Chapter Text
“DAMIAN—!!!”
Fire roared on every side. Twisted steel split under the blistering heat as charred beams cracked and collapsed in a deafening, relentless chain. The air was thick with choking smoke and the foul, chemical stench of melting tactical fabric.
Nearby, Sheila was still screaming hysterically, sobbing that she didn't want to die.
And yet, inside that suffocating hell, all the color suddenly drained from Jason’s world.
There was only one thing left—the figure he had missed every single day and night, shielding him with a body far too lean to absorb that kind of catastrophic force.
Damian was wearing a high-grade ballistic tactical vest.
It didn't matter.
The burning timber that crashed down carried too much sheer weight, too much heat, too much momentum. The impact punched straight through the armor. If Damian hadn’t twisted his shoulder at the final millisecond to deflect the worst of it, if the vest hadn’t contained a flame-resistant inner layer, the blow would have shattered his scapula completely.
Years of brutal training under Talia had forged an almost inhuman pain tolerance in Damian. More importantly, it had drilled into his instincts exactly how to shed kinetic force when survival hung on a fraction of a second.
But Jason saw the ruined, scorched flesh across his back—
And his eyes went red. He forgot his own shattered body completely. With a shaking, violent surge of strength in his right arm, Jason hauled Damian tight against his chest, driving them both into a hard, desperate roll.
The three of them barely cleared the second wave of collapsing wreckage that slammed down behind them with a thunderous roar.
Jason came up on one knee. Teeth clenched. One arm supporting Damian, the other seizing Sheila brutally by the arm and hauling both staggering adults back to their feet.
【The main support beam ahead has collapsed and blocked the route. Turn right. Once you reach the corner, go straight through. That section is a structural blind spot. Safest path out.】
Timothy’s voice trembled despite his effort to keep it tactical and concise.
Damian could barely see. Pain had pulled every tendon in his forehead tight, cold sweat running down the side of his face. Still, he repeated every instruction without missing a beat.
“Turn right, reach the corner. Run straight through, that route leads outside.”
This should have been a reunion. A dramatic reunion—the kind Jason had imagined a thousand times. He had hundreds of things he wanted to scream, hundreds more he wanted to cry. But every emotion was being swallowed by the fire and smoke around them.
Damian, you absolute bastard with no sense of timing!
Do you have any idea how much I missed you?! I missed you so much I thought I was losing my mind! Where the hell have you been all this time?! Why were you pretending to be some ancient-ass school doctor instead of just coming back to me?! Do you have any idea how long I searched for you?! How many streets I walked, how many dead ends I hit, thinking I’d lost you forever?!
And then you show up in a burning warehouse—looking like you haven't slept in a decade, taking a whole-ass steel beam to the spine just to keep me breathing?!
You crazy, arrogant, self-sacrificing son of a bitch!
Jason’s chest felt like it was splitting open, smoke burned his eyes until tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. He looked at Damian’s tightly pressed mouth, the way every line of his expression was built around suppressing pain, and cursed him viciously inside his head while continuing to run.
“You colossal idiot! You complete asshole! You absolute dickhead, Damian!”
Jason’s roar tore through the thunder of collapsing masonry. He couldn't stop the venom spilling out—not when his throat was burning with smoke, not when his hands were trembling against Damian’s ruined vest.
“Who gave you permission to play Superman and catch a steel beam with your fucking back?! Did you feed your medical license to a stray dog?! What, you don't need a functioning spine anymore?!”
Damian let out a raspy, low click of annoyance from behind his teeth.
Despite the blinding agony radiating down his back, his blood-slicked fingers clamped onto Jason’s shoulder with a vise-like grip. With a single surge of momentum, he yanked Jason and Sheila sideways a fraction of a second before a torrent of white-hot embers caved in overhead.
“Watch your language, Robin,” Damian gritted out, his voice strained and thin, yet infuriatingly composure-bound.
“Cease the profanity. It is unbecoming.”
That detached, aristocratic dignity, the sheer, absurd fact that Damian was lecturing him on proper vocabulary while half-charred inside a crumbling furnace, made Jason’s blood pressure skyrocket.
“I’ll swear all I want, you psycho!” Jason shoved himself under Damian’s arm, hauling the elder’s weight over his own shoulders with a grunt that rattled his cracked ribs. He clamped his other hand around Sheila’s arm like an iron shackle, dragging her along behind them.
The fire. The collapsing roof. Joker’s sick, twisted game. Jason stopped giving a single damn about any of it.
Joker? Fuck him. Batman could hunt that clown down and tear him apart.
Jason had only one thought burning through his mind, looping in a frantic, desperate cadence:
Damian, you bastard, the second we clear this door, we’re going straight back to Nibor pharmacy. Cass is making soup. Then you’re getting locked in a medical bay. Thomas, Leslie, I don't give a shit who but someone is going to strap you to a bed and keep you there until every inch of your back heals.
If Damian wanted to stay hidden in Gotham? Fine. Nibor Pharmacy. Wayne Manor. A random safehouse in Crime Alley. It didn't matter. They would stay right there with him.
Bruce had more empty wings in that oversized mansion than any human needed. Jason and Cass had already picked out a room for him, cleaned it out, and move-in ready. Alfred had even set out the exact porcelain tea set Damian preferred.
And if Damian tried to pull another disappearing act?
Jason and Cass would swipe Bruce’s black card, shove a bag over Damian’s head, drag him to the other side of the planet, and sit on him until he turned eighty. Europe, Asia, Australia, anywhere.
This time, Damian wasn't walking away alone.
They were less than twenty meters from the exit when another wall of heat crashed over them.
Fourteen-year-old Robin pushed far past what his battered body should have been capable of. Adrenaline took the wheel—he hoisted Damian completely onto his back, kept an iron clamp around Sheila’s arm, and surged straight through the roaring inferno.
【At this rate, Jason might actually grow into a heavier combat tank than Bruce someday…】
Damian’s vision had blurred almost entirely into black, the excruciating heat across his back radiating straight through his nervous system. Still, through gritted teeth, a familiar, faint click slipped past his lips.
“Tt.”
Then, so softly it was almost swallowed by the roaring inferno behind them, his voice shed its usual razor-sharp armor.
“Well done, Robin.” He took a shallow, agonizing breath. “...Very well done.”
Another ragged intake of air. “Keep moving. Do not inhale the smoke.”
They hit the cool night air outside, and Jason practically slammed them into the side of the Batmobile parked at the fringe of the smoking rubble.
“BATMAN!” Jason screamed, his voice cracking with panic into the dark. “YOU NEED TO—”
Before he could finish the yell—
Damian caught him.
No grand speech. No melodramatic farewell. He simply clamped a hand onto Jason’s shoulder and as naturally as he had done a hundred times across the past five years, reached up and ruffled Jason’s messy hair.
“When you get back, have your ribs checked,” Damian commanded. “No patrol tonight.”
“I’m fine—!” Jason snapped automatically, his chest heaving as he turned to argue.
“One more thing, Robin.”
“What?”
“Do not follow me.”
Jason’s stomach plummeted. The bastard is going to run again!
Only then did Robin, still trembling from the adrenaline crash, truly look at him in the faint amber glare. Damian’s hair which was always raven black had turned white around his temples and across his forehead.
Jason’s hand moved before his brain could give the order, his fingers shaking violently as they hovered near one of those silver strands.
