western novels. Most Americans knew his tale—he had been a symbol of heroism.

The doctor berated himself repeatedly. He should have told the dying hero what his story had meant to him, how it was the Gunslinger who had inspired him, and countless others who dreamed of justice.

When he opened the little note inside the box, it contained a simple message: "To the next hero."

Hollaway knew the old man had seen through his own unfulfilled desires. Maybe it was in his gaze, his words, or the way he walked, something had given him away.

The doctor had long wanted to become a hero, like the ones from the Western tales. But life\'s many practical constraints had held him back from taking that step, from making that decision.

But today, an aging hero had passed his weapons to him.

Suddenly, Hollaway felt the room growing warm. His heart pounded rapidly. He drained the glass of whiskey in his hand and walked to the window.

Even though it was early spring, he needed to open the window and let in some air. He needed to think about the future.

Looking out at the city, the neon lights reflected tall shadows everywhere. He felt that the world the old man had described—the world of heroes—didn\'t seem so far away after all.