"It'll be easy, you said. Just a little job, you said. There won't even be any danger."
An explosion of ice went off close enough to rattle my teeth. I slammed my back harder into the fridge I was hiding behind, cold metal biting through my jacket. When I risked a quick peek, I saw Mr. Freeze in some stripped-down, not-quite-super freezebot getting swarmed by the Bats.
I ducked back and swore at the idiot who'd talked me into this job in the first place.
"Easy work, my ass!"
I kicked Terry's frozen body as I passed, my toe ringing dully against ice-hard denim. The moron had thought stealing jewelry during an actual robot fight was a good idea. A literal supervillain brawl, and he focused more on the two-hundred-buck chain.
The idiot got what he deserved.
Another beam of ice screamed past, close enough to frost the edge of my cover.
Shit.
I bolted. The warehouse had dissolved into pure pandemonium as I ran. The whole job they'd been "prepping" had been some cracked scheme from the start. Terry had lied, and I was the idiot who believed him.
Damn it. I knew the free lunch was fucking suspect.
A gout of flame tore across the floor ahead of me. I dropped, slid, and rolled under a storage bin just as the heat washed over my head. My heart was trying to punch its way out of my chest.
I peeked up.
Firefly was airborne, laughing or shouting or something as he torched the place like it was the best damn day of his life.
Just an easy job stealing fridges. Goddamnit, that's all I wanted. There's a reason I never signed up for any of the crazies' crews.
"Jean!"
I twisted around. A couple of the other hands who'd been hired were huddled behind a toppled crate. I recognized one of my pals immediately.
"Rodney! What the fuck is happening?"
Rodney was a big guy. Usually, the muscle, the one who stood menacingly and scared punks off without throwing a punch, just with a glare. Right now, his face was pale, eyes wide, looking more like a terrified kid than a tough guy.
"Crazies got busted outta Arkham," he said.
"No shit!" I waved at the very obvious caped disaster ripping the warehouse apart. "Who else got busted out?"
"No, Jean. All of them." He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the fire and ice tearing through the building. "Arkham's empty. Last I heard, some meta teleported every psychopath, madman, and criminal out in one shot."
Oh… shit.
Another massive boom shook the building. Dust rained down as the ceiling groaned, old beams screaming in protest. The warehouse was already on its last legs.
"Run!"
I didn't know who said it. Didn't matter. I was already booking it for the door.
Unfortunately, this was Gotham, and nothing ever went right. A wall of fire cut off my escape route. I skidded to a stop, barely keeping my feet, and watched the others scramble through smoke and debris to safety.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
My head snapped side to side. The center of the warehouse was a warzone. To my left, flames climbed the walls. Ahead, ice spread like a disease. The only way out was the dock leading straight into Gotham's water.
I hesitated. God only knew what kind of nightmare stew was floating out there, especially this close to the dumps. Best case, you simply stank. Worst case, you grow extra limbs or get cancer by next week.
The choice was ripped away from me as a blinding light flared. Freeze's suit began to glow.
Oh fuck.
I sprinted down the dock and jumped.
"ACK!"
Since when was water hard?
I slammed down and didn't sink. My hand slapped the surface and met something solid, smooth as polished glass. I stared down, heart hammering, and saw the waves of Gotham Harbor rolling beneath me, clear as day.
I wasn't falling.
I looked up and sucked in a sharp breath. Dozens of holograms floated in the air, each one playing a different scene from around Gotham. At the center of it all, a high-end lounge chair sat casually reclined, as if this were a private show. Someone was stretched out in it, watching everything unfold like a movie.
"Hmm. Should I wait a bit longer for the chaos to kill more people? Might earn me more points. I made sure to teleport Joker near that children's hospital. Or maybe Zsasz, send him near Barbara Gordon's apartment and let him have his way? Oh, oh, maybe lead Bane to kill good old Wayne's butler. The face he'd make when his second father dies in front of him. Ahh, so many choices. I bet the League—"
The voice dissolved into a wet, delighted cackle.
Something clicked in my head. An instinct honed from years of dealing with lunatics and the worst human scum Gotham had to offer.
It told me loud and clear.
The person in front of me was irredeemable trash.
I yanked out my old revolver and fired.
The shot should've taken him in the back. We were only a few steps apart. Instead, impossibly, he slipped aside as if the bullet had politely warned him first. He stood and turned to face me, and I finally got a good look at him.
Ugly. Not in the physical sense, but deeper than that, like you could see the rot and oil leaking straight out of the man's soul.
I fired again.
He dodged, strolling toward me like he was taking a casual walk. He smiled, wide and smug. "Well, well. If it isn't your lucky day. Or maybe unlucky. How'd you end up in the pocket field?"
"You! You did this?" My hands were shaking, but the gun stayed up. "Do you know how many people are going to die because of those assholes?"
"Yes?" He tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Of course they're going to die. But they should be happy. They're netting me points—"
Bastard.
I fired a third time. The bullet went wide, missing clean. He didn't even bother dodging now.
"It's useless," he said cheerfully. "You probably can't even comprehend what I tell you, but I bought a Protection from Arrows servant skill. You can try all you want. I'll just dodge. Even with my eyes closed. Come on." He actually shut his eyes and spread his arms wide. "I'll even let you shoot–"
I kicked him in the balls.
"Ugh—wait, you were supposed to—"
I kicked him again, harder this time. Steel-rimmed boot, dead center. He folded instantly, collapsing to his knees with a wet, choking scream.
"Aghh! Agent, I want a refund! This wasn't how the event was supposed to go…"
I ignored his nonsense. I cocked the revolver and pressed the barrel against his temple, close enough to feel him shaking.
"Wait!"
"Fuck you."
I pulled the trigger. The recoil jolted up my arm. His head snapped back, body slumping back as the shot echoed through the frozen air. I stood there, breathing hard, and covered in blood.
That was the first time I'd ever killed someone.
I spat on the bastard and flipped him off.
A chime rang in my ears.
[Congratulations! For killing a rival from the Institute of Tyrannical Order, you have been awarded a contract with Chaos Incorporated!]
[Feat Achieved! Slay a Contractor!]
[+1 Platinum Gacha Ticket]
What the fuck…
I didn't get long to process it. The ground beneath my feet vanished.
"Oh shitttt!"
I dropped straight down and hit the water.
