The smell of gunpowder and damp concrete clung to the walls of Carmine Falcone's office, mingling with expensive tobacco and the raw fury radiating from the boss himself. His fists, clenched until the knuckles whitened, rested on the polished desk like twin boulders. Alex's words—"Kiss my ass, then maybe I'll think about it"—rang in his ears, stinging like a wasp. Nobody. Nobody dared speak to Carmine Falcone like that and live to breathe another day. He lifted his gaze to Bull, his loyal enforcer with a neck like an ox, standing rigid, eyes down, sensing the storm.
"Gather them," Falcone's voice was low, hoarse, like gravel grinding. "Everyone. Every last punk. Every gun, every car. That pup's gonna learn his place tonight. And where we bury smartasses."
Bull nodded silently, turned, and vanished through the door, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. Gotham, the eternal predator, smelled blood. And Falcone intended to drown Alex in it, taking his "herb," his bases, his audacious life.
***
The smoke-filled room in the Maroni family's lair was a knot of tension. The air was thick with whiskey, sweat, and the premonition of disaster. Salvatore Maroni, cigar clamped dead in his teeth, scanned his lieutenants. Their faces were stone masks, but their eyes betrayed a readiness to pounce. The phones on the table screeched in unison, as if on cue. Sal snatched the nearest one, pressing it to his ear. His face darkened like a storm cloud.
"Falcone's mobilizing everyone," he said, tossing the phone onto the table with a sharp clatter in the tense silence. "He's forming a fist. It's gonna be a fight."
"Damn it!" Luigi, his right-hand man, hurled a glass at the wall, shards exploding. "I told you! War! No way out!"
"Shut your trap and listen!" Sal roared, standing. His authority, like a whip, made Luigi shrink. "We're not pups to cower. We knew Carmine's a rabid old dog. So we prepared. Orders: All crews, hit the streets. Protect our spots. Find Falcone's weak points. Hit fast, hit hard. Gotham's gonna see who the real wolf is tonight. Move!"
The men nodded, scattering, leaving behind only the stench of fear and resolve. The conflict, smoldering for years, flared into a torch. Gotham was turning into a battlefield. Sal took a drag on his cigar, exhaling a ring of smoke, his mind not on the chaos but on breaking the old falcon's spine.
***
The Joker's lair was a reflection of his mind—a junkyard of rusted cans, mangled TVs, tangled wires, and absurdity. He lounged on a "throne" of old tires, twirling a razor-sharp knife, his giggles dripping into the silence like poison. A mob war… Oh, this was his canvas! His chance to show these pathetic ants their rotten truth! Even through the reek of gasoline and paint, the familiar scent of damp concrete and gunpowder wafted in, intoxicating, the smell of brewing chaos.
His plan was elegant in its madness:
Seize the Channels: Not just cutting wires. His techs (two pale geniuses with trembling hands and the fire of insanity in their eyes) had been probing the city's 911 switchboard vulnerabilities for a week. Tonight, they'd physically take the key Midtown communication hub, disabling backup lines. No noise, no panic. Just… silence.
Twisted Broadcast: When panic peaked, when the city burned and screamed, the 911 lines would come alive. But instead of a calm dispatcher, callers would hear him—his distorted, piercing laugh, followed by words seared into memory: "Want to save your sorry hide? Turn in a friend! A neighbor! Your dear brother! One name, one guaranteed life in a shelter! One life saved, one… eliminated! Your choice! Call! Name names! Ha-ha-HA!"
Circus of Betrayal: His men, dressed in caricatures of police and rescue uniforms, would snatch those who took the bait. Not save them, but drag them to "shelters"—pre-rigged traps (abandoned warehouses, basements) where victims would sit in darkness, listening to chaos broadcasts, fed scraps and guilt for their betrayal.
Grand Reveal: At the climax, when Gotham writhed in agony, he'd dump every traitor's name online. With photos. Addresses. Let the city see its reflection in this rotten mirror! Let it learn what people would do to save their own skin!
The Joker giggled, then erupted into a fit of laughter, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his painted cheeks. This wouldn't just be a prank. It would be a symphony of decay. His immortal masterpiece!
***
Edward Nigma's lair resembled a giant, living brain, webbed with strings, pinned with maps, photos, equations, and riddles scrawled on walls and floors. The air was thick with coffee and the dust of old paper. Nigma paced, muttering to himself, fingers nervously fidgeting with imaginary pieces. On the central table lay a blurry, anonymous photo: a man in shadow, only the outline of a face—a puzzle. Beside it, a clear shot of Pamela Isley, her green eyes piercing as if they knew all his secrets.
This… phenomenon. This new player had flipped Gotham's board upside down! Sparked an open clan war, like nudging two pendulums. Not Batman, not the Joker, not any old face. His threads, thin as spider silk, led to the docks—to anonymous herbs, rumors of underground complexes. Pamela was the key, an ally, but this shadow figure… he was the architect. The web's center. "Who are you?" Nigma whispered, jabbing the blurry photo. "A king hiding behindShare: behind a queen? A queen posing as a pawn? Or… a new piece on the board?" Paranoia, cold and familiar, gripped his mind. He had to solve this riddle. Or the game would lose all meaning.
***
Alex sat in his makeshift command post on the top floor of Gotham Chemical Works. On the desk: three old, reliable flip phones and a set of encrypted radios, ready for any signal jamming. Outside, in the gray twilight, Gotham began to hum with an ominous, foreboding buzz. The mob war had escalated from threats to open flames. His superpower worked overtime, filtering internal reports and external data as he studied a detailed map of the docks, where every alley, every building was part of Floravita Industries' grand machine.
