***
[Feat Achieved! Heavy Handed Recruitment]
[+1 Silver Gacha Ticket]
I was still giggling as we stepped out of the lounge and into the street. "Did you see his face? Oh my God. That was perfect."
"Yeah…" Harvey muttered around his cigar, doing his best not to stare too openly at our new "guardian."
The gargoyle was hard to ignore. It towered over everyone as it followed a few steps behind us. I'd left one behind as a "gift" of cooperation for Penguin. Watching a man desperately want to refuse but physically fail to do so had been hilarious. To be fair, he'd reluctantly agreed once I pointed out how useful it would be as a bodyguard.
"Not to be a downer," Harvey said, smoke curling from his lips, "but you know Cobblepot's gonna betray us the second he gets the chance. That jumped-up priss isn't built to work with 'plebs.'"
"Oh, I totally agree." I flashed a gawking teen recording us with a bright smile as we walked past. "The important word there is when. I wasn't joking about his investments, and I'm sure our good buddy can keep him in line long enough for us to set some ground rules."
I reached back and patted the gargoyle affectionately. A couple of embers puffed from its mouth in response.
Kind of cute, actually.
Harvey looked at me like I was insane. "I wasn't gonna say anything, but… what the fuck is that? How did you even get those things?"
"You probably won't believe me." I laughed. "But I have no fucking idea. Honestly, things are only going to get weirder from here on out. So if you want to back out, now's your chance."
He paused, staring at the gargoyle looming behind us. Slowly, he pulled out his coin and flipped it. I didn't catch which side it landed on.
"…Fuck."
Two-Face sounded genuinely depressed about the result.
I snorted and slung an arm around his shoulders. "You and me against the world, Harvey!"
The gargoyle seemed to take that as a cue. It bent down, scooped both of us up, and settled us onto its broad shoulders like we weighed nothing.
I didn't know what it said about my life that Two-Face was more afraid of me than I was of… whatever this was.
Ah, who gives a shit?
I simply smiled as I looked towards the silver ticket floating in my mind.
[Rolling Silver Gacha Ticket]
[Meet Cute]
|Uncommon Trait|
As you go about your daily life, you are far more likely to encounter romantic interests in favorable situations.
Geh.
Uh… that wouldn't synergize with the crazy lady trait, right?
I considered it for a moment, then waved the thought away.
Nah… it'll be totally fine.
I shoved the notification aside and went back to outlining our next moves with Harvey as the gargoyle carried us down the street.
—
The next couple of days blurred together.
Our shaky little partnership with Penguin had started rough, but his joining the Union ended up benefiting everyone. Putting my swelling manpower to work defending his holdings was paying off fast. I made sure he was compensating the boys properly, even if he grumbled about it every time we spoke. The results shut him up better than any argument I could've made.
Relatively safe work, steady paychecks, and clear leadership did wonders for morale. Unity climbed even higher after I announced that Penguin and Two-Face had formally joined the Union. The news spread in whispers at first, then in excited murmurs.
Frankly, it was getting absurd.
I'd asked Harvey to start drafting the Union's rules and structure, and somehow that had turned into people calling me the "miracle fixer" for making him "sane." Others were claiming I'd personally stormed Penguin's operations and beaten down his entire gang solo. A few of the weirder cult-leaning guys were even preaching that I was some kind of criminal messiah with magic powers.
I glanced at the gargoyle standing guard in the mansion hallway.
Okay. Maybe not completely unfounded.
Still, even with the success, dealing with Gotham was exhausting. A few large-scale schemes from the usual lunatics had flared up around the city. Nothing that required my direct attention yet, thankfully. But I wasn't satisfied with just stabilizing things.
I wouldn't stop until I remade Gotham into what I wanted it to be.
But today? Today I was off duty.
Perks of being the boss. I had a top-shelf bottle of wine someone had pilfered for me and a disgustingly huge pack of Oreos.
The mansion I'd hijacked from Riddler came with a ridiculous suite and a bathroom that looked like it belonged in a luxury spa. The mansion was so massive that even with hundreds of people inside, it still felt half empty.
So I could get some much-needed peace and quiet.
It was time to relax.
"Sauna time~" I sang, swinging open the suite door.
Standing there, tall and poised, was a woman with long ginger hair and vibrant green skin. Steam curled around her lithe frame, droplets sliding over smooth shoulders. A thin bath towel clung to her body, technically preserving her modesty, though it did very little to hide the curvy frame beneath it.
My eyes trailed down her back, taking in the view.
"Nice."
"Harls, I told you to keep the door closed, the breeze is—" Poison Ivy turned around and froze.
There was a brief, shared silence.
"Oreo?" I offered helpfully, holding up the cookie.
A whip of vines snapped out from one of the decorative potted trees and wrapped around me in an instant, hauling me into the air like I weighed nothing.
