Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, each passing second crystallizing his hatred for this city. Gotham was a rotten, dying place. It had consumed itself hundreds of times, stuck somewhere between hell and heaven. After his resurrection, Jason had thought for a while that this was limbo—a place that would never know peace, overflowing with people who had long been rotting alive, forever awaiting judgment. From Two-Face, from the Joker, and all the other scum. Awaiting judgment from the great Batman, who knew exactly how things should be done.

Jason was sick of the thoughts, the memories, the suffocating aura of Gotham. To drown out the noise in his head, he performed a flip, closing the distance between himself and Bruce.

Today was April 27th—the anniversary of his, Jason’s, death. And today, fate was finally smiling upon him: Batman and the Joker were supposed to be in the same building. And die. That would be fair. He accelerated, watching the heated exchange between Robin and Batman from above. He tapped into Bruce’s hidden comm and started listening.

— I’m sick of you not taking me seriously! I’m not Grayson, whose job was to entertain people. I was damn well born to kill! Stop treating me like a child! If you want to grieve, go home and host another charity gala, but we need focus here—why am I even telling you this?

Batman, of course, remained silent. Jason sneered under his helmet. This new brat. Even for Bruce, replacing Drake had happened too quickly—the kid had left Jason just a year and a half ago, leaving him with a couple of broken bones. (Strangely, he couldn't even remember why he’d let the Robin walk away.)
The Red Hood’s resources were still insufficient to instantly track down everyone and everything (sometimes he missed Barbara), so he’d never found out where this tanned boy had come from or where Drake had disappeared to. But… grieving? No mentions of Tim Drake’s death had surfaced in the media, Jason’s own sources were silent. The Red Hood’s influence was enough to have informants in Gotham, and he knew—they wouldn’t lie. The man clenched his jaw, fighting back a surge of irritation. How many more heads needed to be put on spikes before the rats smelled which way the wind was blowing? He urgently needed new informants and to deal with the two remaining syndicates, because the new Robin was suspiciously… a blank slate. He seemed to have emerged from the fog—no documents, no trace of ever being in Gotham. Jason knew he was using forged papers, and searching for him on cameras was useless, but his sources were silent, and no new leads appeared.

It was all background noise, almost insignificant against the backdrop of his all-consuming obsession with Batman. Against the thirst for revenge. Jason forgot to eat more than once a day and to sleep—more than four hours—because all his time was spent getting to this moment. Combing the city inside out, exhaustingly slowly dealing with gangs, mafia branches, and the occasional lone hero who got in the way. He had already merged with the process of retribution, become the embodiment of the revenge and hatred that had raised him from the dead—all just to reach this instant.

They finally approached the industrial area. Jason glanced at the "Ace Chemicals" sign and swayed, momentarily losing his balance and nearly slipping off a stone gargoyle. The Red Hood continued his silent pursuit, careful to corner them without getting a Batarang to the throat like last time, when he’d almost caught the damn Bat. Hovering above one of the warehouses, he watched as Robin gestured animatedly again, trying to convince Batman of something (a shitty idea). Pushing off from the roof, the kid silently jumped through one of the broken windows, blatantly ignoring Batman’s response. Jason accelerated and jumped in after him, feverishly trying to recall all the details of this case.

Joker and Harley had been laying low for months, clearly preparing something. But this time, there were no leads. No major clashes, no random encounters—except for one indirect deal with Scarecrow that didn’t involve fear toxin or its formula. No drawings across the city, no strangely escaped Arkham patients, no bribed people where they didn’t belong. Everything was too quiet, as if the Joker had shifted his focus and forgotten about Gotham (which would never happen, meaning he was preparing something new, as always), so Jason couldn’t predict what awaited him this time, only integrating a gas mask into his helmet and stashing a couple of antidote syringes in one of his utility belt pouches.

