Chapter 99 : Waller's Proposition
"I know you can hear me," she said, voice low and commanding.
"And I know you're smart enough not to smash this communicator before I finish."
The Architect remained silent, watching, analyzing.
"My name is Amanda Waller," the woman continued. "I run a government organization that deals with threats most people don't even know exist. Metahuman threats. Supernatural threats. Threats that would make your targets look like schoolyard bullies." She paused, letting that sink in. "I've been watching you, Architect. Watching your work. Your methods. Your....philosophy."
"And you killed my target," the Architect said. "Why?"
"Cornelius Stirk was a rabid dog using your name to justify his sickness," Waller replied without hesitation. "He was making you look bad, drawing attention to your operations, creating a PR problem. I eliminated a liability. You're welcome."
"I don't recall asking for your help."
"No, you didn't."
Waller leaned forward slightly, her expression intense. "But that's exactly why I'm reaching out now. You're operating solo, taking on Gotham's worst, making a real difference. But you're thinking too small, Architect. Gotham is one city. America has dozens just like it. The world has hundreds."
"Get to the point."
Waller's lips curved in something that might have been a smile.
"I want you to work for me. Officially. Join Task Force X—a covert unit that handles situations too dirty for conventional heroes, too complex for standard military operations. You'd have resources, intelligence, support. Most importantly, you'd have 'targets'. Real monsters. The kind that threaten national security and kill by the thousands and operate beyond the reach of law."
The Architect tilted his head slightly. "And in exchange?"
""You work under my authority," Waller said simply. "You get to do what you do best—remove evil from the world—but in service to something larger than your personal vendetta. In service to America's security."
"Why me?"
Waller paused, then said quietly, "Because I understand you."
For the first time, something flickered across Waller's face.
"Twenty-three years ago, my husband and daughter were murdered. A Home invasion. Three men high on PCP broke into our house looking for drug money. My husband tried to protect us. They killed him first—beat him to death with a baseball bat while my daughter and I hid in the closet."
"Then they found us. My daughter was eight years old. She had her whole life ahead of her. They shot her in the head because she wouldn't stop crying."
The hologram's image didn't waver, but the weight of the words hung in the air between them.
"I survived," Waller continued. "I spent three months in the hospital. Another six in physical therapy. And every single day, I thought about those men."
Her eyes bored into the camera.
"Two of those men got plea deals. The third was ruled incompetent to stand trial due to drug-induced psychosis. All three were out within five years. One of them killed again six months after release."
The Architect understood the play—this was an appeal to shared experience, to his own origin as a vigilante born from the system's failures. It was well-executed. Calculated even. Emotionally manipulative but grounded in truth.
"That's when I realized mercy doesn't save people. Action does. So I joined the system to change it from the inside. And when that didn't work, I built my own system."
She leaned back slightly. "You and I, Architect—we're the same. We both know the world needs people willing to get their hands dirty. People willing to make the hard choices. People willing to be the monsters that hunt monsters."
"We're not the same," the Architect said quietly.
"No?" she challenged. "You kill criminals the courts can't touch. I neutralize threats that could end civilizations. The only difference between us is jurisdiction."
"And authority," the Architect added. "You want me to kill on command. To be your weapon."
"I want you to be effective," Waller corrected. "Right now, you're reactive—waiting for victims to cry out, responding to individual cases. Under my organization, you'd be proactive. We'd identify threats before they struck. I will give you intelligence on terrorist cells, human trafficking rings, weapons dealers, corrupt officials operating at levels you can't reach alone. You'd have the power to prevent tragedies instead of just avenging them."
The Architect was quiet for a long moment, processing. The offer had merit—resources, intelligence, scope beyond Gotham's borders. And Waller's logic was sound; proactive intervention saved more lives than reactive punishment.
But there was a fundamental flaw.
"I work for humanity, Waller." the Architect said finally. "Not for America."
Waller's expression didn't change. "Humanity is an abstraction. America is real. It's citizens who need protection. It's borders that need securing. It's interests that—"
He took a step closer to the hologram. "Tell that to every child your government killed in the name of 'national security.' Every coup you backed. Every weapon you sold to both sides. Don't talk to me about protection when your system creates the monsters it claims to fight."
Waller's face didn't twitch, but her tone went ice-cold. "That idealism will get you killed."
"Maybe," the Architect said. "But at least it'll be my choice."
"That's shortsighted," She sighed—disappointed, but not surprised. "You're turning down the chance to make real change because you can't play nice with authority. That's not justice, that's arrogance."
"Call it what you want. My answer is no."
