A Starry Tower - PT3

The Batcave

Hundreds of meters below surface level, where the faintest sound echoed for miles—nestled deep in the undergound, layed a cave. But not just any cave. The BATCAVE!

It's structures and technology, both unique and advanced in nature,would make this place closest to Narnia for any tech geek or architect that were to find themselves within these walls of stone, it was here that the author could be found.

Sprawled out against a chair that might as well have been his throne—his leg resting upon a desk asorted with arrays of buttons illuminating colours, red, blue, pink and green. Casting an ethereal glow that starkly contrasted the ever present darkness that reigned within the Batcave. How dangerous they were, known only to him. The Author.

Yes, I the author, am actually Batman. Suprise, I suppose.

Uncharacteristically, I the author hadn't been doing anything Batmanlike. Instead, confined within this cave. Within this seat. I had been methodically working at a word document, aiming to complete an assignment with a near due date. 

"I may not be a medical proffessional, but I'm ascertain that you should have taken a break long ago Sincere." A voice alerted me, the author, AKA Batman if you weren't aware. 

I spun in my seat, half expectant that along with the sight of the man who's name I came to know as Alfred, would arrive a tray of gummies arranged in the shape of a heart, just the way I liked it. 

I was disapointed to say the least when I realised he was empty handed.

"Alfred," The familiar weight of exhaustion washing upon me as my eyes squinted involuntarily. "I told you, don't bother returning unless you had gummy bears..."

To my ire, Alfred dismissed my very paramount concern with a wave of his hand, instead deigning to point towards my monitor.

Shooting him a justifiably incredolous look, I spun for a second time. 

"20 Comments? When did that happen?" 

It seemed the readers had taken me seriously then. 20 Comments this quickly? 

Well it wouldn't be Batmanly if I didn't follow through with my promise.

Aha!

I'll just make it more difficult: 10 paragraph comms along with 10 regular comms and I won't take longer than a week to drop the next chapter.

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....

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Nothing would ever be the same again.

"Extraordinary scenes here at the Parc des Princes!" Peter Drury's voice carried over the bedlam, his tone elevated to match the moment. "A goal of supreme quality from the young Croatian to level this pulsating Champions League encounter!"

"That's the sort of goal that announces a player on the world stage," Martin Tyler added, a note of appreciation in his measured cadence. "We've heard the whispers about this boy, but that—that was a declaration."

The clock showed seventy-two minutes as both teams regrouped. The equalizer had shifted the atmosphere in the stadium, uncertainty now threading through the Parisian confidence like a hairline crack in fine crystal. Not yet a break, but a vulnerability that hadn't existed minutes before.

On the sidelines, activity stirred. Fourth officials held up the electronic boards, numbers illuminated in red and green. Changes were coming.

"Looks like both managers sense the moment," Drury observed. "Fresh legs for the final push."

For PSG, Pochettino signaled for Di María, the Argentine veteran stripping off his training top, ready to inject his experience and creativity into a contest that had become unexpectedly complicated. Mendes would make way with a change in formation, 4-2-4, Parades shifting to left back, the young Portuguese fullback trudging toward the bench with the resigned expression of someone who knew his performance hadn't met expectations.

On the Dortmund side, the situation was more complex. Reus, the captain and heartbeat of the team, had been playing through pain since a heavy challenge from Paredes in the first half. His influence was waning, his movement increasingly labored. Rose knew it, Reus knew it, but sentiment and pragmatism rarely align in moments that define seasons.

"Reus is struggling," Tyler noted. "Has been for at least fifteen minutes now."

The camera panned to the Dortmund bench where Cole Palmer was already on his feet, stretching hamstrings, his young face a portrait of focused anticipation. The English teenager, on loan from Manchester City, had impressed in limited minutes, showing flashes of the creativity that had prompted Pep Guardiola to label him "a special talent." But this—a Champions League knockout match at the Parc des Princes with the score delicately balanced—this was different.