Inside the building, silence reigned, with light only coming from one of the staff break rooms. The warehouses were empty—no traps in the boxes, no marks on the walls. It was as if the warehouse had been left exactly as it was—dusty, with stupid motivational posters saying "Stay Safe at Work!" and fine print about the company not being liable for on-the-job injuries. Finally, Jason’s gaze met that of the new Robin, and his hand instinctively reached for his gun. The kid was significantly smaller than the previous one and built like a toy soldier—assembled as if to die in this city for the insane ideals of a deranged billionaire. Perched on a ceiling beam, Jason clicked the safety off his pistol. Knowing Batman was to the left, he immediately aimed a second pistol in that direction, the click of the slide serving as a warning that any move could be their last. The kid ignored him, just silently nodding his head towards the lit room. And Batman… did the same.

Jason froze. In all this time of their mad game of cat and mouse, Bruce had never ignored him. The fact that he was now openly prioritizing the damn Joker was like throwing a burning torch onto a mountain of TNT soaked in gasoline. Without taking his focused gaze off Batman, the Red Hood moved his arm and with a precise shot shattered the break room window. The last intact window.

A rustle of a cape behind him made him tense. But the kid wasn’t trying to immobilize or stun him. Jason tilted his head slightly and saw Robin’s shadow had moved to a neighboring beam, closer to that very room from which there was still no movement. Bruce finally moved and, continuing to ignore the pistol aimed at his forehead, jumped to the floor, gripping three Batarangs. This was starting to piss Jason off.

A raspy laugh came from behind the door, sending shivers down his spine. Todd gripped his pistol so tightly his hand trembled slightly. Robin jumped through the already broken window, Bruce rushed after him, kicking the door in, and suddenly music flooded the entire warehouse.

On the farm, ev'ry Friday
On the farm, it's rabbit pie day
So ev'ry Friday that ever comes along
I get up early and sing this little song

A few seconds later, Batman flew out of the room, followed smoothly on roller skates by Harley, singing along and swinging her giant mallet.

— You missed family dinner! Sorry, we have nothing to offer tonight except a goodnight kiss from my beautiful hammer!

Jason flew into the break room through the shattered window and quickly scanned the area. It all looked like an old sitcom set: a large blue sofa, a TV against the wall, a staircase to the second floor covered with photos of the Joker and Harley in plain clothes and a classic domestic setting, like making breakfast—which looked utterly insane.

The Joker himself, clad in bat-patterned pajamas, dodged the new Robin’s katana strikes. He glanced at Jason and shrieked, contorting:

— Jay-Jay, we have guests! Come say hello, it’s rude to sit in your room all day!

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer's gun
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run, run

Jason aimed one of his pistols at the Joker, gritting his teeth:

—Enough games for today.

He was trying with all his might to stay cool, but the music seemed to only get louder. His nerves were stretching and heating up faster. His composure was visibly melting away.

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
Don't give the farmer his fun, fun, fun
He'll get by without his rabbit pie
So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run

The next instant, the Joker was pinned against the wall—a katana pressed to one temple, and from the far corner of the room, a pistol aimed at the other. Harley’s laughter outside the door stopped, and Batman re-entered the room, carrying the bound and immobilized girl. Jason aimed his second pistol at him, smirked bitterly, and finally allowed himself to relax a little. Euphoria wrapped around him pleasantly from all sides, nervous excitement surging. Finally, finally, finally.

— Well, the gang’s all here. You know, I always believed fate hated me. But today is practically a gift. Getting rid of two city plagues at once… I could count that as a birthday present, don’t you think?

Jason wanted to talk, of course he did. He’d been working towards this for over two fucking years and had the right to say everything he thought.

The Red Hood tilted his head, looking at Batman with theatrical expectation. Robin flinched and, forgetting caution, tried to lunge at him from behind. The Joker chimed in again:

— Don’t worry, Batsy, we’ll finish them off as soon as we’re done playing! I know you hate overly persistent fans and disobedient children, so we’ll kill two birds with one stone!

Batman didn’t answer, throwing one of his Batarangs at the wall next to the Joker and quickly closing the distance between them, grabbing him by the shoulders.