***
[Rolling Platinum Gacha Ticket]
[Fortune's Lover]
|Epic Trait|
You are absurdly lucky, to the point where even if you did not have any other abilities, this alone could be considered an ability. If it's a chance, it's in your favour. Fate is curved in your direction, but not all luck is good. (Does not affect Gacha)
I knew metahuman powers could get fucking weird. Super strength, lightning, bending space and time. I'd heard enough to believe almost anything.
But this?
This was still fricking crazy.
I stared down at the third wallet I'd found today, lying right in the middle of the sidewalk like it wanted to be noticed. I glanced around first, half-expecting one of Gotham's classic setups. A mugger in an alley or some mob goon waiting to crack my skull the second I bent down.
Yet… nothing
There was no lookout, nor was there anyone in the alleys.
I picked it up and whistled softly. It was stuffed with cash.
Shit. Who the hell carries two thousand dollars in cash? That was almost triple what I'd pulled from the other two wallets combined. The leather was high-end, too, the kind of thing I'd never be able to afford even in my best year.
Weirder still, there was nothing else inside. No ID. No cards. Just money. Do rich people really run around with cash-only wallets?
There was a tiny little Bat symbol stitched on the corner. Whatever. Score.
I pocketed it and continued on my way with a faint smile.
Then reality caught up, because this was Gotham, the city where happiness went to die.
I turned the corner, and my expression soured. Several apartment blocks had been burned down to blackened husks, windows blown out, walls cracked and scarred beyond recognition. Another reminder of the last twenty-four hours and how quickly things had spiraled into hell.
People were sifting through the wreckage, voices breaking as weeping drifted through the air. I clenched my jaw and moved on. It was what I'd always done in this city, the city I'd had the shitty luck of being born into.
Although… maybe that luck had finally flipped.
I'd crawled out of the harbor earlier and somehow walked away fine. No sickness, no coughing, not even a rash. I hadn't been glowing or anything insane like that, but I'd still taken about six showers just to be safe.
"Jean, you're alive!"
I smiled as I stepped into the dingy bar, and Rodney spotted me.
"So you're still kicking," Audrey called from a nearby table, the small girl with the mohawk already smirking.
I snorted. "I'll damn well still be kicking long after your sorry ass, Audrey."
She flipped me off. I returned the favor with a grin.
The place was almost empty. A few regulars sat around nursing drinks, murmuring to each other. It was close to evening. Normally, the bar would be packed with guys looking for work. Recent events had clearly changed that.
"How bad is it?" I slid onto a stool next to Rodney and gestured for a drink.
He pushed a bottle of Gotham's signature beer toward me. The perfect symbol of the city. Tasted like crap.
I took a long swig.
"Not good, man," Rodney said. "Freeze and Firefly went nuts down at the docks. Half the place is frozen solid, the other half's on fire. They got caught, at least. Joker pulled something at St. Jude's, but the Bat shut it down. Still slipped away though, like always. Riddler's back in town too, and I'm hearing he's recruiting hard. The other big names haven't moved yet, but rumor is they're all gearing up."
I thought back to last night and grimaced. I'd hoped murking that asshole would've trapped the crazies for good. It was a stupid hope. Gotham never worked that way, and it loved killing hope.
"Where is everybody?" I looked around the Crook's Bar, a name that was only funny because it was true. This place was basically the Home Depot for henchmen and goons. Yet it was emptier than I'd ever seen it in my five years working crime in Gotham.
"Skipped town or signed on," Rodney said with a hollow laugh. "Only real options left. I'd do it too if I could."
That earned a low chorus of bitter agreement from the other patrons.
I recognized most of the faces around, people I'd worked with or crossed paths with over the years, all of us trapped in the same dead-end tier of criminal life.
Yeah, even criminals had a hierarchy. A real shitty one.
At the top sat the crazies and their cult followings, the psychos people either worshipped or feared enough to convince themselves it would somehow end well. Beneath them was organized crime, the mob families, triads, and mafias who ran things with brutal efficiency and were more than willing to drown someone in concrete if it improved their margins.
And then there was us.
The handymen of crime, the freelancers and fixers who handled the dirty work no one else wanted, scraping by at the bottom while everyone above us climbed on our backs. We were smart enough not to follow the lunatics. But not ruthless enough to thrive under organized crime, which left us stuck.
Right at the bottom of the ladder, with nowhere decent to go.
God, what a fucking place to be.
"Fuck Gotham…" My head thunked against the bar.
That earned another low chorus of agreement from the room. I drank hard, trying to drown the malaise and the creeping sense of despair, while keeping half an ear on the conversations drifting through the bar.
"You think the Justice League's gonna show up?" Morris asked. He was old, gray around the edges, the kind of guy who'd survived mostly by keeping his head down.
"Hell nah," Audrey said. "Pretty little League's too busy with aliens. The Reach, and the… ugh…"
"Gordanians," Rodney finished.
I downed another drink.
Was this it? Was this how it ended? A bunch of washed-up criminals bitching in a bar while the city burned around us?
"You think the mob's gonna make a move?" another guy asked.
"I heard Black Mask is running property jobs up north," someone muttered.
"Fuck that," Audrey snapped. "One of his lieutenants has it out for me. I'm not working under that psycho."
Is this it, then? Out of luck and drunk for the rest of my life?
No… not anymore.
[Fortune's Lover]
The words floated in the corner of my eye. I was still half convinced I'd gone crazy.
Maybe I was.
Maybe this was just some delusional fucking dream as I drowned in Gotham's Bay.
But… who the fuck cared?
Let's roll the dice.
I slammed my bottle down on the bar.
"Are you assholes really just gonna sit here and wallow?"
Heat rushed to my face. My heart was pounding. Every head in the bar turned toward me.
"Jean, you're drunk, you don't know—"
"No!" I smacked my palm against the counter. "I know exactly what I'm saying. We've all given up."
I pointed at one of the older guys. "You. How long have you been in the business?"
"Uh… twelve years. Maybe."
"And how many people have you seen get sacked, stabbed, or die real ugly in those twelve fucking years?"
He grimaced. "Too many to count."
"Exactly!"
I climbed up onto the bar, wobbling just a little, and looked down at the familiar faces. The bottom of the barrel. People trapped in petty, miserable crime because this goddamn city never gave us another way out.
"We've been stomped by the crazies. By the gangs. By Gotham itself for years." My voice grew louder, but I didn't stop. "And we just took it. Like a bunch of bitches."