"Harley!" Ivy snapped toward the bathroom. "I thought you said this place was empty!"
"It was! I checked!" came the reply.
Then Harley Quinn stepped into view.
Pale skin, blonde hair still damp from the shower, slim but undeniably curvy. She was also very much naked.
"Nice."
Poison Ivy seemed to remember I was still there and tossed a towel at Harley. "You clearly didn't check hard enough."
The vines shifted, lifting me higher into the air. Honestly? This was kind of fun.
"Whoops." Harley stuck out her tongue and shot Ivy a playful look. The green-skinned woman just sighed before turning her attention back to me.
"Can I come down?" I tried to take a bite of my Oreo, but being bound midair made that difficult.
Poison Ivy frowned, clearly about to say something.
"Wait, you're the new guy!" Harley bounced closer, squinting at me. "I heard about you. You've got the same name after that one book—"
"Les Misérables," I finished for her. "Jean Valjean at your service."
"You're a crime boss named Jean Valjean?" Ivy asked.
"I don't fail to see the irony," I replied. "Though 'Union Leader' is the more preferred term these days." I flashed both of them a toothy grin. "Sooo… can I come down? I was hoping to chill in my mega bath. I've got top-quality alcohol and Oreos to share, if you'd be so kind."
"Do you even own this place?" Harley plucked the Oreo from my hand and took a bite.
"Finders keepers," I said, grinning as best I could while waving the little bottle of alcohol. Harley snatched that too, giving an appreciative whistle.
"You seem awfully calm for a man in your situation," Ivy observed. She raised a hand, and the vines hoisted me even higher. A few more slithered into view near my head in what was clearly meant to be a threat.
"I see. That's how it is…" I said solemnly.
Her shoulders lifted slightly, thinking she'd finally scared me.
"My body is ready. Do as you please."
"…What?" Ivy froze.
"I was never really a BDSM kind of guy," I continued thoughtfully, "but hey, I'm open-minded. Should I call you Plant Queen, or—"
Harley burst into loud laughter. "Oh my God, you do sound like a BDSM girl!"
"I do not!" Ivy snapped, turning to screech at Harley.
"Green Queen, the BDSM Queen," I added helpfully.
Harley practically wheezed. "Green Queen… hahaha!"
"AHHH!" Poison Ivy's face flushed as she launched herself at Harley.
Apparently deciding I was no longer worth the effort, the plants abruptly flung me across the room. I landed on one of the couches with a soft thud.
Not how I'd expected to relax this evening.
I grabbed another Oreo from the package and took a bite.
Across the room, Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn were now mock-wrestling in bath towels.
Honestly?
I wasn't complaining.
***
"So… so when I came back, puddin' was with this other bitch!" Harley slurred, jabbing a finger into the air like she could stab the memory itself. "Stupid black hair, oooh, stupid name too. Punchline. Who does she think she is—"
Harley stuffed another Oreo into her mouth and took a long swig straight from the wine bottle.
That bottle ran about seven hundred dollars a glass. I glanced at it, then at the pitiful heap that was Harley Quinn sprawled across the couch, and decided not to comment.
I just took a careful sip of my own as I watched.
"You deserve better, Harls," Ivy murmured, leaning in close. Her towel slipped down her shoulder in a way that was anything but subtle. "I know it sucks, but maybe you can take this as a sign. Who knows… maybe there's somebody better. Even close by."
I covered my mouth and snorted at the most blatant flirtation I had ever witnessed. Ivy shot me a venomous glare, but I ignored it and made exaggerated kissy faces.
The soft rustle of vines followed.
Several of them crept toward me across the floor.
I raised my hands in mock surrender, fighting back laughter. Whatever wariness I'd once had of Ivy had evaporated the second I saw her acting head over heels for Harley. It was hard to be intimidated by someone who flirted like an awkward teenager.
Ivy huffed and turned back to consoling a very drunk and increasingly messy Harley. Her bumbling attempts at comfort, laced with painfully obvious flirting, were a delight to listen to.
Not exactly how I'd expected to relax tonight, but honestly, this might have been better. Who knew even Gotham's resident crazies had romance troubles?
It played out like some deranged soap opera. Harley, the spurned second love, is desperate to win back her beloved. Ivy, the loyal best friend, is helping her through heartbreak while obviously drowning in feelings of her own.
Except instead of plucky teens, it was homicidal lunatics.
Watching their back-and-forth for the past hour had been more entertaining than any soap I'd seen.
But it was missing something.
A little spice.
A wonderfully dangerous idea formed in my head.
"You know…" I chimed in casually, swirling my glass. "There is a simple solution to all your problems. If you want to get the 'girl', so to speak."
