The next morning, everyone gathered at the Gotham Meteorological Observation Center—a facility that controlled three weather satellites capable of monitoring the city's skies in real time.
And, of course, as with all things Gotham, the place ran on Wayne Enterprises money.
Every year, Bruce's company poured in millions for "research and maintenance."
Today, though, the benefactor himself was keeping a low profile, disguised as an ordinary officer, while the actual negotiations were handled by his old friend—Lucius Fox.
Lucius, the ever-elegant elder statesman of Wayne Enterprises, was in excellent spirits these days.
Ever since outmaneuvering Talia al Ghul's coup attempt at the board, he'd been practically glowing—his back straighter, his step lighter, his grin wider.
He still couldn't climb all 100 floors of the Wayne Tower in one go, but he'd tell anyone who'd listen that he could if he wanted to.
And now, with Bruce Wayne safely back in Gotham, Lucius had secretly met with him the night before.
That private reunion had rejuvenated the man completely—he was walking with the energy of someone half his age.
When he heard Thea needed access to the weather control system to "observe cloud activity," he didn't even ask why.
Instead, he simply smiled, made a few calls, and gave every employee at the center the day off.
By noon, the facility—and all its satellites—were completely at their disposal.
Thea sat in the control room beside "Officer Wayne," going over their final plan.
Ever since she'd explained her "overcast skies and high crime rates" theory, Bruce had been… intrigued.
And that was saying something for a man with multiple doctorates in psychology.
He'd always believed Gotham's corruption was purely social and systemic, but now—this strange, almost heretical idea had him thinking.
Maybe, just maybe, perpetual darkness had conditioned Gotham's citizens to live as predators.
And besides—they needed rain anyway to help cleanse residual radiation in the air.
So why not fix both problems at once?
"Felicity, start releasing the dry ice," Thea commanded, settling into the meteorologist's high chair like a queen on her throne.
This time, the drones weren't her usual custom toys.
They were WayneTech models—the kind "technically classified as civilian" but capable of carrying missiles.
It was, as Bruce called it, "a regulatory gray area."
Thea just called it perfect.
As the drones rose through the murky Gotham sky, releasing a stream of dry ice into the upper atmosphere, she couldn't help smirking.
This single flight cost over a million dollars—but it wasn't her money, so who cared?
Lucius, being a consummate corporate professional, didn't even flinch.
Tens of millions came and went through his accounts daily.
This—this was pocket change.
And when you split the cost among shareholders, no one even noticed.
Thea found it almost poetic—modern capitalism's greatest trick: everyone pays, no one feels it.
Of course, halfway through, she remembered—she was technically one of those shareholders.
Watching her own portion of the money vanish into the clouds left her a little bitter, but with Bruce standing there calm as ever, she didn't dare complain.
Felicity guided the drones in two wide sweeps over the city before returning to base.
The clouds above Gotham grew thicker, heavier—dark as molten lead.
It should have started raining.
Any normal city would've been drenched by now.
But Gotham… resisted.
Ten minutes passed.
Still no rain.
Thea frowned.
There was something about Gotham's weather that made her skin crawl.
Anywhere else, this would be a downpour—but here, it was like the sky itself was holding its breath.
"Commissioner, have your people fire the rounds," Thea said, tapping her chin.
She wasn't leaving until it rained.
Outside, the city was swallowed by shadow.
Every streetlamp, every building light flickered on against the endless gray.
"Boom. Boom."
The sound of artillery thundered across the skyline.
Each shell—twenty thousand dollars apiece—was packed with rainfall-inducing chemicals.
Thea knew the price because Gordon was literally signing off on them beside her.
The ever-principled commissioner had insisted Gotham pay its share.
"Public-private cooperation," he'd said.
Then he'd signed five of them in a row.
A hundred grand gone in ten seconds.
The dark clouds grew denser still, merging into a single, impenetrable mass.
The sky above Gotham was now pitch black—so dark it looked like the void itself.
Every instinct in the room tensed.
Just as Thea was about to order another volley—
a low rumble echoed across the heavens.
"Rrrrrrmmmmm—BOOM."
It began faintly, almost imperceptible, then grew louder and louder, rolling through the city like a beast waking from its sleep.
"The air's water saturation just hit 179%," Felicity called out, eyes fixed on her monitors.
"Wind speed at the West Outpost is up to Force 5," reported one of ARGUS's agents.
"Positive charge in the updraft has risen to 450% above normal," Bruce added, checking the readings himself.
With all the data converging, Thea knew—there was no stopping it now.
The storm was coming.
"Barbara," she said sharply, "play the announcement—on repeat."
Barbara nodded, still holding Robin close beside her.
The "announcement" wasn't official, of course.
It was Felicity's handiwork: a Photoshopped, AI-edited version of the mayor's previous broadcast, repackaged as a public safety alert.
It told citizens to stay indoors and keep their families safe from the "severe weather event."
At this point, even Thea had to admit: if she stayed in Gotham a few more months, the current mayor's approval ratings might hit record highs—and she'd be the reason.
When Batman first heard they were faking mayoral broadcasts, his rigid sense of ethics had protested.
But learning it wasn't their first time doing it… he just sighed and let it go.
Then came the thunder.
"CRAAACK—BOOOOOM!"
The deafening roar rolled endlessly over Gotham.
Ten full minutes of lightning and thunder tearing open the sky before—finally—the rain began.
At first, fat droplets splattered against the reinforced glass.
Then the drizzle thickened into a torrent.
Within moments, the city was drowning under sheets of rain.
The sound of water drumming against the building filled the observation deck—
sharp, heavy, relentless.
Thea exhaled slowly.
The hidden "ancient evil" she'd half-joked about hadn't shown itself.
No undead Solomon Grundy crawling out of the river.
No demonic storm lord awakening beneath the city.
Just rain.
Heavy, cleansing rain.
She smiled faintly.
"See? Science. Not superstition."
Standing at the glass, she watched the storm hammer against Gotham's skyline.
The raindrops streaked down the reinforced windows, leaving trails of grime behind—evidence of how polluted the clouds had been.
The city was literally washing its sins away.
Beside her, Bruce Wayne stood silent, cane in hand, staring into the distance.
"Will Gotham be different after this?" he asked quietly.
There was hope in his voice—but also doubt.
Thea didn't turn around.
Her eyes stayed on the storm, her reflection flickering in the glass like firelight behind the rain.
"It will," she said firmly.
"After all the money we just burned, it damn well better be."
And somewhere beyond the thunder, lightning split the heavens over Gotham—
marking the moment the city began, at last, to change.