Hearing Lyla confirm that ARGUS had the equipment, Thea finally relaxed and refocused on the discussion with Felicity.
"They're probably using low-level nuclear radiation to weaken the body's natural defenses," Thea said thoughtfully, tapping her fingers against the table, "and after that, they inject various animal DNA to 'enhance' physical attributes. But this kind of hybridization puts enormous strain on the body—and the power increase is actually pretty limited."
She was speaking from experience, recalling her fight with that horned "rhino-man."
Felicity nodded, chin in hand, already thinking ahead. "Then theoretically, if we could eliminate the radiation residue on their cells, their bodies would reject the foreign DNA over time."
In theory—yes.
In practice—not a chance.
Cleansing radiation contamination wasn't a quick fix.
Chernobyl had been sealed off since 1986—nearly 1,650 square kilometers of land still too dangerous for humans to live on.
Arkham didn't have the same large-scale contamination issue, but even dealing with trace isotopes was a massive undertaking.
The bigger concern was what kind of nuclear source the enemy was using. If it was waste material, the danger was manageable.
But if they had access to a functioning reactor… then even Thea's backup plan—dropping a Hellfire missile on Arkham—would have to be scrapped immediately.
"Let's just test the levels first," she decided. "If the readings aren't high, we can try neutralizing the radiation with an artificial rainfall and a boric acid dispersal."
That was about as much as she could plan for now—there were too many unknowns.
Then a sudden thought struck her.
She turned toward the half-asleep Gotham crew on the other side of the room.
"By the way—does it ever rain in Gotham? You guys live under clouds 24/7 or what?"
Honestly, she couldn't blame them for being quiet earlier—she'd spent the last ten minutes talking about nuclear isotopes, radiation decay, and chemical neutralization.
Now, finally, a topic everyone could understand.
Barbara frowned, thinking Thea was mocking her city.
"Of course it rains. But yeah, it's cloudy most of the year," she replied, her tone a little defensive.
Most of the year? Thea nearly rolled her eyes.
Try every single day.
She'd been in Gotham for over a month and hadn't seen the sun once.
No wonder people here were insane.
Living in darkness for years wasn't just bad for your health—it warped your mind.
Sunlight makes people calmer, saner, more rational. But Gotham? Gotham was a breeding ground for night creatures, both literal and metaphorical.
She thought she'd just found one of the root causes of Gotham's madness.
Well—one of them.
And then she couldn't help comparing—
Superman had landed in bright, capitalist Metropolis, basking in sunlight and hero worship.
If his ship had crashed in Gotham instead? He'd probably have grown up poor, bitter, and half-crazy—and might not have survived long enough to ever see daylight.
She vaguely remembered an old theory from the internet: Gotham was cursed because there was a demon sealed beneath the city.
That was supposedly why it was always gloomy.
True or not, she couldn't say—but she did recall one fact: Solomon Grundy, the undead powerhouse, did sleep somewhere in the Gotham River.
If she started tampering with the weather here, who knew what kind of monsters she'd awaken next?
Last time she'd merely encouraged civilians to rise up, and now every criminal in the city was forming gangs.
Still—was she scared?
Not in the slightest.
The thought alone made her blood boil with excitement.
Unaware that Thea was already mentally prepping to "accidentally" trigger a citywide catastrophe, the rest of the team quietly went back to cleaning their weapons and gear.
The journey back to camp was surprisingly peaceful—no ambushes, no attacks.
Back at base, the women immediately went to change clothes, wash up, and rest.
Thea in particular couldn't stand it anymore; after dueling the so-called Angel of Death, she was still splattered with his blood.
Her mild cleanliness obsession had been screaming for an hour straight.
After freshening up, everyone gathered in the meeting room.
It took ten minutes for Commissioner Gordon—the ever-diligent warhorse—to finally appear.
He hadn't even had time to wash his face.
The moment they'd returned, he'd been busy counting casualties, reorganizing patrols, and maintaining morale before finally joining them.
"Fourteen officers dead, forty-one wounded," he reported grimly. "Three veterans killed, five injured."
He rubbed a hand over his face, weariness etched deep in his eyes.
Most of the police casualties had come from the moment the enhanced soldiers broke through.
The veterans, by contrast, had weathered the fight well—old habits of ducking, covering, and staying alive had served them once again.
Thea sighed and rubbed her temples.
A tenth of their forces—gone.
Still, she couldn't say the mission had failed.
They'd learned a lot about the enemy's numbers, capabilities, and organization.
In intelligence terms, it was a success.
But with Arkham able to produce more of those monsters endlessly… this war would eat them alive sooner or later.
She was just figuring out how to gently suggest another round of recruitment when the conference room doors swung open.
A tall, broad-shouldered man—elegant, composed, and leaning slightly on a cane—stepped inside.
"Bruce!"
Catwoman froze for half a heartbeat, then bolted.
Without hesitation, she vaulted over the entire conference table, landing gracefully on the other side before throwing herself into his arms.
Tears welled in her eyes as her fingers traced the familiar lines of his face.
"Is it really you, Bruce?" she whispered.
His voice, calm and rich as ever, answered, "Yes, Selina. It's me. I'm home."
They were seconds away from a long-overdue reunion—when a voice from the doorway shattered the mood.
"Hey, Kitty—there's your man. Now, where's my money?"
A tall, deadly beautiful woman with long dark hair and an all-too-casual swagger stepped into the room.
Thea nearly buried her face in her hands.
Of course.
The mood-killer in question was none other than her occasional mentor—and professional chaos agent—Lady Shiva.
The room's collective awe turned into awkward silence as Shiva strode right up to Catwoman, held out her hand, and said flatly,
"Come on. You promised payment. Chop-chop, I'm on a schedule."
"Shiva," Bruce said evenly, still holding Selina close. "We talked about this on the way back. I'll pay you. Just… let her go."
Shiva arched an eyebrow. "Nope. She made the deal, not you. You're flat broke and your company's on life support. What are you gonna pay me with—your mansion? I don't do real estate."
Catwoman looked mortified.
When she'd begged Shiva for help, it had been a desperate, last-ditch effort.
She hadn't actually expected the woman to succeed—let alone drag Bruce Wayne back alive and intact.
Now here he was, whole and breathing… and she owed a debt the size of a small country.
If she didn't pay, she'd never live it down.
But paying meant—well, goodbye savings.
Thea leaned back in her chair, sighing deeply.
Only in Gotham could a legendary hero's homecoming turn into a collection call.