I hurled my glass to the floor.
It shattered with a sharp crack, loud enough to make everyone flinch.
"Gotham bent us over and rode us raw," I said, staring them down, meeting every pair of eyes in the room. "And you know what I say to that?"
Silence.
"No more!" I shouted. "Fuck the crazies treating us like disposables. Fuck the mob that treats us like trash. And FUCK GOTHAM!"
There was a fire in my chest now. "Who's with me?"
For one long, awful second, nobody moved.
Then Audrey stood and smashed her glass on the floor. "Yeah!"
Another glass shattered.
Then another.
The sound kept building as faces hardened, jaws clenched, and something ugly and determined took shape in their eyes.
"Say it with me," I said, raising my hands. "Fuck Gotham!"
"Fuck Gotham!"
We poured out of the bar like a wave.
And for the first time, I had the feeling that life was gonna be good.
—
"Ugh…" I lifted a hand and winced as a sharp headache speared behind my eyes.
What the hell happened last night?
I remembered leaving the bar. I remembered shouting. After that—
I looked up.
And froze.
I was lying in a ballroom, one of those obscene marble-and-gold monstrosities owned by the ultra-rich. Velvet drapes hung from the walls, polished floors stretched wide enough to stage a football field, and everything reeked of gaudiness.
Except where the chandelier should've been, the fucking Riddler was hanging from the ceiling.
Full green suit. Question marks everywhere. Spinning slowly like a disco ball.
[Feat! Riddle This, Bitch!]
[+1 Gold Gacha Ticket]
"…Fantastic," I muttered.
"Boss, you're awake!"
I turned my head very carefully.
Audrey hurried over, wrapped in an obviously stolen fur coat and layered in enough jewelry to bankroll a family. She looked exhausted, wired, and more than a little proud of herself.
"I'm the boss of what, exactly…?" I asked.
She squinted at me. "Are you still drunk, boss?"
"Humor me," I said. "Explain."
"Well," she started, casual as hell, "we went out, and, uh… shit happened. But you took over the Steel Cobras, the Black Clouds, and the Jade Leopards. You united them. Then we stormed the Riddler's lair!"
[Feat! Hostile Takeover!]
[+1 Gold Gacha Ticket]
"…Right," I said slowly. "And the weird-robed guys crying over Bibles?"
Dozens of grown men in robes were bowing toward me, murmuring prayers, pressing their foreheads to the floor.
I blinked.
Then I noticed I was sitting down.
On a throne.
A throne that was, unmistakably, a golden, jewel-rimmed toilet someone had dragged into the middle of the ballroom.
Audrey scratched her cheek. "Yeah, not sure about that one, boss. I blacked out after we started using the Riddler like a piñata. But from what I hear, they're calling you the Son of Crime or some shit."
[Feat Achieved! Religion of Crime Usurped!]
[+1 Gold Gacha Ticket]
My movement hadn't gone unnoticed.
Gangsters of every stripe, cultists, and familiar faces from the bar all rushed in, forming a crowd around the throne.
"BOSS!"
"BOSS!"
"BOSS!"
The chanting shook the room.
I leaned back against the porcelain throne, staring up at the spinning Riddler.
"Hahaha…"
Even when you were lucky, Gotham always made sure it got the last laugh.
***
After far too much deliberation and a long, quiet minute of staring at my own reflection, I found myself studying the bathroom of the absurdly posh mansion Riddler had hijacked.
Which we had then hijacked from him.
This was my new reality.
I was now the gang boss of… something.
Three golden tickets hovered in my mind, irrefutable proof that my life had officially jumped the rails. A part of me was still suspicious of this weird "power," waiting for the other shoe to drop. But… the first pull had worked out, and these damn things had already gotten me this far.
I ripped the first.
[Crazy Lure]
|Rare Trait|
Crazy, Mentally Unstable, or otherwise insane people find themselves more attracted to you, and it is easier to gain their affection and favour. It is also easier for you to reason with them.
That's… not great.
There can't be that many crazy women in Gotham.
My luck will fix it. Definitely.
I very deliberately ignored the memory of Fortune Lover explicitly warning that not all luck was good luck.
It couldn't be that bad. Gotham women couldn't all be completely unhinged…
Right?
I shook my head and pushed on, ripping the second ticket.
[Call Thunder]
|Rare Ability|
Allows you to call down powerful thunder that strikes from the sky to strike any location in your sensory range, not very effective indoors.
Now that was more like it!
I immediately wanted to test it. What kid hadn't dreamed of calling down lightning? Sure, there had been a faint hope for laser vision or the full Superman package, but I'd happily settle for Zeus-lite.
If I got strong enough, wouldn't it be one hell of a thing to flip Gotham's crime scene on its head?
Third time's the charm.
I ripped it.
[Volition]
|Elite Ability|
You are at your maximum. While volition is active, you are immune to status effects like fear, panic, sadness, despair, and more. You are also incredibly motivated and determined.
Oh hell yes.
Almost instinctively, I knew how to activate it. I slid it into place and gasped as something clicked.
The anxiety, the panic, the constant low-grade dread that came from living in Gotham, all of it ebbed away. It even wiped out the hangover.
It felt… absolutely fucking incredible.
With my head finally clear, my situation really came into focus. I had punched back at this city and clawed my way into a position I had never even imagined.
I made the Riddler a disco ball for god's sake. I'm fricking awesome.
The man in the mirror was no longer the schmuck who barely scraped by. Fortune was literally in my favor.
So why stop here?
Gotham was a festering cesspit that had been chewing up people like me for ages. The costumed lunatics were just the cherry on top of a rotten sundae. The Bat did his best, sure, but nothing ever really changed.
Well, screw that!
My feet carried me out of the bathroom. I grabbed a bathrobe on the way and shrugged it on like a king throwing on his mantle.
"Jean," Rodney greeted as I stepped into the corridor. He was decked out in rings and a sharp suit coat thrown over a plain white beater, a cosmetic nightmare for all to see. Yet his face was grinning to the brim.
"Hell of a night, right?" I draped an arm around his shoulder.
The big man laughed. "That it was. We're gonna have more of those?"
"Damn right we are. Gather everyone in the main hall. I've got words for our motley crew."
"Gotcha, boss." Rodney hurried off ahead of me.