Rose hesitated, his hand on Reus's shoulder as they conferred on the touchline. The captain nodded, resignation and understanding mingling in his expression. Some torches can only be passed through fire.

"Marco Reus will make way," Drury announced as the board went up. "The captain's night is done, and what a gamble by Marco Rose to introduce young Cole Palmer at such a pivotal moment."

The substitutions completed, the game resumed its frenetic pace, neither team willing to settle for the current scoreline. The ball pinged from player to player, territory gained and conceded in the midfield battle that would ultimately determine control.

Mbappé's runs became more direct, more insistent. On the opposite side, Haaland prowled the frontline like a caged predator, waiting for the service that would unleash him. The minutes ticked relentlessly forward, seventy-three becoming seventy-four becoming seventy-five, each one increasing the stakes of the next.

"The tension is palpable," Tyler observed as Verratti and Can contested a midfield header, both players crashing to the turf in their desperation to gain possession.

By the seventy-ninth minute, the match had reached that perfect equilibrium of chaos and control that defines the highest level of the sport—twenty-two players operating at the absolute limits of their capabilities.

Then came the moment.

A Dortmund attack broke down on the edge of the PSG area, Marquinhos stepping in to intercept Palmer's attempted through ball to Haaland. The Brazilian's clearance found Verratti, who immediately released Mbappé down the left. The Frenchman's pace took him past Ryerson, creating space for a cross that Neymar, arriving at the back post, headed powerfully toward goal.

Kobel reacted brilliantly, palming the ball away, but in the scramble that followed, Can's outstretched leg caught Paredes as both lunged for the loose ball. The Argentine went down, his cry audible even over the roar of the crowd.

Parc des Princes erupted in demands for a penalty. The referee, positioned perfectly, pointed to the spot without hesitation.

"PENALTY TO PSG!" Drury exclaimed. "Can caught Paredes, and the referee had no doubt!"

Chaos erupted immediately. Dortmund players surrounded the referee, protesting vehemently. Can was incandescent, gesturing toward Paredes who remained on the ground, his face contorted in apparent agony.

"He's dived!" Bellingham shouted, his face inches from the referee's. "He's cheating you! Open your eyes!"

Kimpembe inserted himself into the melee, shoving Bellingham away from the official. "Back off," the defender snarled. "It's done."

Bodies converged, yellow and blue colliding in a storm of accusation and denial. In the center of it all, the referee maintained his position, unmoved by the protests surrounding him. VAR would check, but his conviction was clear.

Amid the tempest, Mbappé stood apart, collecting the ball and walking calmly toward the penalty spot. Whatever doubts swirled around the decision, his focus remained singular and absolute. This was his moment, his responsibility.

"While the protests continue, Mbappé prepares," Tyler noted. "The ice in his veins visible even from our position."

The VAR check completed with the original decision standing. The referee restored order gradually, issuing yellow cards to Bellingham and Kimpembe for their confrontation, then clearing the area around the penalty spot where Mbappé waited.

In goal, Kobel crouched, his massive frame reducing the available target, his eyes locked on Mbappé's.

The Frenchman's routine was typically minimal—three steps back, two to the right, eyes never leaving the ball.

The referee's whistle pierced the silence.

Mbappé's run-up was smooth, unhurried. His right foot connected cleanly, sending the ball arrowing toward the bottom corner. Kobel guessed correctly, diving full-length to his right, fingers outstretched—but the precision of the strike meant he had no chance. The net bulged, and Paris erupted.

"MBAPPE SCORES!" Drury's voice soared above the Parisian roar. "Clinical from the spot, and PSG retake the lead with ten minutes remaining!"

The Frenchman's celebration was contained, almost businesslike—arms folded, chin lifted skyward eyes closed as if in communion with some higher power. His teammates swarmed him, Neymar first to arrive, leaping onto his back in unbridled joy.

From the center circle, Luka watched the celebration unfold. Mbappé's as the Frenchman disengaged from his teammates, preparing for the restart. Something passed between them—not hostility, not exactly respect—but two apex predators acknowledging each other across the savanna.