“Damian…?” Fear tore straight through his tough-guy facade. “What happened to you? Who did this?! Tell me which bastard did this and I’ll scatter his ashes across Gotham—”
Damian gave him a firm, decisive nudge forward. Jason and the barely standing Sheila stumbled directly into the arms of Batman, who was sprinting toward them out of the haze.
“Leave the rest to me,” Damian stated, his tone flat and unyielding. “My injuries are not as severe as you think.”
“Wait—!” Jason lunged back, his fingers snapping outward for the hem of Damian’s tactical jacket—only to catch empty smoke.
Damian turned. And without a single glance behind him, vanished back into the dark and the flames.
“Jason!”
Robin’s instincts fired instantly, every nerve in his legs coiled to give chase until Sheila grabbed his cape with both hands, yanking him back. “That madman is coming back, isn’t he?!” she shrieked, hysterical.
“You can’t leave me! Please, Jason! Save me! I’m your mother!”
Something inside Jason froze over into sheer, icy disgust. How can someone be this selfish?
Beside him, Bruce had gone completely motionless, his white lenses locked onto the shadows where Damian had disappeared. Jason saw it immediately, and the frantic protest in his throat shifted in a heartbeat.
“Batman!” Jason yelled, shoving past Sheila. “Go after Damian! He went after Joker!”
Right on cue, a heavily modified Bat-utility vehicle screeched sideways in front of the ruins like an armored juggernaut. The armored driver-side door swung open, and Alfred stepped out onto the gravel.
The old butler wore a dark, ballistic long coat, a double-barreled shotgun held with practiced, deadly ease across his chest.
“Batman.” Alfred needed no debrief. Their eyes locked across the smoke, exchanging decades of unspoken code in a single second. “I’ll take over here.”
“Both?”
“Both.”
Batman moved immediately. The heavy Kevlar cape flared like the wings of a hunting raptor, and Bruce melted into the night after Damian.
“Batman!” Jason screamed into the wind. “Bring Damian back!”
A sudden rustle broke from the darkness on their flank. Alfred reacted half a second faster than humanly possible, the twin barrels rising in a smooth, lethal arc before a panicked voice came tumbling out from behind a pile of bricks.
“Friendly! Friendly! Don’t shoot! I’m here for Robin!”
Alfred barely twitched his barrel before a young man clad in blue-and-yellow light armor executed a textbook tactical slide into cover, both hands raised high in the air.
Grant Wilson. Bent low, moving like lightning, and barking into his phone.
“Nightwing! Robin’s alive, I’m snagging the little menace right now!”
Jason stared, wide-eyed. Isn’t that Ravager? The guy who used to throw down with Dick and the Titans every other month? What the hell is going on here?! Why is he working with Nightwing?!
Jason’s brain ground to a complete halt under the sheer absurdity of it.
Alfred, however, didn't even blink. He smoothly clicked the shotgun’s safety back on, unclipped a set of smoke-stained vehicle keys from his belt, and tossed them across the gap.
“Then I shall leave him in your care, sir. There is a military-grade medical kit in the rear compartment.”
“Thanks!” Grant caught the keys mid-air, grabbed Jason by the arm, and started hauling him toward the idling vehicle. “I’m getting you to the nearest triage point. Is Dr. Leslie’s clinic fine, Nightwing?”
The situation had turned so surreal that Jason just let himself be dragged along. Unfortunately, Sheila was still wailing, clinging to his arm, terrified out of her mind that Joker was going to pop out of the rubble and skin her alive.
Grant finally snapped, “There’s also a hysterical woman glued to Robin’s side, refusing to let go. This transport job just doubled in price.”
A short pause, then Dick quoted a ridiculously inflated number over the channel.
Grant snapped his fingers. “Deal.”
Without missing a beat, he scooped Sheila up like a sack of wet flour and tossed her unceremoniously into the back seat. Jason, still wearing the bewildered expression of a kid who had accidentally drifted into an alternate dimension, was shoved into the passenger side. Grant slammed the pedal to the floor, and the truck tore away from the docklands like a rocket.
Which, to be fair, was pretty much accurate.
Alfred watched the taillights fade into the mist. Naturally, he knew the tangled history between Nightwing and the Deathstroke lineage. He also knew precisely who the masked young man delivering fresh fruit to the Nibor Pharmacy every couple of weeks had been.
Just as very little in Gotham slipped past Batman’s cowl, virtually nothing Bruce knew went unshared with Alfred.
Including the formidable figure now stepping quietly out from the far side of the burnt-out warehouse.
Wintergreen. He was outfitted in dark tactical fatigues, a modular combat harness fitted snugly across his chest. Every movement radiated the calm, lethal grace of a veteran mercenary.
“Fire suppression?” Wintergreen asked simply, unbuckling a heavy tool kit from his belt.
“An excellent suggestion, Mr. Wintergreen.” Alfred inclined his head with the effortless poise of a British gentleman.
Two old soldiers. Decades of blood and gunpowder between them. They didn't need a map or a speech. A quick glance at the direction of the wind, the atmospheric pressure, the heart of the blaze—and both men went to work.
Alfred hitched up the external high-pressure main; Wintergreen used practiced instinct to override the dock’s ancient emergency turbine system. Together, they forged an impenetrable wall of water along the perimeter, containing the inferno and shielding the surrounding neighborhoods.
By the time Gotham’s chronically delayed fire engines arrived with sirens blaring, the core of the warehouse was still a furnace but the hazard had already been locked down tight by two terrifyingly efficient old pros.
Over at Dr. Leslie Thompkins’s clinic—
Jason sat on a stainless-steel examination table, feeling like he was hallucinating. Ravager, who looked like a walking paint-can explosion in all that bright blue and yellow gear, had dumped them at the door and vanished into the night like a gust of wind.
As the adrenaline wore off, every bruise, fracture, and burn on Jason’s body woke up with a vengeance. His ribs throbbed, his muscles burned, and the residual effects of inhaling concentrated Joker gas made his head feel like it was being cracked open with an axe.
To make matters worse, the woman claiming to be his “biological mother” hadn't shut her mouth for a single second since they arrived. Her shrill voice was like a drill going straight into his brain.
When Leslie walked over with cotton swabs and antiseptics, her face was so dark that Jason genuinely wondered if she was about to throw Sheila out into the alley herself.
Then, the clinic’s front door clicked open.
Catherine Todd stepped inside.
Having successfully beaten her addiction and rebuilt her life with the support of Damian, Crystal Brown, and Dr. Leslie, Catherine had transformed herself into an independent community outreach worker. Over the months, she and Crystal had forged a fierce, unshakeable bond. Tonight, after watching Sheila torment Jason from behind the reception desk, Crystal reached her absolute limit and made a single phone call.
As it happened, Catherine was working a late shift just two blocks away.
In Jason’s oldest memories, his mother had always been soft—painfully, fragilely soft, perpetually crushed under the weight of Willis’s brutality and the endless filth of Crime Alley. The only time Jason had ever seen an ounce of fight in her was when Willis came home drunk and violent; in those dark moments, Catherine’s only instinct was to throw her own fragile body between the fists and her boy.
He had never seen steel in her. Never defiance. Until tonight.
Catherine was dressed in plain, worn work clothes. She gave Leslie a respectful nod before walking across the room, her arms wrapped around Jason, tight, fiercely protective, trembling only slightly.