That snapped Harley out of her sobbing. She lifted her head, mascara smeared and eyes wide. "Really?"
"Oh, there's always a simple solution," I said smoothly. "If you've gotta share someone's affections… well, why not just…"
I mimed strangling someone.
Harley frowned, though her expression turned thoughtful. "Mr. J wouldn't like that. He told us to play nice. He might dump me for real if I kill that bitch."
"Who says you have to be the one to do the deed?" I leaned in and lowered my voice conspiratorially. "You didn't hear it from me, but.. I heard Deathstroke and Deadshot are in town."
Harley's eyes lit up at the suggestion. Determination replaced the drunken despair almost instantly.
"You're right! If I'm gonna get back Mr. J, I can't just sit here cryin'!"
She scrambled to her feet and stumbled toward the bathroom, already muttering plans under her breath.
Across the room, Poison Ivy slowly turned toward me.
She was looking at me like she was deciding what fertilizer I'd make.
"Why the hell would you say that?" she demanded, rising to her feet. "I'd finally just gotten her away from that asshole!"
"Hmm… just because." I took another slow sip of wine as vines and roots slithered closer, brushing against the legs of my chair. "But you know, my advice would work pretty well for you, too. Look at how inconsolable Harley was when Joker stopped paying attention to her. Now imagine how devastated she'd be if the good old clown kicked the bucket. So devastated, she'd cling to her dear friend Ivy for comfort. Who knows what might happen after that?"
Poison Ivy's expression went strangely dreamy.
Objectively, what I was describing was completely unhinged. Soap opera levels of dramatic insanity. Still, the two villainous women didn't seem to mind at all.
"No… no. I couldn't do that to her." Ivy shook her head firmly.
Color me surprised.
Still, one more nudge couldn't hurt.
"I mean, if you don't want to kill him because it'd hurt Harley, there are other ways to end a relationship." I raised two fingers and mimed a pair of scissors. "Why not just…"
I leaned in and whispered the rest of my idea into her ear.
Ivy froze for a second. Then a slow, dangerously wide smile spread across her face.
"That," she murmured, "is a good idea."
Harley burst back into the room in full costume, mallet slung over her shoulder and eyes blazing with renewed purpose. "Come on! Ivy, get dressed. I need to go hire a hitman!"
Ivy sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you even have any money, Harls? I don't know what they're charging these days."
"It's usually three hundred thousand minimum, plus an hourly fee that varies depending on the guy. They charge extra for high-profile targets or metahumans." I said casually while munching on another Oreo.
Both women went still and slowly turned to look at me.
"What?" I shrugged. "I have to know the rates so nobody tries to fleece me."
Harley giggled at that.
Ivy, however, was staring vaguely into the distance, doing mental math. "Harls… do you have that kind of money?"
Harley froze mid-bounce and turned to Ivy with mechanical stiffness. "Care to spot me?"
"Harl's, even if I add up every bolthole stash I've got, I don't think I'd break fifty thousand," Ivy admitted.
I blinked. "Haven't you two been in the game for years? I figured you'd have made bank."
The bigwigs in any crime family always made sure the fattest checks went to themselves first, but still. Even with Arkham stints factored in, I expected more.
"Ehehe… I let Mr. J handle all the money."
Ivy looked away. "Taking care of plants burns through cash."
Right. Insanity did not exactly correlate with sound financial planning.
The two of them started spitballing increasingly questionable schemes to raise funds, each suggestion somehow worse than the last. As entertaining as it was, I felt a faint sense of responsibility for nudging two of Gotham's most chaotic women toward a new objective.
Well. Actions, consequences, and all that.
I pushed myself to my feet and headed for the door. "Gary! Bring the cache I found!"
The floor creaked as the massive gargoyle shuffled down the hall.
He appeared in the doorway carrying a heavy wooden chest, as if it weighed nothing.
Both supervillains froze at the sight of the hulking monster.
Gary set the chest down with a solid thud, gave a polite nod, and lumbered back to his post without a word.
"Uhh… are we not gonna talk about that stone demon thing or…?" Harley asked slowly.
Ivy's gaze lingered on me, a little more wary now.
"We could," I said with a grin. "Or we could talk about this."
I kicked the chest open, and the sight inside stole both their attention instantly.
Emeralds the size of my fist. Diamonds and rubies spilling over one another. A literal pile of gold coins and bars stacked haphazardly inside, like a pirate's treasure chest.
"Here," I smiled. "Go do a crime."
Their jaws hung open.
"Are you sure?" Ivy asked quietly. For a second, she actually looked touched.
"It's fine." I waved a hand dismissively. "Chump change for me."
That was a complete lie.
Finding this stash hidden inside the mansion walls might have been the luckiest moment of my life so far. The problem was that actually turning it into usable money had been a nightmare. I knew a few fences, but this was way beyond their capacity. The only person I knew who could realistically move something like this was Cobblepot.