As I walked, I considered what I should say. It felt strange thinking without the usual background hum of doubt dragging every idea down. Thoughts that would normally choke to death in anxiety simply… didn't. My thoughts seemed so clear. I knew exactly what needed to be said.
When I reached the main hall, they were all there. Shoddily dressed gangsters, leftover Riddler costume groupies still clinging to green question marks, and robed followers who looked at me with fervor. They milled around in loose clusters until, like a tide turning, every head shifted toward me.
The murmurs and whispers of the crowd faded into silence.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. YOU KNOW WHY YOU'RE HERE."
Faces hardened as shoulders squared across the hall.
"GOTHAM HAS SCREWED US OVER TIME AND TIME AGAIN."
Agreement rippled visibly through the crowd.
"The crazies and the assholes think they can stomp on us. Will we let them?"
"NO!"
"NO!"
"NO!"
"For too long, they thought they ruled these streets. They crushed us with their petty madness. No more!" I raised both arms. "It's time we fight back. We will not grovel to these freaks any longer. Look at what we can achieve!"
I grabbed a random beer bottle off the floor and lobbed it without thinking.
It smashed straight into Riddler's unconscious face.
The crowd erupted.
Okay, now that was lucky.
I couldn't help but laugh.
The lights went out.
Cackling echoed through the hall as doors burst inward. Masked figures stormed in, heavy tanks strapped to their backs, hoses already raised.
And then I saw him.
That stitched burlap mask. The face of Gotham's nightmares, second only to the Joker when it came to large-scale chaos. The freak of fear himself.
"Oh, Eddie," Scarecrow crooned, staring up at the suspended Riddler while holding a canister in one hand and a pitchfork in the other. "I can't believe you're this pathetic."
A ripple of panic moved through my crew. Hands slowly reached for weapons while others froze at the sight of one of Gotham's most hated lunatics. If this went badly, it would be a slaughter. A dozen tanks meant a dozen streams of fear gas, and bullets wouldn't stop them before they sprayed the room.
Normally, I should have been afraid. Everyone in Gotham knew what Scarecrow's toxin could do. The stories of endless nightmares suffered by the unlucky bastards who got dosed were practically urban legends, whispered warnings that made every Gothamite own a gas mask.
I'd be lying if I said getting hit by Scarecrow wasn't high on my list of worst fears.
But right now…
I was simply pissed.
"Who the hell do you think you are!?"
A brief silence followed. Even through the burlap mask, I could sense his irritation—and maybe a flicker of surprise at my audacity. My feet began moving before I consciously decided to walk. The only thing driving me forward was a steady, boiling anger. Another costumed lunatic was trying to stomp everything we had just built into the dirt.
Scarecrow launched into something theatrical about fear, trespassers, and inevitable nightmares. I tuned out most of it as I continued striding toward him. All of this suffering for some sick kick of his.
People like us had been trampled again and again.
Not today.
My crew parted for me as I walked, their eyes locked on my back. I headed straight toward his goons, hoses raised and ready to spray, but I didn't slow down.
His men pulled their triggers.
Click. Click. Click.
The mechanical sound of failure echoed through the hall. A dozen canisters misfired miraculously all at once.
"Sooooo scary," I scoffed.
Behind me, the crowd stirred as what should have been a suicidal move flipped on its head.
"Idiots," Scarecrow snapped. "I'll do it myself."
He hurled a canister at me. Orange gas exploded outward, filling the air in front of me before swallowing me whole.
My stride never faltered.
I even made a show of taking a deep breath as I stepped through the thick haze. I heard the crew gasp behind me.
The best part was the look on his face, slack-jawed even beneath the mask.
"How? Even the Bat was affected!"
"Do you want to know?"
"Yes! My formula is perfect. How did a brat—"
I kicked him in the balls.
The air left him in a broken wheeze as he crumpled. It wasn't enough. Not for the years he'd spent terrorizing this city for his sick obsession.
I grabbed his mask and tore it off. There was no monster underneath, just a thin, sickly man blinking up at me in shock.
"I'll make you suffer a thousand times—"
I slapped him across the face.
"This—"
I slapped him again.
"STOP—"
The third backhand sent a tooth skittering across the floor. He collapsed and didn't get back up. The psycho reduced to groaning pathetically like a bitch.
Silence filled the hall. His cronies edged backward. My people stared at me as if I'd just performed a miracle.
"SEE THIS?!" I shouted, raising the burlap mask high for everyone to see. "THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO ANYONE WHO TRIES TO STOP US!"
I ripped the mask clean in half and tossed it onto the floor.
"ANYBODY ELSE?!" My head snapped from one henchman to the next as I glared them down.
The remaining cronies bolted for the exits.
[Feat Achieved! Scarecrow, more like Dead Crow!]
[+1 Gold Gacha Ticket]
"WE take back our city!" I roared, fist raised as the hall exploded in cheers behind me.
***
Barbara had endured bad nights before. Her years as Batgirl had offered more than their fair share, and even after the incident. It wasn't as though life as Oracle had been gentle either. She knew some in the hero business would scoff at the idea.
How bad could it be, sitting behind a computer?
Sometimes it was worse.
She had all the pieces in front of her. She could see everything unfolding in real time, every camera feed, every alert, every desperate call for help. And she couldn't do a damn thing but watch.
Watch as Gotham began to break.
Bit by bit, the city was cracking.
Arkham breakouts were unfortunate but not uncommon. Usually, it was one inmate, maybe two.
Not the entire goddamn asylum.
The scramble to put a lid on it had been chaos from the start, but it hardly mattered. Whatever had ripped the inmates out and scattered them across Gotham had already done the damage.
They had gotten lucky in a few cases. Freeze, Firefly, and Zsasz had been rounded up quickly and sent back to Arkham.
Yet despite their best efforts, it felt like trying to stem the sea.
Barbara grimaced as she cycled through the feeds stretching across Gotham. Pandemonium barely covered it. Every villain they hadn't caught was running wild. Even the gangs had gone to war footing, openly fighting in the streets.
Her eyes caught on one particular feed.
The library, she had spent the past few years working on fixing up.
The cameras showed the street outside getting torn apart, cars overturned, storefronts shattered, and smoke curling into the night sky. The block was turning into a literal warzone.
Her hand twitched toward the comms to call someone.
But she looked at the icons marking the Family's positions across the city. Everyone was already stretched thin.