“I’m so sorry…” Her voice cracked. “My son, I’m so sorry.”
But under the tears, Jason heard a tone he had never heard from her before in his life. Pure, unyielding iron.
Catherine smoothed his hair back gently. “Sweetheart… you shouldn't have to listen to this, go rest in the back room for a few minutes.”
Two girls slipped in quietly behind her. Cassandra drifted to Jason’s side like a shadow, pulled up a stool, sat down, and rested her shoulder lightly against his arm.
No words needed. Just: I’m here.
Catherine, resolved not to subject the kids to any more toxic filth, turned on her heel and pushed the confrontation out into the quiet midnight corridor.
She didn't realize the hallway had an audience. Jason, Cass, Crystal and Leslie were listening from the doorway; Barbara was monitoring the live feed from the Batcave miles away; and Stephanie had her head jammed right into the door crack.
The corridor lights buzzed softly overhead.
Catherine turned. Every gentle contour of her face had hardened into stone.
“Why did you come back? What gives you the right to put your face in front of my son?”
Sheila didn't look remotely remorseful. She let out a sharp, nasty sneer. “Oh, spare me the saintly act, Catherine. Let’s not rewrite history. If you hadn't snuck in and latched onto Willis back then, I would still be Jason’s mother. You were nothing but a homewrecker."
The sheer audacity of the lie didn't even make Catherine flinch. She released a short, icy laugh.
“And you, Sheila Haywood, are an unrepentant murderer with blood dripping from both hands. You ran off to evade federal charges for years and left everyone else to pick up the pieces. So tell me—”
Catherine took a deliberate step forward.
“Where did you find the nerve to drag your filth back to Gotham?”
“You stole my life!” Sheila shrieked, her voice cracking. “I came back for what’s mine! You don't get to judge me!”
She jabbed a shaking finger right toward Catherine’s eyes.
Months of patient psychiatric care from Damian and others, the therapy, the medication, the slow, hard work of healing, had fundamentally rebuilt Catherine Todd. She was no longer the terrified woman hiding in dark apartments, waiting for a man’s violence to end.
She stood here, radiating absolute authority. No screaming. No loss of control. She simply dismantled Sheila, piece by piece.
“You never had the soul of a doctor. You performed illegal, unsanitary abortions in Crime Alley long before you even knew how to sterilize an instrument. All for a couple hundred bucks. One of the girls died right on your table, along with her baby.”
Catherine took another step, her eyes pinning Sheila like an insect on a board.
“You watched a child bleed out in front of you. And what did you do? You dumped your own newborn baby on Willis’s doorstep and fled the country to avoid prison. You ran like a coward.”
The hallway went dead silent. Catherine advanced again, the sheer weight of her presence backing Sheila all the way up against the wall.
“Listen to me very carefully, Sheila Haywood. You made the mistake of coming back to Gotham. Now, you’re going to answer for every single thing you did. Every crime. Every victim. Every paper you forged. All of it goes to the prosecutor. And you will spend whatever is left of your miserable life rotting in a federal cell.”
Then, Catherine’s voice dropped into a low, terrifying hush that hit harder than any scream.
“As for Jason…”
She leaned in, her eyes burning into Sheila’s pale, trembling face.
“Jason Peter Todd is my child.”
“I gave birth to him!” Sheila screeched. “My blood runs in his veins!”
“Blood doesn't mean a damn thing.” Catherine didn't budge an inch. “Yes. You birthed him. I know. But I love that boy with every breath in my body. I have more mother in my little finger than you’ve had in your entire wretched existence.”
“Blood or no blood, Jason is my son. Always has been. Always will be.”
Catherine looked at the woman with cold pity.
“You think you’re important. You’re not. Jason doesn't need you. He never did. He has a father who adores him. A real home. Brothers and sisters who love him. He is cherished, Sheila. Completely and unconditionally.”
There was no posturing. Just a mother’s love, stripped down to raw, terrifying steel.
Sheila’s mouth worked uselessly. Her face flushed red, then turned ash-gray. Under Catherine’s absolute, unshakeable stance, she couldn't find a single word. Humiliation and panic finally snapped the last thread of Sheila’s control. She let out a shriek, raising both hands to claw at Catherine’s face.
She didn't even come close.
Cassandra moved like a shadow. One step and her hand wrapped around Sheila’s wrist like a steel cuff. A quick twist, a shift of leverage, a precise application of pressure and in one fluid motion, Cass slammed Sheila flat against the wall, pinned completely solid.
Leslie stepped out into the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest, “My clinic treats anyone who walks through the door.” She paused, her voice dripping with ice. “The moment you are bandaged, the GCPD will be waiting at the curb. This is out of my hands now, Sheila. And I hope they throw away the key.”
At the end of the hall, Stephanie let out a low whistle, turning to Crystal.
“...Mom. Catherine was ridiculously badass just now.”
Crystal smiled softly, pulling Steph in and ruffling her blonde hair. “Oh, please. Don't you know your mother’s just as badass?”
Once the police had hauled Sheila away and the noise died down, Leslie carefully finished bandaging Jason’s ribs. She gently brushed the messy curls away from his forehead.
Under her breath, almost like a private vow, she muttered: “...I treat everyone in this city. But nobody hurts my kids. If another bastard ever sends you through my doors looking like this again…” Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“I’m taking off this white coat and hunting them down myself.”
Jason went completely still. The cool touch of Leslie’s fingers, the clean smell of antiseptic, the quiet warmth of the room all hit him at once.
Tonight had been a nightmare. Joker. The fire. The collapsing roof. Damian threw himself under a falling steel beam to save his life. Catherine stood like an unbreakable shield between him and his past.
Every act of sacrifice, every piece of fierce, unapologetic love came crashing through his defenses simultaneously.
His eyes burned intensely. It hurt, but in the best possible way. Like taking a huge sip of hot pumpkin soup after being locked out in a blizzard…the heat blooming in his throat and spreading all the way down to his toes.
So this is what it feels like to be loved by everyone.
Cass tilted her head, her dark eyes gentle and clear as she held out a tissue. “Need some?”
Jason sniffed hard, fiercely forcing the tears back through pure teenage pride.
“No,” he mumbled, his voice thick and raspy. “It’s the smoke. And the ventilation in this place is terrible.”
Far beneath Wayne Manor, Oracle and young Tim sat side-by-side in front of the colossal Batcave mainframes.
On the primary display, Sheila Haywood’s extensive rap sheet scrolled by in red text: involuntary manslaughter and reckless homicide, pharmaceutical smuggling, and the systemic theft of United Nations emergency medical supplies from an Ethiopian refugee camp…
Tim pulled up the federal sentencing guidelines on his secondary screen, raising an eyebrow. “How many decades are we looking at here?”
Barbara’s fingers flew across her mechanical keyboard. She re-encrypted and secured the clinic’s hallway security footage, then pulled up the Gotham DA’s priority docket.
“Involuntary manslaughter via illegal medical practice. International contraband distribution. Grand larceny of humanitarian aid. Wire fraud. Tax evasion…”
Barbara pushed her glasses up her nose.
“Realistically? She’s never seeing daylight again. Thirty to forty years, minimum.”
Tim stared at Sheila’s mugshot—cold, self-serving, devoid of an ounce of warmth. He let out a long sigh.
“To have someone like that as your biological mother… Jason really drew the short straw.”
“No,” Barbara said softly, her voice brimming with quiet conviction. “Not at all.”