Dortmund didn't wait for PSG's celebration to conclude. Haaland collected the ball from the net, striding purposefully back to the center circle. "Come on!" he barked at his teammates. "Now!"

The restart was immediate, urgent. Bellingham to Haaland, back to Dahoud at the edge of the center circle. No time for deliberation, no space for doubt. They needed to strike back, and quickly.

Luka dropped deeper, demanding the ball from Dahoud with an outstretched hand. The pass came, firm and precise. In one fluid motion, Luka controlled it, pivoted, and found himself face-to-face with Verratti.

The Italian's eyes narrowed, his body coiled like a spring as he anticipated his movement. What happened next occurred so quickly that many in the stadium missed it entirely.

Luka's right foot dragged the ball back, then nudged it forward again in a single, seamless motion that sent it nutmegging through Verratti's legs. The Italian, momentarily frozen by the audacity of the move, could only watch as Luka accelerated past him, collecting the ball on the other side.

"Oh, brilliant from Zorić!" Tyler exclaimed. "Absolutely brilliant!"

Now in space, Luka had options. Palmer was making a run to his left, Haaland peeling away to the right, Bellingham advancing through the center. The PSG defense scrambled to reorganize, but the momentary confusion created pockets of opportunity across the final third.

Luka looked right, his body suggesting a pass to Haaland, before cutting sharply left, evading Danilo's desperate lunge. The acceleration was explosive, taking him past the Portugese midfielder and into open space twenty-five yards from goal.

Kimpembe charged out to confront him, but Luka had anticipated the defender's movement. A subtle shift of weight left, another right, and the French international found himself grasping at shadows as Luka glided past.

"He's dancing through them now!" Drury's voice rose with each syllable.

With the defense scattered, Luka slipped a perfectly weighted pass into Haaland's path. The Norwegian's first touch was immaculate, controlling the ball while simultaneously drawing Marquinhos toward him. With the center of defense compromised, Haaland rolled the ball into the path of Bellingham, who had continued his run into the box.

The Englishman never broke stride, collecting the pass and immediately assessing his options. Luka had continued his run, cutting diagonally toward the penalty spot. Bellingham saw him, ignored the more conservative pass to Palmer on the edge of the box, and threaded the needle between Danilo and Parades.

The pass was perfect, but the angle was acute. Luka, arriving at pace, Marquinhos on his shoulder, had perhaps a foot of space between goalkeeper and near post. Most players would have looked for a cutback, a safer option. But hunger knows nothing of caution.

The strike was pure—instinctive, violent, precise. Donnarumma reacted with the reflexes that had made him Italy's number one, palms outstretched, body contorting in mid-air. His save was magnificent, the ball cannoning off his hands with such force that it rebounded fifteen yards back into the penalty area.

In the past, Luka might have admired the save, might have capitulated to the laws of probability that suggested the chance was gone. But the young man who now wore his face and bore his name was driven by different imperatives.

While others hesitated, Luka pounced—covering the ground between him and the loose ball with three explosive strides. Donnarumma, still regaining his balance from the initial save, could only watch as Luka arrived first, his right foot connecting with the rebound, sending it high into the roof of the net before the goalkeeper could set himself.

"ZORIĆ AGAIN!" Drury's voice cracked with the emotion of the moment. "EXTRAORDINARY! ABSOLUTELY EXTRAORDINARY! DORTMUND LEVEL ONCE MORE!"

The yellow corner of the Parc des Princes detonated as Luka sprinted toward them, sliding on his knees across the turf, arms spread wide in a gesture that was part liberation, part invitation.

His teammates engulfed him, yellow shirts creating a writhing mass of jubilation. Through the tangle of limbs and voices, the song began—tentative at first, then swelling as more voices joined the chorus:

"Luka, Luka, der fliegende Falke!

Jung aber furchtlos, schnell wie der Wind!