And even with my limited knowledge of gems and precious metals, I understood one thing clearly.
This was enough money that even Penguin might decide betraying me was worth the risk.
The haul was so absurdly valuable that I had not told a single soul about it. The chances of a career criminal seeing this and not getting greedy were basically nonexistent.
I had been nursing a headache, trying to figure out how to convert it into usable capital.
Maybe this was not the smartest solution.
But it was a solution.
"Thank you! Thank you!" Harley practically vibrated with joy before launching herself at me in a hug. "I won't forget this! If ya ever need somethin', just gimme a holler! I'll do it right after I kill that bitch!"
Ivy tried to maintain some dignity, though the excitement was still there in her eyes. "Thanks. I mean it."
I lifted my hand automatically for a high five. She smacked it on her way past, and I felt something slip into my palm.
The two of them grabbed the chest together and hurried out, already talking over each other about plans, targets, and timelines.
I glanced down at my hand.
A small folded slip of paper rested in my palm.
Two phone numbers.
[Feat Achieved! Hard Bought Friendship]
[+1 Gold Gacha Ticket]
Fucking worth it. I grinned as I ripped the ticket.
[Tinker - Alchemy(II)]
|Rare Ability|
Allows you to design, modify, and build technology and technological constructs related to alchemical reagents, potions, and the production of those items. Such as healing, stamina, energy potions, potions that cure diseases, grant minor permanent buffs, or very explosive gases, incendiary acid, etc. But the stronger a target that consumes a potion, the less effective it is, and vice versa. The more potent a potion is, the better materials you need for it.
Knowledge flooded my brain.
My mind filled with ideas faster than I could process them, each one branching into a dozen more.
Oh, this… this had potential.
—
Helena had never regretted picking up the cowl. There was something deeply satisfying about beating bastards down with her own two hands as Huntress, and it was a joy she intended to cling to for as long as she could.
That said, not everything about the job was glamorous.
Being crammed shoulder to shoulder with another vigilante inside a dusty ventilation shaft ranked somewhere near the bottom of the list.
"If your foot kicks me one more time, I swear to God," she whispered harshly.
Orphan said nothing, but Helena would have bet good money the brat was rolling her eyes in the dark.
Working with the Batfamily was always a pain in the ass. Did they all inherit Bruce's hard-edged, emotionally constipated personality, or was that part of the training manual?
Below them, a rusty metal door creaked open.
Tracking down the League of Assassins' primary meetup spots had been an exhausting process. She was not Question; she didn't enjoy drowning in investigative minutiae.
And why the hell did they need thirty different fake bases?
She shoved the thought aside and focused on the black-clad figures gathering beneath them.
"Do you have the details for the new job? We're finally gonna go after that furry Bat loser?" an annoyingly familiar voice called out as a man dropped from the rafters.
Black Spider.
"Don't say that if Talia's in earshot," a woman in green replied, idly cleaning a sai. A catlike mask framed her face.
Cheshire.
"Just telling it how it is," Black Spider shot back.
A black-robed figure slammed a fist down on the table. "Enough."
The room fell quiet.
"This job was approved by the Demon's Head himself," the robed figure continued. "A hefty price has been paid to the League. No mistakes will be tolerated. A Scyillithan emerald was forwarded as initial payment, with more promised upon completion. As such, the Demon's Head has declared an open contract on this mission. Additional operatives will arrive shortly to assist."
Black Spider gave a low whistle.
Helena frowned. If she remembered correctly, a Scyillithan emerald was a collector's item of obscene value. She shot Orphan a quick, uneasy glance. This was bad. If the League was mobilizing multiple assassins for a high-paying open contract…
"This is not an assassination mission," the robed figure added. "We were informed that failure will result in the Demon's Head being… greatly displeased. We are expected to carry out the task exactly as specified."
"What do we have to do?" Cheshire asked, twirling her weapon.
The robed figure unfurled a piece of paper and read, "We are to, quote, cut off the Joker's dick and make him eat his own balls."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Even the two hardened assassins looked momentarily stunned.
Next to her, a muffled snort broke the quiet.
Helena turned her head just enough to glare at Orphan, and sure enough, the younger vigilante was shaking with barely contained laughter. She had to bite down hard on her own tongue to stop herself from joining in.
Every head below snapped upward toward the vent.
Goddammit.
***
Gotham had an aura about it that even a layman could feel, a tangible sense of despair and danger that seemed to seep into the city's very foundation. To someone with trained senses like hers, the currents of Gotham's magic felt like a raging river. The city already carried a heavy amount of ambient magic, and the recent surge of crime and misery only made it more volatile.
There was a reason she kept Shadowcrest outside the city limits.