She turned her wheelchair slightly toward the feed monitoring Leslie’s back room. Catherine had just walked back in. She was wrapping her arms around both Jason and Cass, gently brushing the soot off their jackets.
“Jason’s real mother has been right there the whole time. From the very beginning… he’s had the mother who loves him most in the world.”
☾ ───── ✦ ───── ☽
By the time Batman began racing through the ruins, following the faint trail of physical evidence left behind, his breathing had grown heavy enough to sound like an overloaded steam engine.
The instant Jason cut his tracker and comms unilaterally, Bruce knew the situation had gone completely off the rails.
Oracle’s network had immediately kicked into full power, Barbara stripping apart every stream of data moving through Gotham’s night. Eventually, Batman narrowed the possibilities down to one approximate location and headed straight for the remote abandoned docks.
By the time the Batmobile tore through the rain and reached the scene——
Flames towered into the night sky as Warehouse Four succumbed to the inferno, its support beams buckling in a cascading structural failure. Jason had managed to drag two adults through the fire and out onto the docks through sheer force of will, but Damian had shoved Robin and Sheila directly into Bruce’s arms and vanished back into the smoke after the Joker.
Damian had insisted he was not seriously injured. Bruce did not believe him.
A detective’s eye caught the micro-expressions and subtle physical compromises instantly: the slight stiffness when Damian rotated his left shoulder, the singed Kevlar and melted ballistic fibers along the seam of his vest, the subtle, pain-avoiding hitch in his stride. Damian was badly hurt, bearing the brunt of severe thermal and kinetic impact trauma across his back.
From those minute physical traces and his own psychological profile of Damian, Bruce drew two immediate conclusions.
The first was that Damian could no longer operate publicly under his original identity.
The shifting aliases, the disguises, and his ghost-like movement through Gotham’s underbelly were a tactical necessity, designed to give him the freedom to infiltrate areas where his true name would invite immediate danger. He was protecting them all from the shadows.
The second conclusion involved the Joker.
Bruce had grown suspicious of the villain's movements three weeks ago. Arkham’s sweeping reform initiative lacked an operational dossier on the Joker, an anomaly that nagged at Batman’s mind. Then came the bombing at Gotham Central Hospital, a subsequent audit of the Batcave inventory revealed that a substantial cache of precursor chemicals stored in the destroyed basement level had been quietly swapped.
The Joker had not bombed the hospital out of spite or dramatic flourish, the explosion was a smoke screen to cover a theft.
To hide a leaf, one built a forest. If the Joker intended to strike a singular target, he would burn an entire city block to bury the true objective beneath the rubble.
The recent outbreak of gang violence, the hospital bombing, and the ambush on Robin were not random acts of chaos. They were a coordinated campaign of misdirection, designed to keep Batman reacting to visible catastrophes while the Joker refined a new compound in secret.
Tonight was the culmination of that strategy.
Batman’s boots hit the waterlogged mud without a sound. He fired his grapnel, swinging upward in a single, fluid arc of mechanical efficiency, and slipped silently into the rafters of the abandoned factory.
Below him, the engagement was already under way.
Damian stood in the center of the floor. His pupils were blown out, the flashblind grenade had compromised his vision, yet he navigated the shadows with lethal precision. A subtle shift of weight, a sharp rotation of his hips, and an armed mercenary dropped to the concrete before he could utter a sound.
Batman’s eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. Damian tilted his head toward empty air, murmuring a brief string of words to an unseen observer. Without pausing, he stripped the tactical jacket from the fallen mercenary, pulled it over his shoulders, and wrapped a heavy scarf around his face until every feature was obscured. Weapon in one hand, he pushed through the interior doors.
At the center of the main floor, perched atop a tower of pressurized chemical drums, sat the Joker.
The upper buttons of his purple suit were undone. He casually ran a hand through his green hair, baring the grotesque red grin that haunted the city's collective subconscious. Beneath the buzzing glare of industrial fluorescent lights, he held a tube of blood-red lipstick, carefully tracing his mouth with the quiet focus of an actor preparing for a performance.
He painted the red wider and ever more monstrous.
“I’ve been pondering something, my marvelous little intruder,” the Joker purred, his voice dropping into a thick, theatrical drawl that echoed through the hollow steel rafters. “A little curiosity about my rude, uninvited guest. You just love ruining my grand finales, don’t you?”
He tapped the lipstick casually against his cheek, leaving a wet smudge of crimson against his chalk-white skin.
“I keep thinking… and thinking… and thinking… which filthy little rat keeps crawling out of the sewer every single time my masterpiece is about to bloom?”
Then, without warning, his composure snapped.
He smashed the lipstick across his face, smearing a thick, violent streak of scarlet grease straight up his cheek, over his eye, and across his forehead. The theatrical drawl shattered into a piercing, shrieking falsetto that rattled the industrial lights overhead:
“WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO?!”
And just as abruptly as the scream tore out—absolute silence.
Joker casually raised the compact submachine gun in his right hand, leveling the barrel squarely at Damian’s chest. He cocked his head, his wide, bloody grin returning as if the outburst had never happened.
“The little recipe I used on our feathered Robin tonight… was yesterday’s fresh-baked,” Joker purred, his voice dripping with sinister curiosity. “So tell me, stranger, how did a total ghost know the antidote formula before I even finished cooking it?”
【The drums beneath him are inert. No pressure signatures, no toxic payload,】Tim’s voice cut through. Cold, precise, and measured.
【Customized submachine gun. Thirty-round magazine. Eighteen meters separation.】A brief pause. 【Safety latch is still engaged. He’s probing.】
Damian trusted Tim’s tactical assessment without a shadow of doubt. He slowly closed his aching eyes; the second-degree burns across his back flared with agonizing heat at every movement, but the pain only sharpened his senses. Behind his face covering, the corner of Damian’s mouth curved into a faint arc.
Villains eventually meet their own reckoning, he thought, recalling the lesson he had once passed to Jason. Cause and consequence.
【I know you’re enjoying the drama, Damian, but stick to the protocol,】Tim reminded him, his tone sharp with quiet authority.
“Tt. I do not require a babysitter.”
Joker’s brow furrowed, staring at Damian as though the masked intruder were the one who had lost his mind. Damian ignored the clown completely, addressing the empty air at his shoulder.
“This makes the tenth mark, correct?”
【Confirmed,】Tim replied.【The tenth. Only two remain after this.】
“HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!” Joker burst into a shrill, mocking cackle, leaning over the railing. “Who on earth are you talking to, sparty?! There’s nobody here but us chickens! Who else do you see in your little head, hmm?!”
In the high shadows of the rafters, Batman’s hand tightened against his grapnel. Every instinct told him to drop down and intervene, but the posture of the man below stopped him cold. There was no panic, no loss of control. Damian looked completely relaxed, centered, and in absolute command of the room.
Then he spoke, his voice low and unhurried:
“Do you know what a phoenix is, Joker?”
Joker’s head snapped to the side like a curious bird. “A phoenix?” His mouth twisted into a sudden sneer of disgust. “Ugh, a bird! Loud, chirping, feathered little vermin! No, no, no…” He giggled softly to himself.
“I much prefer my classic favorite. That dreary, dramatic little bat—”
“Then mark my words.”
Without breaking eye contact, Damian reached to his tactical belt, unclipped a heavy, modified respirator, and casually tossed it behind him toward a blind shadow at seven o’clock. In the same fluid motion, he sealed his own gas mask over his face.