She couldn't redirect someone for something personal.
"Damn it," she muttered, her fist striking the desk.
A soft click interrupted her. A small plate slid into view, followed by a teacup placed carefully beside her keyboard.
"Perhaps some lunch to take your mind off things?" Alfred asked mildly.
"I need to keep updating them about the situation," she shot back, not looking away from the Batcomputer.
"All seem to have their assignments, yes?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then I see no reason to hover," Alfred finished smoothly. "Perhaps keeping Master Bruce occupied so he does not tear himself out of his bed will ease your urge for work."
It was phrased like a suggestion. His stare made it clear it was not.
The seconds ticked by. She tried to muster up an argument, but Alfred simply continued to stare.
"I could eat," she grumbled.
"Wonderful."
Reluctantly, she lifted the teacup and took a sip.
She groaned at how good it tasted. The warmth spread through her, easing the knot in her shoulders just a fraction.
God, she was exhausted. She would have bet she was the most irritable person in Gotham at that moment.
The sound of gurney wheels squeaking against the floor made her turn.
Scratch that. Second most irritable.
Bruce was wheeled in, wrapped in swathes of bandages. From the waist down, he looked more like a mummy than a man. His usual brooding expression had shifted into something closer to a sulk.
She held back a chuckle.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Good enough," he replied gruffly. "Report."
"You mean after you eat?" Alfred interjected, reappearing with two plates.
"I'm fine," Bruce insisted, the protest coming out almost boyish.
Alfred simply stared at him.
Bruce tried to return the look, but even the Dark Knight couldn't win against Alfred.
"We can eat while we work," Bruce relented.
"Very good, sir."
Alfred placed sandwiches in front of them. Barbara took a bite and sighed softly. As always, it was excellent. She shot Alfred a thumbs-up.
Across from her, Bruce chewed with visible reluctance that slowly gave way to reluctant appreciation.
"Report," Bruce said between bites, his attention already shifting back to the screens.
"Damian and Dick are near the Claridge building, handling a series of Black Mask attacks. Cassandra and Huntress got pulled into a clash with the League of Assassins. Tim, Stephanie, and Duke are tied up in a skirmish with Clayface and a couple of other escapees. Jason's last message said he was busy dealing with his territory." She exhaled as another feed flickered across her monitor. "As of now, we've recaptured about a third of Arkham's inmates. The rest either went to ground or sent their cronies out to cause chaos."
Bruce frowned, studying the shifting map overlays. "Any insight into how they escaped?"
She took another bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly as she pulled up the diagnostic overlays again. "None. I ran every scanner we have. There's no trace of Zeta Beam radiation or Boom Tube distortions. There is an energy signature, but it's nothing I've ever seen before. My best guess is magic or some kind of metahuman ability, but I don't have anything concrete."
Bruce leaned back slightly, though even injured, his eyes remained laser-focused. "There are other forms of teleportation across the galaxy. Several alien races have their own methods." His brow furrowed as he studied the patterns. "But this escape doesn't add up. The inmates weren't coordinated. They were teleported at random simply for wanton chaos. That suggests deniable involvement. The Reach or perhaps the Gordanians could have motive…"
Barbara stayed quiet while he worked through the logic. She had never shared Bruce's or Tim's near-obsessive drive for pure detective work.
Her technical skill more than compensated for it most days, but alien tech remained frustratingly out of reach. No matter how much she studied. There were simply technologies beyond her understanding.
Still, if there was even a possibility this was some alien black ops…
"We need to call in League support, Bruce."
His expression tightened at the suggestion. She loved Bruce like family, but his insistence on treating Gotham as solely his responsibility was one of his most aggravating traits. He always had rational arguments prepared to justify it, offering sound reasons like potential escalation or criminal retaliation.
At the core of it, though, it was simply stubbornness.
Fortunately, while Bruce was a stubborn ass, he was not a fool.
"I already did," he admitted.
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm sensing a 'but' there."
"Almost all of our heavy hitters are on Mars countering the Reach. The rest are stationed on the Watchtower in case the Gordanians break the treaty and attack."
"…Shit." Barbara finished the last bite of her sandwich, the taste only a mild balm against the tension in her shoulders. "Who can make it?"
"Zatanna, Green Arrow, and Vixen are already on their way," Bruce replied. "Beyond that, I don't know who they can spare."
She exhaled slowly. "Nothing against them, but I would feel a lot more confident if Clark or Diana were available."
Bruce grunted in agreement. There was no argument there.
"I'll have Zatanna stabilize my injuries and head out as well," he added.
"Bruce." Barbara shot him a warning look. "You know Z's healing is threadbare at best. She can patch you up, not rebuild you."
"We need all hands on deck, Barbara."
She scowled because he was not entirely wrong. "Fine. Only if you go where I tell you."
"I—"
"If you argue, I'll lock you out of the computers and have Alfred keep you under house arrest. Bruce, if I'm not 'safe' in my tower, then there is no universe where I let you limp back into the field half-stitched together."
He leveled his legendary stare at her.
It lost most of its intimidation factor when delivered from a bed wrapped in bandages.
She raised an eyebrow.
"…Fine," he relented.
"Great," she said, carefully not smiling as she turned back to the Batcomputer. "Last I checked, the Riddler had set up some kind of elaborate—uh…"
"What?" Bruce asked sharply.
She leaned closer to the screen and adjusted her glasses. "No… it's just. Riddler and Scarecrow are both back in GCPD custody. They're in an ambulance heading to Arkham."
Bruce's brow arched slightly.
Curious, she hacked into the mansion's security feeds where the takedown had occurred. Within seconds, she was rewinding the footage.
It was difficult not to feel amused.
Watching Riddler's entire theatrical monologue get completely ignored before he was mobbed by civilians was oddly cathartic. Seeing Crane get his ass handed to him was equally satisfying.
Bruce, meanwhile, was watching with a contemplative stillness.
"There's something off," he murmured.
"He got lucky taking down Riddler and Crane," Barbara replied, rewinding again. "A metahuman with some kind of toxin immunity, maybe? A lucky match-up against Scarecrow."
Most metas had powers that barely counted as parlor tricks. Some sort of toxin or poison immunity, though, would be extremely useful in Gotham.
Bruce's gaze went distant, gears turning. "Do we have a file on him?"