The Batcave, by comparison, felt like a still but impossibly deep lake. Order ruled within these walls. Even Gotham's malevolent undercurrent had been forced into something more disciplined.
She found it faintly amusing that Bruce, being Bruce, had managed to bend the magic of his home into something that mirrored him so perfectly.
As she stepped deeper into the cave, passing rows of costumes and familiar knick-knacks that somehow made the giant cavern feel not so empty.
"Z!" Barbara greeted her.
"Hey, Babs. Sorry, I'm late." She leaned down to hug her friend. "How's everything?"
"Terrible." Barbara offered a wan smile. "You?"
"Absolute nightmare."
They both dissolved into quiet giggles. Sometimes in the hero business, you just had to laugh.
Zatanna followed Barbara further into the cave.
"Well, I'm pretty sure you've heard what's been going on in Gotham," Barbara said. "But is there anything on your end I should be worried about?"
"Don't get me started." Zatanna sighed, collapsing into one of the chairs. "Some idiot in Blüdhaven decided to try summoning a faerie. So I had to deal with a very angry member of the Fair Folk. But no, that wasn't enough. Apparently, there's some weird religion down there messing with ley lines, trying to summon their god. I spent way too long cleaning up their mess."
"A god?" Barbara frowned.
"At least, that's what they thought." Zatanna waved a hand, catching the flicker of worry in Barbara's eyes. "It's not unusual for spirits or elementals to get worshipped. Their summoning method was strange, but I shut it down and cleaned up the residue. Weirdly enough, Question was a big help."
Barbara raised an eyebrow.
"I know, right?" Zatanna laughed softly. "Apparently, it was part of some larger case he's been building. We rounded them all up in one swoop with the evidence he'd gathered. You'd think he'd be satisfied, but he just started muttering about a schism. Or a conspiracy. Something about the Religion of Crime."
"Good old Question…" Barbara shook her head.
"Enough about me. How's Bruce?"
"Well enough."
Zatanna flinched and spun her chair around.
Bruce stood directly behind them.
She stared at the crutches. Damn. How are you that quiet with crutches?
"Bruce, you shouldn't even be on your feet," Barbara snapped, glaring up at him.
"My injuries don't necessarily limit—"
Zatanna smiled faintly as the two of them slipped into a familiar argument. Bruce would always be Bruce.
"Alright, that's enough," she cut in gently. "Come here. Sit down and let me take a look."
She rose, pulling her wand free and pointing it toward him. She wasn't a doctor, but gauging the weight of what a spell would demand in exchange for the change was standard practice for any competent mage.
She frowned as she gauged his injuries, feeling how much power it would take to set him right properly.
"Jesus, Bruce… I'm not sure I should even heal this."
"Is it beyond your magic?"
"No. But it's close." She exhaled slowly. "I really think you should just wait it out."
"I have several lacerations and minor fractures. It will take over a month before I'm back to working condition. I don't see why we shouldn't simply accelerate the healing, as you've done before."
"There are reasons I don't abuse magical healing, Bruce." She grimaced. "I've told you this. I don't have a strong affinity for it. Little imperfections can build up. Costs you won't see coming until they're already there."
"Gotham needs help now." Bruce met her gaze evenly, his expression set with that familiar, immovable determination.
She shot Barbara a look. Her friend only offered the weary expression of someone who had already fought this battle and lost.
Bruce will be Bruce.
"Alright," she sighed. "But only if you promise me you'll take a full day to let the changes settle. I meant it when I said this is pushing it."
Bruce's jaw tightened, clearly ready to argue, until Barbara cleared her throat and leveled him with a glare. His lips thinned.
"Fine. A night of sleep at least."
Good enough.
She raised her wand. "Laeh ruoy senob dna esolc ruoy sdnuow."
She felt the world bend beneath the spell as bone and flesh forced themselves back into alignment. Bruce's face remained controlled, but she knew exactly what it felt like. Magical healing didn't numb the pain. The pain was part of the price.
It was one of many reasons she didn't offer it freely.
Bruce was one of the few who understood that and accepted it anyway. That iron will of his was something she respected and worried about in equal measure.
After a few long seconds, he exhaled. Slowly, he rose. Bandages slipped loose and fell away. Fresh scars, still raw and pink, marked where damage had been undone.
He rolled his shoulders, tested his balance, threw a few careful punches, then nodded once. "Perfect. Thank you, Zatanna."
"Remember. You promised."
"Perhaps just slightly less—"
"Breaking your word so easily again, Father?"
Zatanna turned at the voice. Robin and Nightwing were making their way down into the cave.
"Damian, I just—"
She stifled a laugh as Damian launched into his lecture.
"Dick, good to see you." She stepped forward and pulled him into a quick hug.
"Right back at you, Z."
"Gotham treating you kindly?"