Bruce caught the thrown device on pure muscle memory.
The moment his Kevlar glove molded around the casing, the tactical detective in him realized the truth: the interface seals, the jaw contour, the filter slot angle, even the quick-release catch tailored to his specific hand grip—it was designed for a Bat-suit iteration that didn't even exist yet.
Custom-engineered specifically for Bruce Wayne.
Damian had not only anticipated Bruce’s arrival; he had mapped Bruce’s exact stealth vantage point in the rafters before stepping through the door, providing him a tailored countermeasure against the toxin.
Bruce’s breath hitched beneath the cowl. Through the chemical haze and dim industrial glare, the figure below came into crystal focus: the silver-white hair at his temples, the unyielding line of his jaw, the heavy, familiar brow.
The detective didn't need to ask the question anymore. The answer burned silently in his chest:
Damian Wayne. My future son.
“You are no phoenix,” Damian’s voice echoed through the respirator, deadened and final. “Fire cannot cleanse a soul as rotten as yours, and you will not be granted a second act.”
Without a wasted movement, he switched the rifle to burst fire and squeezed the trigger.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three precise rounds shattered the decorative canisters beneath the Joker’s perch. White, thick smoke erupted with a violent hiss, instantly choking the warehouse in a blinding chemical fog.
For half a second, the Joker looked utterly blank. Then, his face split into an ecstatic, shrieking grin. His laughter bounced off the corrugated iron walls, painfully loud and manic.
“HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! The real gas left hours ago! My trucks carried it away singing a merry little tune! You adorable, self-satisfied little ghost!” He threw his arms wide, pivoting on the crumbling drum stacks.
“You think a little pop-gun stops me? You think this stops the madness?! No, no, no! This is merely the overture! The real nightmare hasn't even begun—Gotham is about to become the biggest, brightest amusement park in the world!”
【Someone is already handling the trucks,】Tim’s voice cut across,【Your script ends here, clown.】
“This is your final act,” Damian added, his voice carrying clearly through the swirling smoke. “And your final dance with Batman.”
【And we are the only two in the audience.】
“Come.” Damian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, turned toward the warehouse’s primary exit, and extended his collapsible staff. With a sharp scrape of metal against concrete, he drew a straight, definitive line across the floor.
“The stage is ready.”
He turned his back on the battlefield—and back on his father.
Before Damian could move to secure the perimeter, Bruce’s low, gravelly voice cut through the haze. “Your shoulder.”
“Tt. Irrelevant.”
“Your vision?”
“I have eyes.”
Bruce understood the absolute refusal buried beneath the answers. Silence settled heavily between them, broken only by the Joker’s distant cackle and the low rumble of thunder rolling across the Gotham sky.
“Ten minutes,” Batman commanded.
Damian gave a dry scoff behind his respirator. “Five.”
“Don’t show off, Redbird.”
“Likewise, Batman.”
And then, without a single backward glance, father and son broke away, running into opposite sectors of the night.
【Nine o’clock. Sniper on the elevated gantry. Down him.】
Pfft—!
A suppressed round tore through the rain. Hundreds of meters away, a mercenary bracing his rifle suddenly buckled as the high-velocity slug struck his lower leg. Damian didn't even break his stride.
Pfft—!
A second muffled crack. Another gunman raised his submachine gun, only for a micro-dose tranquilizer dart to sink deep into his wrist. Numbness seized his finger as the weapon clattered harmlessly to the ground.
Timothy immediately shifted his tactical overlay, 【Three hundred eighty yards. Three o’clock. Overwatch on the lighthouse.】
Damian exhaled the name quietly into his collar. “Pennyworth.”
Roughly three hundred and fifty meters away at the pinnacle of the old, rotting lighthouse, Alfred lay settled comfortably behind a heavy sniper scope. Through the high-magnification glass, he watched the young man below lift a single hand in silent acknowledgment. A faint, fond smile touched the old butler’s lips.
“Good evening, Master Damian.”
He cycled the next round into the chamber with the effortless grace of a lifetime spent in service. Without missing a beat, he tapped his comms. “Mr. Wintergreen, have you secured the primary transport bearing the Joker toxin?”
Wintergreen’s calm drawl echoed in his ear. “Intercepted and neutralized. Residual tire tracks suggest at least six decoys remain active in the grid.”
“No matter,” Alfred murmured, exhaling softly as he tracked another shadow moving through the rain. “The others are handling the fallout. I shall leave the field disposition to you.”
His eye returned to the rubber eyecup of the scope. Another squeeze of the trigger, another hostile dropped cleanly out of the equation.
With Alfred providing absolute, nonlethal overwatch from the heights, and Timothy feeding real-time, algorithmic tactical vision directly, Damian became a phantom.
More than twenty elite, heavily armed mercenaries stood between him and the exit. It didn't matter. He slipped through their perimeter like oil on water: fluid avoidance, structural entries, low-angle rotational locks, joint breaks executed a fraction of a second shy of permanent damage, and pressure-point strikes delivered with surgical malice.
Every single takedown ended with a clean carotid restraint or a fast-acting tranquilizer. There were no shouts, no warning shots, no panicked cries—only the sound of heavy bodies dropping quietly into unconsciousness one after another.
Within ten minutes, all twenty-plus mercenaries were flat on the wet concrete. Not a single soul managed to cross the line Damian had drawn across the floor.
Inside the warehouse, the final reckoning between Batman and the Joker had begun.
It was not a fair fight. It was never meant to be. In terms of raw, unadulterated combat mastery, Bruce’s superiority was absolute; his opening straight punch drove forward with the kinetic force of a piston, and the Joker lacked the reflexes to evade it. A sickening crack echoed as ribs fractured under the impact, instantly followed by a devastating knee strike that lifted the clown off his feet and hurled him backward through the air.
Yet the Joker had never survived this long because of his martial prowess. He survived because he cheated—viciously, instinctively, without an ounce of honor.
His spine smashed through a rotting brick partition, burying him in a heap of rubble. Instead of crying out, he erupted into barking laughter, thick blood staining his teeth. As he fell, he threw a handful of finely pulverized glass straight at Batman’s eyes.
Bruce snapped his head away, slamming his eyelids shut and throwing up a thick, armored forearm to block.
The Joker surged out of the debris like a rabid animal. No stance, no form, entirely driven by unbridled chaos. A poisoned stiletto snapped out from the toe of his shoe, slashing viciously toward Bruce’s knee tendon.
A chemical lapel flower spat a jet of corrosive acid across the Kevlar cape, steel garrote wire whipped from his sleeve toward Batman’s throat. He even deliberately exposed his ribs, baiting Bruce into a strike that would brush against a deadly transdermal paralytic compound.
Order against madness. Justice against Evil.
Bruce forced his body past the searing pain of acid eating into his tactical harness. The Joker lunged again, aiming a hollowed poison needle directly for his jugular. Batman’s hand snapped out in a single, furious parry—crack—shattering the glass syringe into dust.
Without hesitating, Bruce ripped a high-intensity tactical flashbang from his belt and slammed it hard against the floor between them!
【AH—! MY EYES!】
Damian, whose vision had only just stabilized from the earlier grenade, rubbed his face with a sharp, exhausted hiss. “Father genuinely needs to break his addiction to flashbangs.”