The kid moved pretty well… but Talia herself had once taught his reflection how to counter such agility.
If your opponent is smart and agile enough, let him ensnare himself. Use plasticity and break it through rigidity.
Jason deftly hooked the katana blade with his gun barrel,took a step back, knocked the weapon from the kid’s hands, sharply yanked his right arm, and flipped him over his shoulder.

The Joker burst into fresh gales of laughter but didn’t even try to resist, while Harley struggled in her steel bonds. The Red Hood cursed inwardly. Of course. Just had to happen. The kid, like an enraged wildcat, tried to lunge at him again, not even thinking about his lack of a weapon. The man was almost impressed by his stubbornness and agility. He briefly considered checking all heirs of criminal families for connections to Wayne or the cops. Maybe Babs had found him?

And Batman stood frozen, holding the Joker, still not moving to knock him out, staring somewhere into the darkness of the break room. And it seemed it wasn’t a hallucination, because even his new partner was starting to get pissed off.

— Batman! Come on!

The Joker, leaning against a dining table in the corner, smirked, not taking his piercing gaze off Batman.

— What’s wrong, dear? See a ghost?

The Red Hood finally froze, still holding Robin in a chokehold. As if obeying a single impulse, they both turned their heads towards the far part of the "kitchen."

There stood the Joker.A small, skinny boy who looked like a perfect reflection of the Joker, if he were a small ventriloquist’s dummy.

Jason loosened his grip and took a blow to the jaw—the mask creaked dangerously,but he didn’t care. He still didn’t move, just dulling the throbbing pain and trying to figure out what the hell was happening. The boy held a pistol aimed squarely at Batman, standing like an immovable statue in the middle of the room. Harley had already freed one arm from the ropes. Jason looked again at the pale face. He looked about thirteen: a chemical smile, constricted, almost invisible pupils, and scars framing his face—smooth, healed, confirming he’d spent more than a month here. Inside, a vile knot of fear and anger began to twist, seasoned with realization. Bruce knew. Bruce knew this boy was here. Tim Drake had been here all this time. The new Robin froze in a fighting stance, as if unsure what to do.

The Joker, clearly satisfied with everyone’s reaction, approached the boy. Jason jerked from his spot, already wanting to knock away his hand, which hadn’t even touched the boy’s shoulders.

— Batman, this is Jay-Jay. You know, I saw how the last birdie disappointed you and how he fell short of even having a weepy little grave, so I took him and fixed him! Things aren’t as bad as before now, but I think next time it’ll be perfect. Three is a lucky number, right?

He stroked the boy’s shoulders. He was tense but silent, still clutching the pistol so tightly that veins stood out on his almost white hands—blue and thin, like a spiderweb. Batman finally spoke:

— What the hell did you do to him.

— God, Bats, same thing every time. I told you—improved him! Adjusted a screw here, removed some excess there, — he ran his hand through the boy’s green hair.

And it seemed Jason was starting to feel sick. All his scars ached at once, as if reopening. He was fifteen again, and his legs weakened from this utterly real sensation, but Todd forced himself to stand, tightly squeezing and then sharply opening his eyes under the helmet, as if hoping to wake from a nightmare.

Robin looked at Batman, then at the Joker, and his face took on a surprisingly bewildered, almost childlike expression. Only now could Jason guess his age—was this toy soldier really eleven? Usually, his furrowed brows in a displeased scowl, focused voice, and perfectly honed agility made one think the kid was just unlucky with his height. But in reality, Jason had ignored the obvious. He was younger than Jason and two years younger than Dick when he was taken. The new Robin’s voice finally started to sound right. Scared. Or was he finally being heard correctly?