Unser Adler am Himmel,

Dortmund's neuer Stern!"

The melody borrowed from an old terrace favorite, but the words were new: "Luka, Luka, the soaring falcon! Young but fearless, fast as the wind! Our eagle in the sky, Dortmund's new star!"

As he rose from the celebration, disentangling himself from his ecstatic teammates, Luka's eyes again found Mbappé's across the pitch. The Frenchman wasn't celebrating with his dejected teammates—he was watching Luka, his expression too complex to decipher the reigning emotions.

Their stares held for a moment that stretched beyond its chronological boundaries. Two young men at opposite ends of their ascent—Mbappé already among the stars, Luka just beginning his climb..

Neither nodded, neither smiled, neither offered any outward acknowledgment of the moment. None was needed. They understood each other perfectly.

The referee's whistle cut through the lingering chants, signaling for the restart. Eight minutes plus stoppage time remained—eight minutes that would determine not just the outcome of this match, but perhaps the trajectory of young careers still in their formative stages.

Luka jogged back to the halfway line , nothing—not Verratti's snarl as he passed, not Kimpembe's whispered threat, not even Mbappé's cautious respect—would stand between him and what he now craved above all else:

Victory.

The word pulsed through Luka's veins. The stadium seemed to breathe around him—lungs expanding and contracting in nervous synchrony.

The final minutes would be an eternity contained within moments.

"We're witnessing something truly special here," Drury intoned, his voice carrying over the cacophony. "Two young talents performing at their best on the greatest stage."

Mbappé stood at the center circle, his eyes fixed on the ball. The Frenchman's chest rose and fell in measured rhythm, near him, Messi's diminutive frame belied the gravitational pull he exerted on the game—every Dortmund player unconsciously tracking his position, aware that genius could erupt at any moment.

The referee's whistle pierced the night. The final act began.

PSG surged forward immediately, possession flowing from Verratti to Paredes to Neymar in a sequence of one-touch passes that left Dortmund scrambling to maintain their shape. The Brazilian received the ball on the half-turn, shoulders dropping in that familiar feint that had bewildered defenders across continents.

Bellingham recognized the danger, stepping forward to confront Neymar. The collision was seismic—English determination against Brazilian flair. Bellingham's shoulder connected with Neymar's chest, a perfectly timed challenge that sent the PSG forward sprawling. No foul. The Englishman emerged with the ball, immediately looking up for options.

"Tremendous from Bellingham! The young Englishman showing strength beyond his years!"

Palmer had already begun his run, ghosting Danilo with a burst of acceleration. Bellingham saw him, delivering a perfectly weighted pass into the channel.

Palmer's first touch was sublime—killing the ball's momentum while simultaneously dragging it away from Danilo's desperate lunge. The teenager's second touch took him inside, opening his body toward goal as Marquinhos rushed to close him down.

"Palmer with a chance!"

The shot was struck with conviction—low, hard, destined for the bottom corner. Donnarumma flung himself to his right, fingertips extending impossibly as the Parc des Princes collectively held its breath. The contact was minimal but sufficient—the ball skimming off the Italian's glove and kissing the outside of the post before spinning harmlessly away.

"What a save from Donnarumma! Extraordinary goalkeeping to deny the young Englishman!"

The PSG counterattack was immediate and devastating. Donnarumma's quick distribution found Di María in space on the right wing. The Argentine's eyes narrowed as he spotted Mbappé's diagonal run beyond the Dortmund backline.

The pass was perfect—floating over Hummels's outstretched leg, dropping into Mbappé's path like a gift from above. The Frenchman's pace made the impossible routine as he collected the ball with a delicate first touch.

Kobel advanced, arms spread wide, making himself enormous in the Swiss tradition of goalkeeping giants. Malen tracked back desperately, hisstrides eating up the turf, but he would never arrive in time.