A blinding wall of white-hot magnesium light and concussive pressure tore through the cavernous room. The Joker shrieked, clutching his face as absolute darkness fell over his ruined optic nerves.
Bruce gathered every ounce of stored kinetic energy into his right fist and drove it upward in a devastating uppercut straight into the Joker’s jaw.
BOOM—!
The impact sounded like a lightning strike. The Joker’s feet lost contact with the ground entirely, his body snapping backward before colliding heavily with a stained concrete pillar and sliding down in a boneless, broken heap.
Unconscious.
Batman did not drop his guard for a fraction of a second. The moment the clown hit the floor, Bruce knelt, checked the erratic pulse, and slapped heavy-duty titanium cuffs around his wrists, locking his arms behind his back. He systematically stripped every hidden pocket, pulling out concealed razor blades, toxin capsules, remote triggers, and spring-loaded wires, before broadcasting the secure GPS coordinates directly to the GCPD priority channel.
Only then did Bruce straighten to his full height. He looked down at the motionless form of his worst enemy, his voice cold and final. “You failed. Joker.”
【He genuinely cannot hear a single word of your monologue right now,】Tim couldn't help chiming in.
Damian arched a single eyebrow. “Father is well aware, Drake.”
Out in the washing rain, they paused briefly beside the sprawling pile of unconscious mercenaries. Tim’s translucent form glided over the wet concrete, his analytical eyes sweeping the battlefield while Damian traded sarcastic corrections back and forth with the projection, though his gaze never truly left the tall, armored silhouette standing across the ruined yard.
The moment his tactical HUD and Tim’s projected scan picked up the microscopic tear along the palm-seam of Bruce’s left glove—frayed during the close-quarters struggle with the acid—Damian’s brow furrowed in automatic irritation.
【His vitals are nominal. Zero aerosol penetration. Left glove seal integrity is compromised by a whopping four point two percent—it’s a superficial scratch, he’ll survive,】
Timothy’s voice clipped into a clinical reprimand as his klein-blue eyes shifted to Damian.
【You, on the other hand, have second-degree chemical and thermal burns across your entire upper back. Sit down and let me run a quick scan before you collapse.】
The smoke cleared as the rain washed the air clean. Batman turned his head.
Damian stepped to the jagged, broken edge of the warehouse’s upper floor, his hand dropping naturally to the grip of his grapnel launcher. For a quiet, suspended moment, he looked across the distance at the Dark Knight, remembering the countless wars they had fought side by side—memories of a future that had yet to be written.
A fierce warmth bloomed beneath his ribs. As expected of my father. The highest, most uncompromising praise Damian was capable of offering.
“Drake,” he said, thumbing the activation stud of the launcher. “Prepare to extract.”
【You’re seriously not going to walk over and say hello? He’s literally staring right at you.】
“Unnecessary.” Damian’s grip tightened around the housing. “The primary objective begins now. This is hardly the venue for redundant sentimentality.”
【And Jason? He’s practically tearing up Gotham looking for you right now.】
A telltale silence settled between them. Damian’s shoulder hitched just a fraction before he locked his posture back down. “...I am formulating an adequate solution.”
【Right. You could always just put the wig back on and go back to being Daphne,】Tim remarked, raising a teasing eyebrow.
Damian let out a sharp huff of air through his nose. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
Pfft—crack! The grapnel cable shot into the dark, rain-swept sky, biting deep into a brick ledge overhead. Without another word, Damian stepped off the edge into the abyss.
【That I shall say good night till it be morrow.】Timothy recited dryly, keeping pace as Damian swung across the skyline, his tone shifting into genuine amusement.
【Since when are you quoting Shakespeare? Are you planning to infiltrate Gotham Academy as an English teacher next?】
“Tt. Drake.” Damian cut through the downpour in a clean arc, “I was bidding Father a proper farewell.”
【You literally have an appointment to meet him under a new alias in a few days, what on earth are you being melodramatic about?】
The agile figure vaulted over a gargoyle and dissolved seamlessly into Gotham’s stormy night.
At the threshold of the warehouse entrance, Batman came to a halt.
The mercenaries lay neatly bound and cataloged across the muddy pavement—every single threat neutralized, every angle secured with surgical precision. And there, scored clean and deep into the concrete by the hardened tip of a staff, was the line Damian had drawn.
Bruce’s heavy Kevlar cape snapped violently in the rising gale.
He did not cross it.
All it would take was a single squeeze of his grapnel trigger, thirty, perhaps fifty meters of line, and he could close the distance.
But behind him lay the Joker. Over twenty international mercenaries waiting for GCPD transport. An unstable, burning ruin. Unsecured evidence, volatile chemical residue, and the potential for secondary charges.
Bruce wanted—with a raw, physical ache that out-stung any acid burn or bruised rib—to run after Damian as a father. But the relentless weight of the cowl held him anchored to the stone. He had a duty to perform. He had to secure the prisoners, hold the scene, and ensure that Gotham’s morning sun did not rise over another nightmare.
So Batman stood immovable behind the line, his white lenses locked onto the shadows where Damian had vanished into the storm.
And whispered into the empty rain.
“Until next time…My son.”
☾ ───── ✦ ───── ☽
“Oracle, Spoiler, and Batgirl are in position. Ready?”
Barbara’s voice cut through the encrypted comms, clean and authoritative.
On the other end, two responses came back almost in unison:
“Ready!”
“Ready.”
This operation went down before Jason was brought to Leslie’s clinic. Later, the girls would hear Barbara mention over the radio that Robin had been injured and taken there for treatment, prompting them to head over to visit him.
But for now, under Oracle’s direct command, they were waiting in the shadows along a sharp bend connecting the industrial district to Gotham’s West End, positioned to intercept the first Joker Gang transport vehicle.
【Speed thirty-two. Road is clear of civilians. Spoiler—go.】
The second the order dropped, Stephanie burst from the treeline directly into the headlights.
The driver panicked, instinctively yanking the wheel to avoid a hit-and-run. The heavy van swerved hard, its momentum dropping instantly! In that precise window, a black shadow dropped from the overpass like a hunting bat, landing silently on the roof, it was Cass.
“Evening!” Stephanie offered a cheerful, wave-like greeting from the pavement.
Before the passengers could process her voice, Cassandra and Stephanie blew through the side doors. Batgirl was a sheer, unstoppable kinetic force; Spoiler was total field control. A short flurry of precision strikes, a joint lock, a disarm, done and dusted.
The driver and his armed passenger were stripped, cuffed, and unconscious before they even understood the breach had happened. The entire takedown was so seamless it looked rehearsed.
“Flawless execution, Spoiler. Batgirl.” Barbara’s voice returned over the feed. “Hold your position and await the recovery unit. Hazardous materials will be on site shortly to secure the Joker toxin.”
“Copy that, Oracle.” Stephanie cinched a heavy-duty tactical zip-tie around a mercenary’s wrists, adjusting her cowl. She glanced toward the city skyline and muttered, “Wonder how the boys are doing.”
Meanwhile, along the elevated highway cutting through the Gotham’s bridge, Mary Turner and Calvin were moving on the second transport.
It had been years since the former Talons had deployed together on an active run—not since the final stand against their former masters. Tonight, their unit had split: Mary teamed up with Calvin, while Zhang Fanhua and Alexander took the South Side route to handle the third truck.
“Operation is live,” Oracle’s voice chirped over the shared network.
