Barbara wiped her hands on a rag as she stepped back from the car. The Unicorn sat in the middle of the sewer garage like a lump of gray metal, its body splotched with rust and grime, its hood patched with uneven plates. Pamela circled it slowly, arms folded, her footsteps echoing off the damp concrete. The buzzing of the LED strips overhead cast sickly light across the floor. She tilted her head, squinting at a spot where the paint had flaked away.
"This thing looks like a rusted-out deathtrap," Pamela said flatly. She tapped the door panel with her fingernail and bent low, peering at the floorboard. "I'm almost positive I can see daylight through the floor."
Barbara leaned on the hood, pushing her goggles up with a proud grin. "Oh, you can. I added those myself."
Pamela blinked, then laughed softly under her breath. "Good job. Not even a gang would bother stealing this junk heap. No one would ever guess it's bulletproof—every part of it." She crouched and pressed her palm against the tire tread. "These can't be normal. I'm assuming spike strips won't even touch them?"
"Correct," Barbara said, already sliding into the driver's seat. She tapped a control near the wheel. "Triple-layer graphene mesh, reinforced steel walls. You could fire a rifle into one of these and still drive fifty miles without losing control."
Pamela straightened, satisfied. "Now that's what I like to hear."
The car gave a soft click as Barbara pressed another button. Both front and rear license plates rotated, revealing a different state number with clean precision. She leaned out of the window, smirking. "Check this out. Three preset IDs, all stored in the system. If we need more, I keep blanks in the trunk. Cop scanners will think we're ghosts."
Pamela nodded with quiet approval. "Excellent work. Simple and elegant." She brushed a strand of hair from her face and stepped closer to the window. "But patch the holes under the seats. I don't want to drop my foot through the floor mid-chase. Move them to the back and make them closable—shootout hatches in case we need them."
Barbara considered it, tapping the steering wheel. "That's actually a good idea. I'll build sliding plates we can open with foot switches."
She popped the hood, motioning Pamela over. The engine bay glowed under the LED strips, revealing polished chrome pipes and gleaming welds. Pamela's eyes widened.
"This is a NASCAR-grade 358 V8," she whispered. "Seven hundred horsepower at minimum. Air-cooled intake, reinforced valve covers, custom carb system…"
"Pulled from a wrecked Cup car," Barbara said proudly. "I rebuilt it with nanite augmentation. Every weld you see is bonded at the molecular level. The frame itself is fused to the nanites—liquid armor surrounding the chassis. She can take a crash at two hundred miles an hour and keep running."
Pamela whistled under her breath. "Even the Batmobile can't manage that."
Barbara snorted. "The Batmobile tops out at one fifty, and he drives it like Gotham owes him property damage. He wouldn't survive in this thing."
Pamela gave a faint smile. "He does enjoy a dramatic entrance."
Barbara lowered the hood with a solid clang. The sound echoed through the chamber. Pamela leaned against the car, folding her arms again, her eyes fixed on Barbara. "We've got a tank that looks like trash, a sewer base that's nearly fortified, and my roses guarding the entrance. Only one thing left."
Barbara raised a brow. "What to call it?"
Pamela tapped her chin, pretending to think hard. "Can't be the Batcave. That name's taken. The Gordon Grotto? Ivy's Nest? Chlorophyll Fortress?"
Barbara groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Please don't ever say Chlorophyll Fortress again."
Pamela grinned. "Fine. Then we'll think of something else."
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