"Give me a second." She tapped into GCPD's system. "Jean Valjean… seriously, that's his name?" She skimmed the record. "Arrested a few times. Petty theft, a couple of bar fights. Nothing major. No indicators he's an alien, a magician, and no known displays of metahuman powers."
"Hmm."
She glanced at him. "What's bothering you?"
"He was too lucky," Bruce said. "Suspiciously so. It may not have just been immunity. It could be probability manipulation."
Her fingers paused over the keyboard. "Luck as a metahuman ability? That sounds… far-fetched."
"John Constantine exists," Bruce replied flatly.
She grimaced. Fair point. Though that was more the supernatural end of the spectrum.
"Is the group he's building becoming a problem?" Bruce asked.
"Actually, no," she answered, scanning live feeds. "They're not looting. Several gangs are being… pacified, oddly enough. Last update shows him heading into Two-Face territory."
She pulled up a street camera.
Onscreen, their supposed metahuman stood in a bathrobe, holding a makeshift pole with the shredded remains of Riddler's costume hanging from it like a war banner.
She stared at the screen for a long second.
"What do we want!?"
"Money!"
"How are we gonna get it?"
"Crime!"
"Who are we?"
"GOON UNION! GOON UNION! GOON UNION!"
The chant echoed through the street with almost religious fervor.
Barbara and Bruce stared at the screen in silence.
She heard Bruce sigh.
She felt a migraine forming behind her eyes.
God, she really hated Gotham sometimes.
***
[Rolling Gold Gacha Ticket]
[Vaunt]
|Rare Trait|
You're quite vauntful, aren't you? It's easier to build fame, gain recognition, and receive rewards for your achievements. On top of that, it's easier to assert your accomplishments and have people believe what you say.
Hell yeah.
I could already see how useful that would be in cementing my position.
With my trusty war banner in hand, I strode toward the meeting ground with as much swagger as I could muster. My motley crew had thinned out after I ordered most of them to help pacify Gotham as best they could. The city wouldn't calm itself, and letting things run wild wasn't exactly a winning long-term strategy.
My lieutenants—I somehow had lieutenants now—had taken up the task with gusto after our little triumph over the two crazies. Still, even if I didn't feel fear, there was practical reasoning behind being careful with our next move.
Fortune Lover proved its worth again. Maybe because it counted them as "my crew," but their pushes into new territory had been absurdly successful. Every mission had been touched by ridiculous luck. Small gangs were either folded into us, or citizens welcomed us outright since we weren't terrorizing anyone like half the other criminal groups were.
So in a matter of hours, I had several blocks worth of territory under my name.
Of course, it wouldn't truly be the Union's until we took down the head honcho who was acknowledged as the ruler of this piece of Gotham.
I stopped at the final roadblock. Thugs lingered around overturned cars and makeshift barricades, guns half-raised as they shot wary looks at the sizable crowd behind me.
I didn't sweat it. Even with my numbers thinned, the crew behind me easily doubled the men in front of us.
"Is the boss in?" I asked, leaning casually against my flag.
The thugs shifted, glancing at one another.
"Let him in," a gruff voice called from deeper inside. A big thug stepped forward and jerked his chin at me. "Only you and a couple of guys."
"I'll be enough."
That earned worried looks from the crew behind me, but I flashed them a grin. "Have no fear, my friends. Just stopping in for a little chat."
It said a lot about the reputation I had built in the past day that they actually believed me.
I handed my banner to one of my guys and stepped inside.
The building was dingy, an abandoned apartment complex converted into a hideout with the bare minimum effort. It looked like the place had been burned down once and then patched up just enough to be barely livable. More thugs lounged inside with guns across their laps, their eyes tracking me as I passed.
They shot me dirty looks, but I didn't react.
I simply took it all in with a grin as I walked toward what passed for an office.
Harvey Dent sat in a battered chair behind a salvaged desk.
He didn't disappoint. One side of his face was still the handsome former DA Gotham once trusted. The other was a ruined mess of scar tissue that turned him into something closer to a monster. The split two-piece suit only sharpened the contrast.
"You're new," Two-Face said.
"You're old, Harvey."
His hand twitched. I caught the flash of silver as the coin appeared. "Call me that again, and I'll kill you." He paused, breathing out sharply. "No… no. It's just a name. I'll flip for it."
"Harrveyyyyy." I grinned.
His fist slammed against the desk. The coin shot into the air. "Heads, you're dead, kid."
A pistol rose, barrel steady at my forehead.
I simply grabbed a stool and took a seat.
The coin slapped down into his palm. He looked. Then he scowled.
"Guess I'm spared," I said lightly.
"Get out," Two-Face replied.
"Aren't you supposed to flip for it?" I asked.
He scowled. "Heads, I'll listen to whatever crap you're spewing. Tails, I'm kicking you out." The coin flicked into the air again.
It landed on heads.
"Talk." Two-Face roughly caught the coin and pocketed it.
I'd come here with plenty of ideas for how this might go. Maybe a big fight. Maybe punch him out. Hell, I'd even considered just throwing lightning at the building and calling it a day.
But standing in front of him, staring at that split face, had me thinking.
Harvey Dent had once been Gotham's golden boy. The hopeful DA who was supposed to drag the city back into the light. And just like everything else in Gotham, the city ruined him. Twisted him into another lunatic.
What a waste.
And yet… as insane as it sounded, Two-Face felt like the embodiment of what I wanted to fix. A jangled mess of good splattered with evil.
I was never a good person.
But shouldn't we at least strive to be better?
So I went with a wonderfully stupid idea instead.
"Want a job?"
"What?" Two-Face went slack-jawed.
"I'm serious. You were a lawyer, right?" I leaned back. "I've recently started a venture. A union. If you hadn't heard."
"A union?" he repeated, skeptical.
"Yep. One for criminals."
"How's that work?"
"I have no idea," I admitted.
His fist slammed against the desk. "You'd have me join a criminal union you don't even understand? Why the hell would I do that?"
"Well, it's not like you've got anything better to do."
He twitched before catching himself, scowl returning.
"Not good, not evil, just fifty-fifty, a whole kingdom of gray," I pressed on, leaning into the idea as it took shape. "How great would it be to build something like that? Something that actually does some good for Gotham while still giving us plenty of good crime to profit from. A criminal union for the low and downtrodden. No more insane bomb plots, no more drugs being shoved onto kids, no more flesh peddlers hunting in the streets." The words kept pouring out, the idea growing more certain in my mind the longer I spoke. "Not the hypocrites of Cosa Nostra. Not the crazy schemes of the Joker. Something better."