— Why… why didn’t you even try to find him? Why didn’t you say anything? Why…

The boy stammered. The Red Hood buried the last safety keeping him from snapping. He swung and hit Robin on the back of the head, knocking him out of the game for at least two hours. He couldn’t let things go further in front of this child. The police considered the Red Hood a bastard who cleaned up Blüdhaven of similar bastards. They were sure his loss of sanity was a matter of time. But Jason had a code. He had rules Batman had drilled into his brain as a kid, and though he and Talia had managed to recast that altruistic nonsense into something more practical, the principles still existed. If you can shield a child from harm—shield them. Hide them. Act. The situation now demanded minimizing the damage. Solving the penultimate task for the day, Jason grabbed a pistol from the floor, lying a step away from him, and shot Quinn in the chest as she was just finishing with the ropes and reaching for her hammer. She howled and curled up on the floor, bleeding. The Joker got distracted, returning to reality.

— Pity. He’s as weak as his mother. And the Robin heredity is just vile. I made him better, but you know… he’s still a disappointment to us both.

The Joker shoved the boy in the back. He stumbled slightly and again shifted his empty gaze from the Joker to Batman. Bruce, taking advantage of Harley’s cries, had already thrown something small towards the Joker. And suddenly the Joker laughed. Loudly and violently, as if wanting to scream but unable to.

Jason couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged forward, but the pistol in the boy’s hand just popped, firing a signal flare. "Boom."

The next instant, two nearly merged shots rang out—right between Bruce’s ribs and cleanly between the Joker’s shoulder blades. These were the last rounds in the Red Hood’s magazine. The last thing Jason was capable of, besides running.

A click sounded. The grapple hook dug into the beams under the warehouse ceiling. The boy started kicking at him with his feet, but all sensations reached Jason too slowly and muffled, so he hardly noticed, flying out of the warehouse with this child in his arms.

Gotham greeted him with unexpectedly clear weather and silence. Maybe another auditory hallucination had visited Jason, but the whole world seemed to freeze, fall silent, and disappear. Tim stopped kicking.
Yeah, that’s right, Jason reminded himself. His name is Tim Drake, and you tried to kill him twice. And then the Joker locked him up for…a year? A year and a half? And Batman didn’t save him. Of course, Bruce didn’t save him.

They quickly switched to the motorcycle. Drake no longer resisted. He really did look like a doll—just as lifeless until you spoke to him, just as small and unreal. Pale, almost white skin. A smile as if burned by something poisonous. Sunken cheeks and too-dark circles under his eyes. The eyes themselves—red, pupils so small they looked poked out with needles. Green hair, unnatural, like nylon. His gaze was imprinted on Jason’s retina. Defeated. Tim didn’t fight. He hadn’t endured. Jason knew this because he’d seen his own reflection in a puddle of his own blood back there, before the explosion. He’d looked exactly the same. Didn’t want to, couldn’t fight anymore.

Blüdhaven greeted him with the noise of police sirens and blocked roads. He had to use the tunnels under the city. Tim continued to be silent. In the rearview mirror, it seemed he wasn’t breathing, just mechanically holding onto the motorcycle seat, staring into emptiness. The Red Hood didn’t even think about why he’d done what he’d done. It was one of those things that didn’t need reflection. He knew Bruce would break him. He knew Batman would kill this boy, and the Joker would take another. And it would repeat. Again and again. Until he finally finished off Batman or the Joker. And now Jason couldn’t do that. Because Tim needed to get back on his feet. Because at least one of them had to get what they needed. And he wasn’t going to become a second Bruce. Jason floored the gas. He won’t abandon him. He’ll be better than that emotionally immature avenger in a bat costume. He won’t let the world create another Red Hood. At least not today.

He picked Tim up again. Jason didn’t remember when he’d draped his jacket over him, but the boy didn’t move, only breathing in shallow, ragged bursts, sometimes squeezing his fingers into Jason’s shoulders.

The man opened the door to one of the safehouses, took off his helmet, and slowly sank to the floor, realizing what had just happened. What he had done. What the Joker had done. What that bitch life had pulled off once again. And how Jason had given it the middle finger, holding in his arms this… this semblance of a person, diluted with Joker. Damn. Jason’s mother should be fucking proud of him. Because today something had changed. Something had made him better than that whole pack of Gotham heroes. He dialed Talia, letting out a heavy breath.