Mbappé shaped to shoot, his right foot drawn back as Kobel committed himself to the dive. But instead of releasing, the Frenchman dragged the ball behind his standing leg with his instep—a movement so fluid it seemed to defy physics. Kobel's momentum carried him past as Mbappé, now with an open goal, tapped the ball toward the empty net.

But football allows for miracles. Akanji appeared from nowhere, sliding across the goal line, extending his leg to somehow hook the ball away at the final instant.

"INCREDIBLE DEFENDING! Akanji with a goal-line clearance that defies belief!"

The ball spun toward Malen, who didn't hesitate. The Dutchman's first touch launched the counterattack, his second finding Bellingham in space. The Englishman drove forward, carrying the ball into PSG territory as both teams stretched across the pitch, structure giving way to pure desperation.

"This is end-to-end stuff now! Tactical discipline abandoned as both teams go for the kill!"

Bellingham released Palmer on the right, the teenager's fresh legs carrying him past his marker, Parades, with ease. His cross was whipped in with venom, curling away from Donnarumma toward the back post where Haaland had positioned himself between Kimpembe and Marquinhos.

The Norwegian rose highest, his neck muscles straining as he directed the header toward goal. Donnarumma, already in motion, somehow changed direction mid-dive, his left hand shooting up to palm the ball over the crossbar.

"ANOTHER EXTRAORDINARY SAVE! Donnarumma is keeping PSG in this match single-handedly!"

The corner came to nothing, PSG clearing their lines through Mbappé, who carried the ball forward with terrifying velocity. Sixty yards in six seconds, defenders reduced to blurred obstacles as the Frenchman approached the Dortmund penalty area.

Luka tracked back, angling his run to cut off Mbappé's progress. Their collision was inevitable—youth against youth, talent against talent. Luka timed his challenge perfectly, sliding in from the side to poke the ball away from Mbappé's feet without touching the man.

"Rare but brilliant defending from Zorić! A tackle timed to perfection!"

Mbappé tumbled, momentum carrying him forward as the ball squirted toward Messi, who had drifted into space twenty yards from goal. The Argentine's reaction was instantaneous—left foot drawing back, body coiling like a spring.

The shot was pure Messi—curling, dipping, seeming to accelerate in flight. Kobel launched himself full-length, fingertips brushing the ball enough to direct it onto the crossbar. The hollow thud echoed around the stadium as the ball bounced high into the Parisian night.

Di María was first to react. The Argentine cushioned the rebound with his thigh before volleying toward the far corner. Again, Kobel was equal to it, pushing the ball wide for a corner.

"This is becoming a personal duel between the attackers and the goalkeepers! Two world-class saves in the space of ten seconds!"

The stadium pulsed with tension as Neymar walked to the corner flag. Eighty-eight minutes on the clock. The Brazilian placed the ball carefully, adjusting it twice before stepping back. His eyes met Mbappé's across the crowded penalty area—a wordless communication between artists.

The delivery was perfect—out-swinging, arriving at the near post where Mbappé had created half a yard between himself and Can. The Frenchman's timing was immaculate, his neck muscles snapping as he directed the header toward the top corner.

Kobel, already moving to his right, somehow got a strong hand to the ball, deflecting it back into play. But the rebound fell perfectly for Mbappé, who reacted faster than anyone else, directing the loose ball into the bottom corner with the outside of his right boot.

"MBAPPÉ SCORES! PARIS SAINT-GERMAIN LEAD WITH TWO MINUTES REMAINING! What a moment for the French superstar!"

The Parc des Princes erupted, thousands of voices merging into a primal roar that seemed to shake the foundations of the stadium. Mbappé raced toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees before being engulfed by teammates. Neymar leapt onto his back, Verratti grabbed his face with both hands, the entire PSG bench spilled onto the field in ecstatic celebration.

3-2 to PSG. The scoreboard updated, a digital dagger to Dortmund hearts.

But football allows no time for despair. Even as the PSG players celebrated, Rose was on the touchline, gesticulating wildly, reorganizing his shell-shocked team for one final push.