"...You're insane." Two-Face leaned back in his chair. "I wonder who crushes you first. The crime families, the government, or the Bat."
"Isn't that the fun part?" I grinned. "Finding out?"
That earned a snort. "Nice dream, kid. Terrible time to start."
"On the contrary." My confidence only grew. "This is the perfect time. Wanton chaos means everyone's too busy putting out their own fires to notice ours. The Bat is stretched thin, the cops are overwhelmed, and every crime organization in the city is scrambling to protect its own turf. That's exactly why we move now."
He gave me a long, appraising look. "Alright… that makes a strange sort of sense. But that only matters if you can win it. You think taking advantage of chaos is easy? Every greedy idiot in this city is jumping at the same chance."
"I one hundred percent agree." I stood. "Words are air. So I'll let my deeds talk." I raised my arms and looked the man straight in" I united three gangs in a single night. I turned the Riddler into a damn disco ball. I beat Scarecrow and kicked his teeth in. I won. And I'm going to do it again and again until I get what I want."
I leaned over his desk. "What about you?"
Two-Face twitched. "What exactly about me?"
"The way I see it, I've only got two paths ahead. Phenomenal success or phenomenal failure. Two destinations." I tilted my head. "Ain't that your style?"
He went still as stone, fingers tightening around the coin.
"Come on, Harvey. Why don't you flip for it?" I stepped back and walked away. "I'm confident fate's on my side."
I didn't look back.
But I heard the sharp flick of a coin leaving his fingers.
[Feat Achieved! Union Lawyer Obtained]
[+1 Silver Gacha Ticket]
"Wait," Two-Face said. "I have conditions."
"Of course," I replied, already smiling. "Let's get to work."
***
[Rolling Silver Gacha Ticket]
[Bell Gargoyles]
|Uncommon Familiar|
Dark Souls – A pair of towering gargoyles, each large enough to dwarf the average man, armed with supernaturally sturdy weapons. One exhales fire, the other commands lightning. Their bodies possess enough raw strength to shatter stone and collapse walls with a single blow. As your energy grows, additional gargoyles can be summoned to serve under your command.
I paused at the description. That sounded a bit…
"Hm. Harvey, what do you think? Some extra muscle might be welcome at the Iceberg Lounge?"
"You got more guys?" Harvey shot me a questioning look.
"Something like that…"
We were riding in one of Harvey's cars. I glanced out the window as the scenery shifted into Gotham's wealthier districts. White-collar crooks and heavy hitters owned these streets, their clubs and private bars tucked behind bright lights and clean streets.
Still, none of them matched the success of the man we were here to see.
The car rolled to a stop, and I stepped out with a low whistle. The Iceberg Lounge lived up to its name. Ice sculptures lined the entrance, gleaming beneath carefully angled lights, while the building itself carried frosted flourishes that made it look carved from an iceberg.
A pair of suited men approached us.
"Where are your guys?" Harvey muttered under his breath. "Cobblepot's gonna want everyone accounted for. He won't risk anything that messes with his 'legit' reputation. But best we've got some muscle nearby."
"They're close. Don't worry." I let a grin tug at my mouth as we were escorted inside.
—
Oswald took a long drink of brandy and let the burn settle in his chest as he reflected, not for the first time, on how thoroughly Gotham could ruin a man's week. Whatever lunatic had orchestrated the Arkham breakout could not have chosen a worse moment.
Ordinarily, he would not have spared a thought for his former "compatriots" and their spectacular lack of sanity. That was the Bat's problem, not his.
Unfortunately, they were making themselves his problem as his margins were taking the hit.
The city's chaos had gutted nightlife. Attendance at the Iceberg Lounge had plummeted to an all-time low. If that were the only issue, it would have been tolerable, but…
He had poured cash, manpower, and carefully called-in favors into acquiring property along the street. An entire strip poised for reinvention under his design. Construction had been progressing at a brisk, beautiful pace. Iceberg Street was barely a month from its grand opening.
And then the city had decided to explode.
Construction had ground to a halt. He now owned half a dozen half-finished properties that did nothing but bleed money. If it were only that, he might have endured it. Funds were tight, yes, but he was Oswald Cobblepot.
The problem was that every dreg in the city wanted a piece of the pie.
With the city destabilized, every gang, upstart, and gutter-born opportunist had started circling. They had been docile enough when things were orderly. He had cemented his territory.
The Bat's nightly patrols had even, in their own irritating way, kept things calm.
Now the rules were gone.
Several of Arkham's escapees had already made "inquiries" about his services. Most of them he could turn away without consequence. He was not some greedy two-bit fence scrambling for quick cash. He'd bet half of those idiots would be back in Arkham within the month, so rebuffing them was perfectly acceptable.
Unfortunately, a few inquiries were more delicate.
Bane, for instance. A newer face in Gotham, but far more disciplined than the average criminal. He had been maneuvering quietly through the underworld for months. Oswald suspected some connection to the breakout, though he lacked any solid proof.
Teleporting half of Arkham's inmates across the city felt… a bit beyond even a professional of Bane's caliber.
Oswald exhaled and leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the card resting on his desk, a formal message from the League of Assassins. A request for intelligence on the Bat.
Why could people not simply allow him to remain a respectable white-collar criminal?
Both clients were troublesome, particularly in times like these. Thankfully, they were professionals. With the right phrasing and a carefully crafted excuse, he could likely deflect them without inviting retaliation.
If only everyone were so rational.
The Joker had also come calling.
That, at least, had been simple. He had refused outright. Experience had taught him that working with that lunatic never ended well.
Oswald was no saint—far from it—but even he had limits. Lord Almighty, he would not stoop so low as to help bomb a children's hospital.
The refusal had not been well received.
Trying to predict how, or even if, the Joker would retaliate was a fool's errand. Still, Oswald was not stupid enough to take the risk lightly. He made sure to double security around the Lounge.
Which brought him to the true problem.
"I'm running out of men," he said, drawing deeply from his cigar before rubbing his forehead.
And so, much to his profound chagrin, he was being forced to make alliances.
"Sir, your guests are here," his secretary said from the doorway.
"Send them up, Tracy."