— You owe me a debt. Remember?

Chapter Text

Some nights in Gotham felt eternal. Some dawns never arrived with the sun. This particular morning was steeped in despair and fear. Barbara Gordon was already on her sixth cup of coffee, typing yet another line of code one-handed. She was jerked from her focus by the phone ringing. She answered immediately.

— Oh god, Dick, finally! Someone's finally—

— This is not Master Grayson.

— Alfred, what's wrong with them?

— Everything is under control, Miss Gordon. Master Grayson is currently under heavy sedation—he had a breakdown after… after Master Bruce informed him about Master Drake. Master Bruce is also under significant medical sedation, so for some time, you will have to—

— Hold down the fort. Yes. I'm scrubbing the network as much as I can. How long do I need to keep this powder keg from blowing?

— I estimate approximately two days, perhaps three. The situation here is rather… disordered. We are already resorting to experimental serums as the bullet reached a lung. The shooter was precisely aware of the armor plating joints and the vulnerability between the ribs. This concerns me.

—Right, I'm working on it. Keep them stable.

Alfred hung up, and Barbara let out a heavy breath, sending another alert about an armed robbery to the GCPD. This morning was just one long nightmare. The Gotham Gazette accounts and every conceivable media outlet had been hacked. Every screen, every YouTube video, every newscast was blaring the same thing. The Joker. He was everywhere, despite sitting behind bars in Arkham, hooked up to IVs and unconscious. Barbara knew he'd be out in two weeks, once the bones knit, or once Harley found a surgeon able to install some high-tech implant that would later repel bullets or perform other impossible feats. The entire city was in an uproar because the footage of Batman and the Joker being shot had also hit the airwaves, and the power grab had already begun.

Barbara was having to work for both the GCPD and the Bat. She exhaled sharply again, forcing herself to focus on her task: purging the hundred-odd clips uploaded to news feeds, splashed across billboards, and sitting in YouTube's top trending for the last five hours. What she was seeing was beyond any limits. The Joker hadn't just made a few creepy videos for Gotham, like before. He'd filmed an entire series documenting a year and a half of torture. And he hadn't tortured just anyone. He'd tortured Tim. Tim Drake, who, according to Bruce and Dick, had been dead for a year and buried next to Jason Todd. He'd tortured her protégé, Dick's little brother, a child, for a year and a half, and now every citizen of Gotham was seeing it in all its glory. Seeing it without knowing their names. Through a year and a half of torture, he hadn't given up a single name connected to Batman. He had fought while the entire family believed him dead. Barbara's guilt bordered on boundless fury. She already knew exactly what she had missed, which details had slipped past her scrutiny and led to this.

When Batman and Nightwing received an invitation to a "family reunion" from the Joker, they'd had a day's head start but no address. They'd considered every available scenario, re-scoured every frequently hit or vulnerable location in Gotham one more time, but no one had expected the Joker to stage an entire spectacle, building the set in a matter of goddamn hours, and then contact them through Robin's comms channel. In the end, Barbara had watched a reconstruction of the Flying Graysons' final act, with what they'd thought was Tim lying in the center. Tim, who'd been missing for four months and maintaining only passive contact, crushed under a giant, garishly painted ball labeled "GUILT." That had been too much for her back then. She'd been inattentive. All of them had. Now it was happening again, but this time it was just her and the Joker staring back at her from the screen.

— Hey, Jay-Jay, what time is it? —The Joker grinned into the camera, standing there in bat-patterned pajamas, a stuffed bear in his hand. Barbara clenched her fists in a silent rage bordering on utter helplessness.

— Story time! — The boy standing beside him mirrored the Joker perfectly—posture, smile, tone of voice. He was gaunt and pale, almost white, like a porcelain doll. Exhausted and utterly broken.