"Three minutes of added time," the fourth official's board announced, a lifeline for Dortmund, a sentence of anxiety for PSG.

The restart was frantic, Dortmund pouring forward with desperate intensity. Haaland won a header, nodding down to Bellingham who immediately found Luka in space. His first touch was immaculate, his second taking him past Veratti with ease.

Twenty-five yards from goal, Luka shaped to shoot. Marquinhos rushed out, anticipating the strike, but Luka dragged the ball to his right, creating a yard of space. Now, with a clear sight of goal, he unleashed a curling effort toward the far corner.

Donnarumma flung himself across, fingertips extending impossibly as the ball arrowed toward the top corner. For a split second, the stadium held its collective breath.

The save was magnificent, the Italian's hand strong enough to push the ball over the crossbar. Another corner. Another chance. The clock showed ninety-two minutes.

"Dortmund with possibly their final opportunity..."

Palmer took the corner, his delivery reaching Haaland at the far post. The Norwegian won his header but could only direct it back across goal where a forest of legs scrambled for possession. The ball ricocheted between bodies before spinning out to Luka far from goal.

His control was instant, his body already turning toward goal as Danilo rushed to close him down. Luka lifted the ball over the Portuguese with an audacious chip, following his own skill with the hunger of youth. Danilo, caught flat-footed, had no option but to grab Luka's shirt, pulling him to the ground.

The whistle blew immediately. Free kick to Dortmund. Danilo saw yellow. Ninety-four minutes on the clock.

"One final chance for Dortmund from this free kick, though it's at an awkward angle. Perhaps too far out for a direct shot..."

The stadium hummed with tension as both teams organized themselves. In the Dortmund section, scarves were raised like shields. In the Parisian end, fingers were crossed, prayers whispered to football gods who showed no allegiance.

In the stands, a young boy clutched his father's arm, eyes wide with the unbearable tension of the moment. "Can he score from there, Papa?" he whispered, voice trembling with hope.

"It would take something special," his father replied, unable to tear his eyes from the unfolding drama.

On the pitch, Luka stood over the ball, twenty-nine yards from goal, wide on the right. An impossible angle by conventional wisdom. Malen approached, seemingly to take responsibility, but Luka shook his head. This moment belonged to him.

Luka took three steps back, two to the side. His tongue found the cut on his lip, the metallic taste of blood a physical reminder of the battle. His nostrils filled with the scent of cut grass and sweat and possibility.

The PSG wall lined up—Mbappé, Verratti, Marquinhos, Kimpembe, Danilo—five men standing between Luka and immortality. Behind them, Donnarumma crouched, weight on his toes, eyes fixed on the ball.

The referee's whistle pierced the night. The Parc des Princes fell silent.

Luka's run-up was smooth, unhurried, his entire focus narrowing to the point of contact between boot and ball. The strike was pure—a combination of power and technique that sent the ball spinning toward goal, knuckling through the air, its trajectory impossible to predict.

The ball swerved right, then left, then right again—a missile with a mind of its own. Donnarumma took one step right, then frantically tried to adjust as the ball's path changed midair. His final dive was desperate, fingers grasping at air as the ball curled into the top corner.

"GOOOOOAAAAL!"

"INCREDIBLE! ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE! LUKA ZORIĆ HAS DONE IT! A FREE KICK OF BREATHTAKING QUALITY TO LEVEL THE MATCH IN THE DYING SECONDS!"

The Dortmund bench erupted, players and staff spilling onto the field in chaotic celebration. In the stand, the yellow corner detonated with joy, scarves twirling, bodies embracing in collective ecstasy.

Luka raced toward the Dortmund supporters, arms spread wide, face turned upward in primal celebration. Haaland reached him first, lifting him off his feet in a bear hug that threatened to crush his ribs. Then came the others—Bellingham, Reus, Palmer, the entire team converging around the young man who had delivered them from defeat.

Across the pitch, the PSG players stood motionless, hands on hips, eyes fixed on Luka's celebration.