Mary flashed Calvin a quick, practiced hand signal. Calvin pulled his mask up over his mouth, turning back with a wide grin.
“Man. This really takes me back,” he murmured. “I almost miss the good old days when we used to kidnap Talons for Dami.”
The transport truck was barreling down the asphalt at highway speeds. Using his legendary agility and spatial sense, Calvin vaulted onto the hood, scaled the windshield, and landed flat on the roof of the cab.
Two seconds. That was all he needed to pick the emergency sunroof latch.
In a single, fluid motion, he inverted his body and dropped upside down through the opening, sliding casually into the empty passenger seat.
“WHAT THE FUCK—?!”
“Shh.” Calvin raised a single gloved finger to his lips. “Buddy, let’s not scream while operating heavy machinery at seventy miles an hour.”
His left hand smoothly unlatched the driver’s seatbelt. His right hand seized the steering wheel, while his boot pressed the brake pedal with precise pressure, slowing the rig to a controlled crawl without breaking traction.
In the cargo bay, Mary came through the reinforced side glass like a thrown blade. Three armed guards. Three instant takedowns. One mercenary made a desperate dive for a pressurized Joker-gas valve, but his fingers never reached the latch. Mary’s side kick caught him under the jaw, lifting him off his feet and throwing him headfirst into the side wall. Unconscious before he hit the floor.
“Bravo!”
The truck rolled smoothly onto the gravel shoulder and came to a full stop, every chemical canister in the rear completely intact. Mary slid into the cab, and without a word, she and Calvin shared a synchronized high-five.
Over by the arterial approach at Burnside Bridge, Alexander and Zhang Fanhua had already wrapped up the third truck.
Even after years away from the Court’s blood-stained shadow, the muscle memory of surviving together against impossible odds remained carved into their bones. They didn't need words. The engagement was over long before the recovery vehicle arrived.
In the falling rain, the two lovers sat side-by-side on the roof of the captured transport, quietly wiping down their blades while they waited for the handoff.
As for the fourth vehicle… that one was an absolute disaster of coincidences.
Slade Wilson (Deathstroke) had taken young William (Respawn) to a covert training facility in the Washington district to run diagnostic combat drills. Rose happened to be on break and tagged along for the entertainment.
Grant Wilson, meanwhile, had fully intended to spend his rare day off inside his apartment, eating takeout and watching movies.
Then Nightwing called.
Naturally. Superheroes were selfish, demanding bastards with zero respect for personal time or federal labor boundaries.
Still, Nightwing had pulled Grant out of a tight spot once before. And after their last fight and a dramatic confrontation, Starfire, Nightwing, and a few other Titans had personally shown up to explain the situation, more importantly, they wrote a check for the property damage!
Which was the sole reason he was currently able to afford his beloved little apartment.
After a long, agonizing sigh, Grant agreed to help. Unlike Nightwing, who was based out of Blüdhaven, his new place was right in Gotham.
Why? Simple economics. Rent here was ridiculously cheaper than Metropolis or Central City, mercenary gigs popped up every other weekend, and the city seemed proudly committed to remaining the crime capital of the world. Plus, in his downtime, Grant could literally sit on his balcony and watch vigilante rooftop chases for free.
Honestly? Gotham was a thousand times more entertaining than boringly peaceful Central City.
After dropping Robin and that hysterical woman off at Dr. Leslie’s clinic, Grant had planned to head straight back to finish his movie. The Truman Show was hitting the climax, and he refused to miss it.
Then, two blocks from his building, he spotted a heavily modified, unmarked van creeping through the neighborhood.
The Joker Gang? Trying to set off a chemical attack right next to my apartment?!
ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING WAY.
Grant didn't even bother going back for his gear. He smashed the side window of a parked sedan, hotwired the ignition, slammed the gas, and initiated a reckless midnight pursuit.
At the next intersection, Grant yanked the emergency brake, drifting the sedan sideways to block the lane and forcing the van off the road. Several gang members piled out, screaming obscenities in their neon-colored gear and brandishing automatic weapons.
Grant stepped out of the wrecked sedan and looked around. These were his streets now. Property values in this district were finally stabilizing. If a chemical bomb went off here, his home equity would plummet back to zero.
Unacceptable.
He drew his sidearm. Two quick shots—the leader carrying a detonator dropped instantly. The other two thugs rushed him. At this point Grant’s patience was entirely depleted, he stepped forward through the downpour and put both men to sleep with a pair of brutal, short-range right hooks.
Inside the van, there were canisters everywhere, brimming with lethal neurotoxin.
Grant scratched his head. He was just reaching into his pocket to call Wintergreen when a heavy transport truck turned the corner. It looked like an armored gigantic Arkham ambulance on steroids.
The driver-side door opened, and a sharp-dressed man with gray-blue eyes stepped out, holding two pistols. He froze, eyeing Grant, who was currently crouching beside a van full of illegal bio-weapons without a gas mask.
They stared at each other through the rain. It was Dr. Thomas Elliot.
Grant swallowed hard, looking down at the dead thug at his feet—the one he’d shot in self-defense.
“Uh… Dr. Thomas. If I tell you this was a total accident, would you believe me?”
Thomas crouched down, pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, and checked the wound. His expression remained completely unreadable.
“Through-and-through thoracic entry. Time of death: under four minutes.” He stood up, wiping his gloves. “Preserve the scene. Place your weapon on the hood. You discharged a firearm to prevent an active chemical strike. The rest is a GCPD matter.”
Grant hesitated. “So… do we bury the body somewhere, or…?”
Thomas looked at him as if Grant had just asked whether the earth was flat. “Why on earth would you assume I dispose of corpses?”
“I mean, you’re a doctor in Gotham?”
“I run a psychiatric institution,” Thomas said coldly. “Not a mob clean-up service.”
From inside the truck’s passenger cab, Edward Nygma, who had been resting his eyes, slowly tipped his green bowler hat back. “From a purely academic standpoint, if one wished to dissolve cellular structure without leaving trace bone residue—”
“Nygma,” Thomas cut him off without looking back.
“...I was merely offering theoretical methodology.” Nygma pulled the hat back over his eyes and went back to sleep.
Under Thomas’s clinical direction, Grant helped haul over a dozen heavy toxin canisters into the back of the Arkham vehicle.
Once the cargo was secured, Thomas dusted off his coat. “Call the authorities. Then go home.” He climbed into the rig, slammed the door, and drove away.
Grant watched the taillights disappear down the wet alley. In his head, he immediately began drafting a mental letter:
Dear Mom,
You are NEVER going to believe the night I just had. I accidentally dropped a Joker Gang scumbag in self-defense, and while I was standing over the body, Dr. Thomas Elliot rolled up in a gigantic Arkham truck to collect the chemical weapons.
Yeah, the same doctor Dad ran into in the hallway when he brought Joseph in for treatment. This bizarre physician loaded fifteen barrels of bio-hazardous gas into his vehicle, tied the surviving thugs up like holiday hams, and left them on the sidewalk for the night shift patrol.
Mom, Doctor Damian’s friends are deeply, deeply strange weirdos.
P.S. Please know I am NOT going around murdering civilians. This was pure property defense. If the Joker blew up my street, my property value would collapse, and that is a terrible financial decision.
P.P.S. Next time I see Dr. Thomas, I’m sending him a fruit basket to thank him for the customer service.