"Like always. Rough, with a side of pain. Reminds me why I left." He glanced toward Bruce and Damian, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Still, it's good you're dropping by. We need all the hands we can get. I'm dead tired."
Zatanna smiled faintly.
She lifted her wand, about to offer him a simple refresh spell to take the edge off, when something brushed against her senses.
Gotham was never quiet, magically speaking. It hummed constantly, thick with emotion and old power.
But this felt different.
She turned slowly, following the thread. "Enihs thgil no eht ecruos fo cigam."
A soft glow bloomed from his utility belt.
Nightwing blinked. "Uh. Z?"
He unclipped a small pouch and opened it. Inside were a dozen tiny glass bottles, each filled with different colored liquids that shimmered faintly under the cave lights.
She stepped closer, and her breath caught. "There's magic in all of these. Where did you get them?"
"We took them from a couple of henchmen, handing them out," Dick said, still frowning at the glow. "Pretty sure they're tied to that new crew—"
"The Goon Union," Bruce supplied, his expression darkening.
"You mean the Goonion," Damian added dryly.
Bruce ignored him. "Are there any harmful effects?"
Zatanna angled her wand toward the bottles. "Laever ruoy stceffe."
She tilted her head, parsing through the spell. "They're mostly basic remedies, minor healing, pain reduction, and some stamina enhancement. Still…" Her gaze sharpened. "They're valuable."
"They were giving them out by the dozen," Nightwing said.
"What?" Her head snapped up.
The magical output alone would be staggering. Even simple enchantments took time, materials, and control. To mass-produce this many…
Barbara leaned forward slightly. "I'm guessing that's not normal."
Zatanna shook her head slowly. "I'm not an alchemist. I'd have to ask my dad for more details. But… creating magical items isn't cheap, even weak ones like these. To produce this volume…" She trailed off. "They'd have to be a master."
"Fantastic," Damian muttered. "A criminal who's apparently a master chemist and mage. Father, sometimes I truly question what is wrong with this city."
Bruce said nothing. He gathered the bottles and moved toward the computer, already slipping into analysis mode.
She didn't blame him for being worried.
She shivered at the idea of what a criminal alchemist could do.
—
"Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena—"
I moved my arms to the beat, falling into the rhythm without shame. Around me, the rundown neighborhood was alive in a way Gotham rarely allowed itself to be. Music blasted from cheap speakers balanced on milk crates, string lights sagged between cracked brick buildings, and laughter drowned out the distant wail of sirens that usually defined the night.
Kids darted past with bright plastic cups filled with mocktail potions I'd brewed myself, each one designed to ease aches, clear out toxins, and give their bodies a small reset after too many days breathing bad air and eating worse food.
They were also ridiculously sweet.
"Que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegría y cosa buena—"
Farther down the street, my people and the local residents shared the adult version. Same base effect, a gentle wash of relief through sore muscles and a subtle mending of everyday wear and tear, with just enough alcohol to make it festive without turning the block into a riot.
"Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena—"
My hands moved to my head with the choreography, and as I turned, I caught sight of the thin mist drifting through the street. The fog machines pumped out the refined cleansing vapor I'd produced. It cut through the smog that permanently clung to this part of Gotham, binding to particulates and neutralizing the worst of it.
The air even carried a faint minty scent.
"Heyyyy Macarena!"
I spun with the music and found myself face-to-face with Red Hood.
He stared at me for half a second, then snorted.
I grinned and raised my pineapple cocktail. He lifted his own. We clinked glasses like we weren't technically rival crime bosses standing in the middle of a block party.
We both drank deep.
The pineapple blend slid down smooth, a cool rush spreading through my chest as the alchemic cocktail worked its way through tired muscles and lingering stress.
It was also absolutely fucking delicious.
"CONGA LINE!" my rival crime boss bellowed.
Red Hood pivoted and started herding his people into formation, one hand already on the shoulder of the guy in front of him.
"GOONION!" I shouted, pointing dramatically. "WE WILL NOT BE OUTDONE. FORM UP!"
My crew scrambled instantly, shoving into place behind me as the music blared. The two lines snaked through the street, growing longer by the second.
Best. Power. Ever.
***
A pleasant buzz filled my head as the party mellowed around me.
The younger crowd was already nodding off, eyes half-closed, while their guardians gently steered them out. The raucous music from earlier had softened into a low stream of casual jazz that drifted across the grounds
Red Hood's gang and my own people had mostly split into small clusters, chatting quietly and picking at the impromptu feast both crews had thrown together on short notice. For a moment, it almost looked like one big, dysfunctional family reunion.
Shared miseries and alcohol could do wonders for forging friendships.
I was glad I'd splurged on this whole endeavor. Cobblepot was probably going to rip me a new one for burning through so much stock, but I could frame it as a publicity stunt.