— Good boy! —The Joker ruffled Tim's hair. Barbara slammed her fist on the desk, a wave of physical nausea hitting her. The urge to grab the gun from under the table grew. A few seconds later, she steeled herself again, her fingers flying over the keys, trying to excise this filth from the web.

— Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a bat. And the bat had a dream… —The Joker's voice was a low, husky whisper, his gaze locked on the viewer. Tim lay in a bed, clutching a blood-stained teddy bear, eyes shut. — And the bat's dream was for the whole world to be predictable and simple. Grey as dust and easy as two plus two.

Barbara double-clicked, deleting the feed from one of the giant screens somewhere in the city center. Finally.

—And the bat did everything for its dream. It put collars on the other animals and walked them on leashes, so they'd do everything exactly as the bat wished.

The boy on the bed twisted his face in disgust, clutching the toy tighter. The Joker just chuckled, running his hand through the boy's hair.

—What's wrong, Jay-Jay? — he asked, his voice a mockery of calm tenderness.

—I don't like this part of the story. The bat ruins everything.

—You know the rule, kiddo. First you gotta see something bad…— The Joker sighed theatrically, fingers still tangled in the boy's hair, —…before you can make something good. — His hand snapped into a fist, yanking the hair at the roots. The boy cried out and jerked, trying to pull away.

— Tsk-tsk-tsk, Jay-Jay. You know how it upsets Daddy when he's not listened to. — He stood up in one sharp motion and dragged Jay-Jay behind him like a ragdoll.

She paused the video and slowly exhaled, fighting back another wave of nausea. She had to watch this. See every step, catch everything, from the Joker's mood to every detail of the locations, to find what shouldn't have been on camera. Oracle had to find something useful. She was utterly helpless in real-world chases; she had already failed once, succumbing to emotion and grief, and now they were here. She absolutely had to find something here that could help them. Barbara no longer had the right to make a mistake, to be inattentive, because now she remembered the blood and bone analyses no one had bothered to double-check, she remembered the absence of specific surgical sutures that indicated it wasn't Tim's actual suit. She remembered too many details that proved Tim was now somewhere in the bowels of Gotham, captured again because of her. Oracle would not allow herself to lose him again.

— See? Told ya. You always gotta see the bad before you find the strength to make something good to fight it — The Joker pulled away a white sheet with a flourish, revealing a large surgical table with leather restraints.

— Don't make Daddy any more upset, Jay-Jay. Let's just fix this little… flaw in your sweet, little head.

The Joker stood with his back to the camera, a pistol in one hand, the other gesturing toward the table. Tim stood there, clutching the bear. The smile had vanished from his face, his eyes darting frantically around the room. He stared right into the camera and began to whisper something convulsively, but the speech analyzer couldn't pick up a thing. Barbara stopped typing, staring at the screen in horror. Tim started to babble, as if only now comprehending what was happening.

— No, no, no, no. Don't. Don't want. Stop. — He dropped the bear and began to stumble backwards, out of frame. She zoomed in on the camera feed and saw a red, inflamed scar peeking out from under the long sleeve of the pajama shirt.

— No, not again. Not now. — He started looking around wildly, clearly searching for an exit that wasn't there. Barbara knew there was no exit because this was just the thirty-second "episode" of "Funny Family"—the Joker's title for the 105 twenty-five-minute videos that parodied a popular sitcom.

Joker fired a shot into the wall somewhere, and a loud, furious shout echoed through the room:

— Harley! He's broken again, goddammit!

Tim was off-screen somewhere, and the sound of a chair being thrown and missing followed. Then came muffled cries, cut through by Harley's saccharine voice:

— Puddin', why're you bein' fussy so late? Ya know how tired Daddy gets at work…

The Joker stepped out of frame, mumbling something barely audible. The footage cut. Music swelled again, and the scene changed: Tim was strapped to the table, unconscious and bloodied. There was so much blood she couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from. Tim's wrists were raw and bleeding from the restraints, his cheek had an open cut, his nose wasn't broken but was also bleeding, and the white of his right eye was flooded with red. The Joker peeled off his gloves and dug his fingers into the boy's hair again.