Of the six vehicles deployed by the Joker Gang that night, the final three were heavy armored transports making a coordinated push toward Gotham’s commercial district.
Kate Kane was waiting.
Tonight, she wasn't wearing the Batwoman cowl. She was dressed in a tailored black military coat, commanding Kane Group’s private security division. Multiple heavy armored transports had been legally deployed to lock down the main thoroughfare.
Above them, news helicopters circled like vultures, broadcasting the standoff live. The Gotham Gazette website crashed three times under the traffic surge. Nearby residents had already been quietly evacuated thanks to anonymous Intel Oracle forwarded to the GCPD.
Kate stood in the rain as the head of the Kane family, using her public influence to shield the city.
High above, a reporter leaned out of a hovering chopper, shouting into her microphone over the roar of the blades:
“This is Gotham News live on scene! Camera, zoom in!”
“As you can see, Ms. Kate Kane is on the ground and taking total command! We have confirmed reports that the Joker Gang attempted a massive chemical strike on the commercial district! Can Kane Security hold the line against three armored transports?!”
The wind whipped Kate’s dark coat around her boots. In the distance, three modified armored trucks came roaring toward the barricade like wild beasts.
“Stand by,” Kate raised her gloved hand. Behind her, the elite response team locked their shields.
The moment the lead truck crossed the line, her hand snapped down. “Move.”
The tactical breach was instant. Kate herself, wearing a sleek ballistic helmet and visor, vaulted onto the roof of the lead vehicle. She slammed a magnetic hydraulic frame onto the top hatch.
“Three. Two. One.”
CRACK.
The hatch panel was torn off under hydraulic pressure. Kate dropped straight into the cab.
“Excuse me.”
An elbow strike to the driver, an iron wrist lock to the passenger, a quick grab for the wheel and she yanked the emergency brake.
The sequence took four seconds. The lead truck skidded to a dead stop.
Behind her, Kane security vehicles swept in, forming a secondary containment ring. One desperate Joker thug tried to toss a grenade-shaped canister toward an open storm drain, but Kate had already anticipated the play. She fired a specialized gel-containment round, trapping the dispersing gas inside an instant polymer bubble. At the same time, her crew sealed the drain with high-density foam, blocking any access to the sewer network.
The entire engagement was over in under ten minutes.
That night, every citizen watching the live broadcast remembered Kate Kane standing fearless in the rain, fighting for Gotham.
Kate looked up at the news chopper, flashed a sharp, confident smile for the lens, and let out an internal sigh.
Bruce, you asked me to contain the situation. You forgot to mention I’d be starring in a citywide reality show.
As dawn began to break over Gotham, Thomas Elliot leaned back against the steering wheel of the Arkham transport, utterly exhausted.
Aside from the three trucks Kate intercepted, Thomas had personally collected every remaining canister of the shipment. Earlier, from a distance, he had caught a glimpse of the Joker after Batman was finished with him—broken, bloody, and thoroughly neutralized. Thomas had concluded that personal retaliation was entirely beneath him.
Besides, he had spent the entire night acting as unpaid manual labor.
Edward had tormented him with insufferable riddles during the drive. Yet, upon arriving at each location, Nygma’s terrifying pattern-recognition skills allowed him to decode the convoy’s routes and pinpoint every hidden shipment instantly. Brilliant. Useful. Entirely devoid of manners.
Because while two young girls in purple and black tactical suits were doing the actual heavy lifting, Edward had sat in the cab, barked out instructions, pulled his green hat over his face, and gone to sleep. He hadn't touched a single barrel.
Thomas glanced back into the cargo bay. Over fifty recovered drums.
Dr. Quinzel insisted on calling it “Joker gas.” Clinically imprecise. The proper medical classification was Joker Neurotoxin Type 32—JV-32. A highly concentrated precursor solution.
And despite the bone-deep fatigue, Thomas felt a sudden, powerful surge of academic satisfaction.
These can be used for research.
Damian’s words echoed in his mind: The line between poison and cure is often just a matter of dosage and delivery.
Reverse-engineer the compound. Restructure the molecular bonds. Isolate the targeted micro-doses. Then, something engineered to kill could become the foundation of a revolutionary medical breakthrough.
Thomas pulled a leather-bound journal from his coat. As the rain slowly died down, he uncapped his pen and began a new entry:
Dear Diary,
Tonight, Gotham will likely sing praises to the invincible Kate Kane. But the true architect operating behind the curtain—the highly educated, heavy-lifting specialist—was me. Thomas Elliot. Top graduate of Harvard Medical School. Holder of dual doctorates.
Unlike Bruce, I have no desire to spend my afternoons posing for paparazzi. I prefer quiet. I prefer results. And fifty drums of JV-32 precursor are more than enough to engineer a neurological breakthrough that will shake the medical world.
Damian doesn't need to lecture me on how toxins and therapeutics exist on the same spectrum. Joker Neurotoxin Type 32 is a synthetic marvel capable of crossing the blood-brain barrier almost instantaneously, exerting precise authority over the central nervous system.
If we strip away its lethal, respiratory-paralytic, and depressive functional groups, while preserving only its hyper-potent synaptic activation and signal-amplification properties… it becomes an unprecedented targeted delivery platform.
Take ALS. Or advanced Parkinson’s. The core pathology is progressive motor-neuron decay and loss of signal transmission. If we use this neurotropic scaffold to carry protective molecules directly to stressed, surviving cells…
Or in cases of treatment-resistant depression and severe PTSD—we could use trace, non-hallucinogenic derivatives to forcefully break the brain's paralyzed feedback loops, executing a clean neurological reset on damaged reward pathways.
It could save millions of psychiatric and neurological patients.
Perhaps—just perhaps—it might even offer Professor Crane, currently confined in Arkham’s Type D sector, a legitimate therapeutic avenue.
He is an irredeemable bastard. That is beyond debate. But he also supervised my graduate research. He was once my professor and my mentor.
I know deriving life-saving medicine from Joker gas sounds completely unhinged. When I first knocked on Damian’s door and pitched the hypothesis, I fully expected him to commit me to my own asylum.
Everyone around us despises Crane. Pamela hates him. Harley hates him. Virtually everyone does, but Damian was different.
He didn't laugh at my proposal.
Instead, Damian stayed awake with me for twenty-four straight hours. We broke down everything: from baseline toxicology to long-term isolation protocols for later Arkham phases. He stress-tested every vulnerability in my proposal. Every risk. Every containment flaw. Together, we drafted over thirty pages of research.
Thomas paused, the memory surfacing with vivid clarity. He remembered those fierce emerald eyes shining in the dim light before dawn, and the quiet authority in Damian's voice:
“I believe this research has genuine value, regardless of what comes next, you will continue it.”
Thomas looked down at the page and let out a long, quiet sigh before he continued:
Honestly, Damian, you are the poison pill. Somehow your absurd medical idealism has infected my brain.
You’re a total drill sergeant. You refuse to sleep, and then you force me to spend midnight hours practicing micro-sutures on grape skins and tomatoes.
There are things I will never say to your face. There are so many convoluted, absurdly tangled emotions tied to your existence…
You are simultaneously the most infuriating tyrant I have ever met and the only mind capable of matching my own. But in the privacy of my diary, I suppose I can afford a brief moment of candor.
(Ahem).
I am glad our paths crossed, Damian. Thank you for having the intellect to believe in my work.
Thank you for giving me a second life.