As she stepped away, Oswald adjusted his top hat and settled his monocle into place. He smoothed his jacket, ensuring every crease was precise. If one had to entertain barbarians, one would at least do so impeccably dressed. He leaned back in his chair, arranging himself into a refined posture.
"Harvey. How good to see you! A drink?" He had already placed two whiskey glasses on the table and poured what he knew was the man's preference.
"Cobblepot," Harvey growled and immediately snatched the glass.
The fact that Harvey had proposed this meeting at all had been a surprise. Perhaps one of his more lucid phases. Dealing with a less mad Two-Face would be a blessing.
The other guest drew Oswald's attention next. Young. Early twenties at most. Plain dress shirt, simple slacks. Nothing about his appearance signaled him as one of the rising powers in Gotham's underworld.
"Mr. Valjean. A pleasure meeting you again." Oswald extended a gloved hand.
"You remember me?" The young man smiled faintly as he shook it firmly.
Of course, he didn't. But one did not remain in power by neglecting information. Discovering that this "rising star" had once run courier jobs for him a couple of years ago had been amusing to say the least.
"I never forget someone who's done good work for me," Oswald replied smoothly. "I'd be glad to have you work with me again."
"Work for you, you mean." The young man leaned back and took a casual sip of whiskey. "Must sting, sitting across from the 'help' as an equal."
Confident little punk. Oswald kept the irritation from his face and offered a light chuckle instead, glancing toward Harvey.
The madman seemed oddly calm.
"Can we get to the brass tacks?" Harvey grunted. "I don't wanna spend a second longer in your damn office, Cobblepot."
Oswald clicked his tongue and took a slow draw from his cigar. He had intended to probe a bit more.
"Fine. I'll be blunt." He leaned back, fixing his gaze squarely on the young man. "I'll provide you with money, drugs, weapons—whatever your crew requires. In exchange, you protect my assets from Fifth to Twelfth Street. We can negotiate specifics. I'm also willing to concede certain—"
"No."
Oswald blinked. "What?"
"I said no. We're not here to negotiate, you fat Penguin."
A vein throbbed at Oswald's temple. He turned his eyes to Harvey, expecting pushback. Instead, the man simply nodded once.
Were their ties tighter than he thought?
"Oh? Then what exactly are you here for?" His voice roughened despite himself.
"To send you a formal invitation," the young man said with an infuriating smile. "To join my organization."
Oswald stared.
"The foundation of the Goon Union."
"Goon Union?" Oswald repeated, disbelief slipping through despite his control.
"We're workshopping the name. You can just call it the Union." The young man shrugged.
Oswald shifted his gaze to Harvey. "You're on board with this?"
Harvey grunted, something almost like embarrassment flickering across his expression.
So he had misjudged. Harvey was not in a lucid phase. The man was simply crazy in a different direction this time.
Oswald pinched the bridge of his nose. "And what, precisely, would this… Union do?"
"Set rules," the young man replied easily. "Establish clear rules of engagement between criminal groups. No more city-destroying schemes from villains. Every criminal in Gotham either follows the rules or the Union takes them down. The rest we're still ironing out."
He spoke with absolute confidence, as if the idea were not completely absurd.
Oswald exhaled slowly through his nose. "Haaa… This is what I get for entertaining lunatics." He straightened in his chair. "I'm done. I'm not listening to another word of this nonsense—"
"Oh, you're just going to let your little development project go belly up?"
Oswald's grip tightened around his cigar, the wrapper crinkling slightly beneath his fingers. The brat kept smiling at him.
"Funny thing about being at the bottom," the kid continued, voice easy. "We look out for each other. Word travels fast. Loads of buildings, bars, and clubs around your place are hiring. That kind of thing gets around."
He leaned forward, grin sharpening into something almost feral.
"But last I heard, none of those properties are open yet. And a whole lotta people are starting to look at them like free real estate."
"And…?" Oswald's voice came out clipped. His glass creaked faintly in his hand.
"Well, you join up, and we cover your manpower problems. You chip in some Union funds, we make sure nobody so much as sneezes on Fifth through Twelfth."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Oswald exhaled slowly, and a chuckle slipped out. It grew, deepening into full-bodied laughter that filled the office.
"I have to hand it to you, kid," he said at last, wiping at the corner of his eye. "You've got spunk."
His fist slammed into the desk.
"Boys!"
The doors burst open. A dozen of his guards flooded in, clad in top-tier body armor and armed with the best weapons money could buy.
"Oh? What happened to the 'legitimate businessman,' huh?" The brat still wore that same damn smile.
"This is business," Oswald replied smoothly, rubbing his hands together. "You're right. I do need manpower. So, in the spirit of cooperation, we've just reached an agreement. Such was my persuasive skill that the two of you have graciously decided to remain at my Lounge for your own 'safety.'"
His eyes hardened.
"So, unless you'd like to test my hospitality, I suggest you take out your phones and start dialing."
Harvey glanced around, frowning. The kid, however, didn't so much as blink.
"Hm. If that's how you want to play it," the brat said lightly, "then I suppose I'll respond in kind."
He snapped his fingers.
"Sic 'em, boys."
Nothing happened.
He scoffed. "Have you completely lost your marbles?"
"Why don't you ask my friends?"
A slow, hot breath washed over the back of Oswald's neck.
His men, hardened criminals all, had gone pale. Several had stopped breathing altogether, eyes fixed on something behind him.
Carefully—very carefully—Oswald turned.
Two towering monstrosities loomed over him.
They were easily twice the height of a man, bodies carved from dark, weathered stone like grotesque gargoyles brought to life. Jagged wings folded behind their backs. One gripped a halberd nearly as tall as the room itself. The other's maw parted slightly, revealing a furnace glow within.
The floor creaked beneath their weight.
Oswald felt sweat bead at his temple.
"What," he breathed, "is that?"
"Hm… about that invitation to the Union," the brat said pleasantly as if there weren't literal monsters in the room.
Oswald swallowed, monocle slipping slightly as he forced a stiff smile.
"I believe," he said carefully, "I may be reconsidering my earlier position."
One of the gargoyles exhaled, a low rumble building in its chest before an arc of lightning spilled from its jaws, the static washing across the office.
Oswald felt his body go rigid and he realized, with mounting horror, that his pants were growing wet.
"Wonderful," the demon wearing a man's face replied with a grin.