— C'mon, kiddo, wakey-wakey. Show Daddy those pearly whites!

Tim's pupils no longer reacted properly to light; one was dangerously dilated. In one hand, the Joker held two cortical stimulators; with the other, he was massaging Tim's scalp. There was no gag this time, unlike the previous video, and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth down his chin. He was making him scream.

The Joker flicked him on the forehead, finally eliciting a response. Tim's smile still wasn't a perfect mirror of his, but it was enough to radiate pure horror through the screen. His gums were bleeding too. Red was everywhere; on Tim's lips, on Tim's hands, on Tim's face, on the table Tim lay on. It was simply impossible to imagine how he was still alive, given the blood loss alone.

Barbara couldn't take it anymore. She hit pause.

A tear was tracing a path down Tim's cheek, he was staring somewhere upwards, the Joker's hand frozen in his hair. Barbara returned to battling the virus that prevented her from deleting the videos from the network. The Gotham Gazette site finally gave up and went down with an error screen. If she couldn't extract the virus and erase the clips, she'd just take the whole network segment offline until they figured it out. Another gulp of coffee let her breathe out and refocus. Oracle began writing a report for Batman on the death of Tim Drake a year ago. They had been played, manipulated through complex pressure on their collective trauma. The circus and the Graysons, so Dick and Bruce couldn't even try. All those sets had just been a distraction, which was why the Joker never showed up that night. He left a wind-up devil in a jack-in-the-box on the floor with a small note:

'Damn, that one didn't work either, next time for sure!'

Of course, it was all just to take the world's greatest detectives off the board.

Barbara wasn't the greatest detective, but that wasn't her job. She was Oracle. She looked for mistakes and vulnerabilities and exploited them if they were the enemy, hid them if they were her own. So she reviewed the blood analysis reports, recalculated the body's fall from the trapeze — and of course a body wouldn't lie like that under those conditions, of course it had been placed like that. She found an old GCPD report on the capture of Professor Pyg, caught in a hospital trying to steal anesthetics and heavy-duty painkillers. Back then, her father had written it off as Pyg's insanity and a new, unrealized plan, but now everything fell into place. They had mutilated the corpse's face and skull, but left a similar build to avoid suspicion, the same scars so Bruce would see them and stop doubting. And of course, no one had noticed the uncharacteristic leftward curvature of the spine that wasn't Tim's. The Joker hadn't really tried to fake Tim's death. He had just delayed his own capture. He played on their inattention in the wake of shock. Made them believe just enough for his purposes.

Barbara exhaled heavily and groaned, dragging her hand forcefully over her face. There were so many mistakes in this case, so many details that practically screamed they were being mocked, and she hadn't seen it. Missed it, even though she was supposed to be the all-seeing eye. The Oracle who always knew what was coming. With a click, the report was sent to Batman. She continued watching one of the screens, managing the media and finally turning the video back on. Barbara no longer had the right to error or inattention, no right to grief or rage, but that wouldn't stop her from destroying that damn clown and finding her brother.

Gotham resembled a rabid animal out of its cage, shocking everyone in the vicinity. The LexCorp building teemed with people like ants. Elevators ran non-stop, up and down, each one bringing more people. Lex Luthor skimmed another news summary, finishing his cup of coffee:

—They've lost their minds. Excellent.

Another assistant took the cup and tablet. Lex didn't even glance at her, turning to the window.

—Where's Graves?

— In the lower levels, sir. She's dealing with your project. There seem to be some complications, and

—That's enough. I'll go down there myself and dock her pay for negligence.

Waiting for the assistant to leave the office, Lex entered a four-digit code on the cabinet panel and stepped into his private elevator, immediately addressing the voice assistant.

— Victoria, status on the League and the Superman situation.