[Tinker - Alchemy(II)] more than covered the losses anyway.
Once I got the ability, sourcing cooking equipment had been embarrassingly easy. Being the head of a criminal union meant a large chunk of my own guys already had experience in the drug trade.
Unfortunate circumstances aside, my new knowledge let me design machines and small refineries that effectively printed alchemical potions on demand.
The sheer variety of effects compensated for their relative weakness. They weren't flashy or overtly magical, but no one was going to scoff at mild healing, boosted stamina, or basic disease removal. In fact, the lack of insane effects worked in my favor. I marketed them as a genius invention, rather than magic.
Frankly, I didn't really know how the hell it worked either. My hands sort of just moved on their own when I started making the stuff. I'd tried breaking the process down to some of my guys, but it was just straight gibberish.
I'd been cautious about side effects, but the results spoke for themselves.
After a few test runs, Cobblepot had been practically giddy. He poured money into setting up a proper lab. With manpower and supplies already handled, all I had to do was build the refineries and let the process run. A couple of facilities later, and we were churning out potions by the handful.
Obviously, I couldn't sell any of it legitimately. Getting past the FDA and the pharmaceutical giants would've been a bureaucratic nightmare. Fortunately, I had literal leagues of smugglers and dealers at my beck and call. With Cobblepot's connections layered over my own distribution network, we were pulling in hefty profits both inside and outside Gotham.
So I didn't hold back as I wandered the grounds, pressing potions and specialized drinks into every open hand I could find. The festive mood meant plenty of personal thanks, firm handshakes, and wide grins thrown my way.
Still, there was one table where the atmosphere remained at least semi-professional.
A small white plastic table sat off to the side, surrounded by a handful of my guys who were sober enough to maintain the semblance of the meeting we were technically supposed to be having.
Naturally, I did the responsible thing. I shoved more drinks into their hands and told them to take the rest of the night off.
Was it stupid to meet with a gun-slinging crime lord alone?
Probably.
But Red Hood was sitting far more at ease than he'd been when I first arrived, helmet tilted slightly as he watched the crowd.
He waved his people away without looking at them and gave me a short nod toward the empty seat across from him.
Business, then.
—
Jason felt a lot of things these days. Anger and annoyance usually topped the list. If it wasn't that, it was the constant stress of Gotham being Gotham.
Even on the rare days he tried to relax or hang out with the family, there was always that compulsive rage humming at the back of his skull just waiting for a spark.
The Pit Rages had eased up a bit as time passed, but they never really went away.
It was something he'd just learned to live with after… coming back.
It was strange being fully relaxed. Was this how normal people felt? He'd forgotten what it was like to not be on a hair trigger.
"So? How was it?" the so-called Union Leader asked.
"Decent," Jason grunted.
He'd gone into the whole "remedy" thing expecting bullshit. Snakeoil at best. Some kind of poison at worst. Instead, he had to admit that by all the impossible freaking odds, it worked. Even setting aside the mental quiet, his body hadn't felt this good in years. No constant ache in his joints or muscles.
He wasn't about to say that out loud, though.
The bastard leaned back in exaggerated shock. "You didn't like the super omega secret ingredient piña colada?"
Jason snorted. "Five out of ten."
"Wow. So rude, even after I poured my heart and soul into it." The man even rubbed at his eyes like he was about to cry.
Shameless bastard.
Jason rolled his eyes. "I'd be willing to raise the score. Of course. If you gave us a few more to taste-test."
"Ah, but of course." The grin sharpened. "But what about my earlier question? Will you be joining the Union?"
Jason tapped a finger against the plastic table.
If the question had come a few hours earlier, he would've laughed and shoved a gun in the guy's face just to make a point. But now…
His gaze drifted across the party. His people and Jean's own were simply chatting away. Relaxed in a way Gotham rarely allowed.
It looked like a dream. The kind of Gotham he'd wanted as a kid and had long since stopped dreaming of.
"Say I do," Jason said slowly. "What then? You expect my people to arm up and follow your lead? Want me hunting down the crazies at your beck and call?"
The idea had tempted him more times than he'd ever admit. Just cut loose.
Put a bullet in those bastards' heads and be done with it.
The only thing that had ever stopped him was that thin, fraying promise to Bruce. Deep down, he knew that if he crossed that line, he wouldn't really be Jason anymore.
Even then, there were nights when the call felt so damn tempting it made his fingers twitch.
Strangely, though, as the thought flared now, it didn't bring the usual surge of anger with it.
"Nah."
Jason nearly tipped his chair back. "What do you mean, nah?"