One of the phones rang sharply, shattering the silence. Alex picked up. The voice from the lookout tower was clear, no panic:
"Falcone's convoy. Southbound. Five vehicles, tinted SUVs. Moving down Wharf Street toward the control zone. Five minutes to point Alpha."
Analysis: Threat confirmed. Composition: likely 10-15 fighters, heavy weaponry. Route leads directly into the prepared ambush zone. Pamela alerted, seeds activated. Risk of breakthrough: minimal (<5%) if the plan is followed.
"Copy. Maintain contact," Alex said, hanging up and grabbing another phone. "Pamela, guests approaching. South entrance. Time to start the show."
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second, mentally rehearsing the scenario. Everything was calculated.
***
Pamela Isley stood on the roof of the tallest abandoned warehouse in the docks, a queen surveying her domain. The wind whipped her red hair, carrying the scent of sea, rust, and… tension. The road below, a dark ribbon, was her arena. Along its edges, in asphalt cracks and at the base of walls, her children slept—specialized seeds infused with her power, awaiting her call. Behind her, at a respectful distance, stood three of Alex's mercenaries. Their faces were masked, rifles in hand. Machines. Useful, but alien. She didn't trust their cold metal or mercenary souls. But Alex trusted their discipline. For him, she tolerated their presence.
In the distance, at the south entrance, headlights appeared. Five black SUVs, like armored beetles, roared down the road, kicking up dust clouds. They entered the heart of the zone where her seeds were densest. Pamela closed her eyes, sinking into the green hum of life beneath her feet. She sent a pulse—gentle but commanding. The ground trembled. Not an earthquake, but a powerful, targeted surge. Then the asphalt erupted with life. Not mere sprouts—thick, arm-width vines with glossy, venomous purple flowers burst forth at staggering speed. They wove into nets, ensnaring wheels, hoods, and doors, locking the vehicles in place in seconds. Steel cables shot from the first and last SUVs (a breakout attempt?) were snapped like threads. Five minutes, and Falcone's convoy became helpless green cocoons, unable to fire a shot. Alex's foresight was flawless: the enemy's brute force was powerless against nature, stopped before it could gain momentum.
Pamela turned to the mercenaries, her gaze cold and commanding. She tossed each a handful of small, dark, unremarkable seeds.
"Your turn. Search them. Weapons, documents, valuables. Living ones—into the truck. Quick, clean, no noise."
They nodded silently and descended the fire escape like well-oiled gears. They worked fast and methodically: smashing surviving windows, pulling out dazed, scratched, but alive Falcone thugs. They collected rifles, pistols, knives, cash stacks, radios. Bodies were loaded into a tinted van that pulled up. Leaving them here meant a chance of rescue or rival interrogation. Each captive, before being gagged, had one of her seeds slipped into their mouth. Through them, she could see, hear, feel their fear. With a thought, she could inject a paralyzing toxin, knock them out, or… end them forever. They were her hostages, her eyes and ears in the enemy's camp. They'd realize that soon enough.
Pamela took the phone and dialed. Herrobustly Her voice was calm as a deep lake:
"South entrance cleared. Guests received in style."
Below, the purple flowers on the mighty vines swayed in the breeze, lit by the captured vehicles' headlights.
***
Pamela's voice on the phone was a breath of fresh air. Alex allowed himself a short, sharp smirk, staring at the map. Five of Falcone's fangs knocked out at the doorstep. But before he could set the phone down, another rang. The monitoring center operator's voice was tense, with shouts and sirens in the background:
"Maroni struck! Simultaneous hits on three Falcone casinos in Riverside and two weapons warehouses at the port! Explosions. Big ones. Coordinated. Drones show fire, panic… Cops can't handle it. Total chaos!"
Alex clicked the remote, and the wall screen lit up with news channels. The footage jumped: smoke clouds, collapsing walls, frantic reporters' faces. The explosions… too powerful, too theatrical. Not the cautious mob style. The clown's signature.
"Joker. Son of a bitch," Alex muttered, mentally tagging the threat as active, secondary. He grabbed the radio. "All units, phase two—go. Seize emergency broadcast channels. Transmit on all frequencies, mirror on downtown screens: 'ALL SEEKING SAFETY! FLORAVITA INDUSTRIES SHELTER OPEN! ADDRESS: OLD WAREHOUSE, SECTOR 7, GOTHAM DOCKS. SAFETY GUARANTEED. REPEAT…'"
Forty agonizing minutes passed, filled with reports of skirmishes at the docks' perimeter. The radio crackled. The strike team leader's voice was hoarse, heavy breathing audible:
"Comms… secured. Main relay and three backup frequencies under control. Message live. But…" His voice hardened, "…there was an ambush. Joker's crew. Ten men. Set up a nest at the hub. They were waiting for something… or someone. We fought them off. Three of mine injured but alive. Took them all down. They fight dirty, but my guys are tougher. And… we found their script. A recorded disc. Joker planned to hijack 911. Make people call and snitch on each other. Name for name. One life saved, one erased, the sick bastard."
Alex froze for a moment. The Joker wanted to sow hell within hell, turning fear into a weapon of mutual destruction. But they… they didn't just repel the attack. They seized the initiative, offering the city not betrayal's chaos but an island of order. They rewrote his script.
"One-zero, clown," Alex said quietly, with icy satisfaction, staring at the screen where his message flickered over images of destruction. The wheel of destruction spun at breakneck speed, but they held the wheel. Falcone took a hit to the face and lost men. Maroni charged into battle but was already in the crosshairs. The Joker lost the first round. The docks were their fortress. And Gotham, drenched in blood and fire, was beginning to see an alternative. An alternative called Floravita Industries.