— Nothing yet, Lex. Gotham is a red zone for metahumans, especially in Batman's absence. But according to projections, if the crime wave spills beyond the city or Batman fails to make contact within a week, the Justice League will intervene.

Luthor paused for a fraction of a second.

— Do we have three days until Batman is back in the game?

— I'm afraid even less. Nightwing and Robin are still active. Chance of success is 30%. Do you want to initiate Protocol Eclipse?

— This isn't about chance, or a gamble. It's about the amount of power we can seize while these idiots squabble over money and unresolved childhood issues. — Lex glanced at his reflection, baring his teeth in a predatory grin. Despite the early six a.m. hour, he was in a splendid mood, perfectly aware of how to exploit the chaos. Chaos breeds panic, panic leads to irrational decisions and distracts people from what matters. Exactly what he needed to make everyone stop looking at him.

The elevator doors opened silently. The laboratories of the underground sector greeted him with quiet, organized efficiency. Scientists and doctors scurried across the floor with folders and documents, but unlike the people upstairs, they knew exactly what they were carrying and where. They did their jobs quickly, wasting no time on shouting or disorientation. If the top of the tower resembled a broker's floor during a market crash, the -7th level was like a morgue during the plague; a ton of corpses, but perfect organization. Lex's favorite place.

Mercy didn't greet him, giving a short nod and heading towards the testing wing.

— Subject Thirteen's tests. He doesn't respond to rational control.

— Only those without needs are uncontrollable. Create them. A need for approval, altruism—all the things Superman was so full of at the start of his career. Superman's main trait is empathy. Make him see himself in that boy. Make it so he can't raise a hand against him. I need him ready by tomorrow morning. At worst, use sound on a frequency we can't hear, but he can. Use his hyper-sensitivity and start working, finally.

Mercy quickly took the folder, and they finally reached the designated hangar. The room greeted them with a cool, damp chill. Six rows of vats were fogged and covered in condensation, computers working tirelessly, analyzing data from the sensors. Mercy and Lex quickly descended and approached the third row, to Vat #13. Luthor tilted his head slightly, examining the contents. In the nutrient gel, in an artificial sleep, floated Subject 13—a boy who looked about sixteen, with curly hair and pale skin, but possessing enough musculature to shatter the glass and enough strength to level an entire Cadmus wing.

— I don't need a soldier. I need someone who will be better than Superman. Someone more human and weaker in spirit, but stronger in body and mind. I need the perfect legacy of human intellect and Kryptonian power. We've had killing machines from other planets before; what's the point? What's the profit besides destruction? Destruction must not be chaotic. If you strike, aim for the pressure point. Give him the power to kill Superman, but don't turn him into a blunt instrument, or it's a worthless investment. No one is interested in mannequins next to real people.

Of course, Subject Thirteen had once even tried to destroy the lab, and Lex had ordered him disposed of. But as it turned out, he was the only subject capable of communication and possessing actual sentience. Lex Luthor is a scientist, not a magician; they had no guarantees that even one more of the thirty-six subjects would be capable of the same, so he had to be kept under special observation.

— Expose him to red sun radiation more often. Teach him pain and communicate with him. Create perfect weaknesses. Use his hyper-sensitivity and emotionality. Make him love and hate. Make him ask uncomfortable questions and think.— Lex watched his own reflection in the green light of the vats and grinned again, like a predator on a successful hunt.

— And also, blame Superman. People always find it easier to live with hatred. Let him believe he's human, as long as it pays off. —  Lex finally studied the boy's expression: he was frowning, as if plagued by a nightmare, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

— He must be ready in twenty-four hours.

Lex left without looking back and without returning the folder with the test results. Of course, he knew his people always did their jobs. But if you want something done right, do it yourself, right? No one, ever, would do it better than him, especially when it came to Superman. Stepping back into the elevator, Lex addressed Victoria again.

— Send all current Gotham crime data to my desk and run a statistical analysis regarding Protocol Eclipse.

— It will be done.