"I don't really want anything from you." Jean leaned back in the flimsy white chair, balancing it on two legs like he didn't care if it snapped. "Sure, having the legendary Red Hood on my side would be nice. Good optics. But honestly? I don't care that much. If you don't want to fight, don't fight. Hell, we can do honorary member status if you're still twitchy about the whole thing."
Jason frowned. "Then why even come here?"
"To see if you can change."
The easygoing grin didn't quite match the look in his eyes now. There was steel in his gaze.
"I don't just want to fix up a neighborhood. Or a crew." Jean continued. "I want to change Gotham. For the better."
He stood, laughing—but it wasn't carefree. It was the kind of laugh that slipped out when you were so pissed at how broken everything was that the absurdity of it all hit at once.
"I'm not a good guy. I'm not some revolutionary. I'm a street urchin and a crook. But even I want to be better." His smile thinned. "There's nothing wrong with being at the bottom. Everyone's got their own shit. Screw anyone who says otherwise. But that doesn't mean we have to stay there."
"Tough ask for Gotham," Jason replied.
"Right!" Jean's grin sharpened, almost manic. "We're all stuck in a mire of nothing. A vicious circle that just takes and takes, with the lunatics perched on top of it all. Fuck that. I don't care if it's tough. I'll be damned if we can't at least try to be better."
Jason nodded slowly. The argument resonated more than he expected. Maybe it was the strange calm settling over him, muting his usual anger, but it sounded… right.
"I respect that," he said. "But you expect everyone else to? I'll admit this went surprisingly well."
A simple test of some supposed "remedies" had somehow turned into a drinking contest, which had escalated into a full-blown party. It felt like something out of a Disney movie.
"But not every crew's going to be as rational as mine," Jason went on. "Some of these bastards won't care about speeches or goodwill. What then?"
Jean tilted his head like the answer was obvious. "We beat them up. Duh."
Jason stared at him.
"I think you've got a misconception," Jean continued. "I'm not a superhero. I'm the representative. The face of the goons and mooks this city chews up and spits out. If they won't listen, I'll make them listen."
"And if they don't…" He leaned forward slightly, his smile turning dangerous. "Some bastards just need punishing."
They both let out a dark chuckle.
This guy got it.
Bruce and Barbara were going to be on his ass about this. He could already hear the lectures.
Still…
"Honorary status, then," Jason said, extending his hand.
"Welcome to the Union." Jean gripped it firmly. "I'll make sure to send lots of piña coladas."
"Keep them coming, and I wouldn't mind helping you out now and then," Jason replied. "If the Joker messes with your people, give me a shout."
There was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he said it.
"Having you on retainer for a couple of drinks," Jean chuckled. "What a bargain. Though I don't think we'll have to worry about the Joker for now. I imagine he's got his hands full."
"Oh?" Jason leaned in.
"Not my story to tell," Jean said with a small shrug. "But as for the concrete details, let's—"
So Jason had leaned back and went over the minutiae with a rival crime boss like they were trading Pokémon cards.
It made him feel younger than he had in a long time. Almost like when he'd first started as Robin, when everything had felt possible.
The negotiation wrapped on a mostly high note. After a few final goodbyes with his crew, Jason eventually found himself alone again.
Back at his place, he dropped onto the couch. The last couple of hours felt like a fever dream.
"Did that bastard figure out some opposite version of Crane's fear toxin?" Jason chuckled as he just relaxed for what felt like the first time in forever.
His phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and picked up. "Yeah?"
"Jason?"
"What's up, Barbara?" He leaned back, settling deeper into the cushions.
"Just wanted to give you an update," she said. "I know things have been rough on your end."
"As if rough even begins to cover that bullshit." Jason shook his head. "What's going on with the motley crew?"
He could practically hear her rolling her eyes.
"Well… mostly we're handling the usual crazies. You know how it is. We picked up another twenty or so tonight, but a lot of the bigger names are still out."
"I'm guessing Joker's still running around," Jason said, bitterness slipping through.
"Yeah," Barbara replied carefully. "But… you might like this part. You know the League of Assassins is in town."
"Yeah?"
"Orphan and Huntress stumbled onto a meeting. There's an open contract on Joker."
Jason grinned. "Assholes finally making themselves useful."
"It's not an assassination mission," Barbara added, and he could hear her trying not to laugh. "The mission is, quote, 'cut the Joker's dick off and feed him his own balls.'"
Jason went completely still for half a second.
Then the laughter burst out of him. It hit so hard he had to lean back into the couch, one hand covering his face as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
He didn't know for sure, but he'd bet good money that shameless bastard had a hand in it.
Yeah. He was definitely buying Jean a drink next time.
Still chuckling, tension bleeding out of his shoulders, Jason felt his eyes start to droop as Barbara kept talking. The image of Joker screaming and scrambling, desperately trying to save his own nuts, replayed in his mind.
He smiled at the thought as sleep began to drag him under.
***