A long silence. Then Waller's expression shifted. ""Then you're a problem. A rogue variable with no leash, no oversight. If you won't work for me, I'll make sure you're contained."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a reality check," Waller said flatly.
The Architect's claws flexed slightly. "I'll look into you too, Waller. Your operations. Your methods. Your victims. If you're as dirty as the rest of them, you'll be next."
"You're welcome to try. But I don't operate in the open like Gotham's criminals, Architect. Good luck finding me."
The Architect crushed the communicator in his hand.
The hologram flickered and died.
The Architect dropped the burning fragments and looked out across Gotham's skyline.
Amanda Waller. Task Force X. Government operations.
But first, he had unfinished business.
---
The Architect dropped through the broken window, landing silently on the factory floor. The candles were still burning, casting their light across the scene.
Cornelius Stirk's body lay where it had fallen, half his head missing, blood pooling beneath him. The previous kidnapped man was gone—probably escaped during the chaos.
But Robin was still there, still chained and bleeding.
The Architect crossed to him quickly. Tim's head was slumped forward, his breathing shallow but steady. The bullet wound in his thigh was still seeping blood, and the cut on his neck from Stirk's knife had left a thin red line down to his collarbone.
The Architect's hand transformed—tendons and cells shifting into something smoother and precise. He pressed it against Tim's thigh, sealing the bleeding with living tissue.
Tim's eyes fluttered open mid-procedure. His vision was blurry, pain-fogged, but he could make out the hooded figure crouched beside him.
"You," Tim rasped. "The... Architect."
"Don't move," the Architect said,"You've lost a lot of blood. The wound is stabilized but you need proper medical attention."
Tim's head cleared slightly as the immediate danger of bleeding out passed.
"You saved me," Tim said, confusion evident in his voice.
"Stirk was using my name," the Architect replied, standing. "That made him my problem to solve. You were collateral damage."
"But you're still leaving me chained up."
"You'll live. Batman will find you soon enough." The Architect paused, looking down at Tim. "Although you should ask yourself why you're waiting for Batman at all."
Tim's brow furrowed through the pain. "What?"
"You're angry with him," the Architect said. "I can see it. The Firefly situation. He chose his code over your life. You understand his reasoning intellectually, but emotionally, you can't reconcile it."
He crouched down again, his hooded face level with Tim's.
"So why are you still wearing his symbol? Still following his rules? Still waiting for him to save you?"
"Because..." Tim started, then stopped. Why? Because it was the right thing to do? Because Batman's code was the only thing separating them from the criminals? Because...
"Because it's easier to follow than to lead," the Architect said, answering for him. "It's easier to let someone else make the hard choices, to defer to established rules, to trust that the system—even Batman's system—will eventually work." He stood again.
"Tim glared weakly at him. "The alternative is becoming you. "Killing whoever I judge deserves it. Deciding I'm above the law."
"The alternative is thinking for yourself," the Architect corrected.
"Batman's code works for Batman. But does it work for you? Does it work for the victims who die while you're busy restraining yourself? Does it work for the innocents who suffer because you won't cross the line that might have saved them?"
"Revolution always require blood, Tim."
Tim wanted to argue, wanted to defend Batman's philosophy, but the words stuck in his throat. Because part of him—the angry part, the hurt part—wondered the same thing.
"Think about it," the Architect said. Then, without warning, he drove his fist into Tim's jaw.
The world went black again.
---
The Architect caught Tim's slumping body, adjusting the chains so the unconscious vigilante wouldn't hurt himself further. Then he turned to Cornelius Stirk's corpse.
He knelt beside the body, placing both hands on the remains. His biomass extended, tendrils burrowing into dead flesh, beginning the consumption process.
Stirk's memories flooded in—twenty years of Arkham, the development of his powers, his twisted philosophy, his victims. But more importantly, his abilities. The psychic projection. The fear-sensing. The hypothalamic connection to others' neural patterns.
The Architect absorbed it all, incorporating the useful genetics while filtering out the pathology. Stirk's power had potential—the ability to project illusions, to read fear responses, to manipulate perception. In the hands of someone with purpose instead of sickness, it could be a tool for justice.
Within minutes, Stirk's body was gone—absorbed completely, leaving nothing but bloodstained concrete and empty clothes.
The Architect stood, his biology already integrating the new abilities, refining them, making them his own.
"You were no disciple," he said to the empty air where Stirk had been. "You were just an over extended tank. My philosophy was just a convenient hole you made to relieve the pressure. A way to justify the hunger you couldn't control."
"But even if your intentions were twisted, your power will allow me to do more good."