The air in the command center at the former Gotham Chemical Works factory was thick, heavy with the scent of dust, old metal, and tension. Alex sat at his desk, knuckles white as he gripped a reliable old flip phone. Outside, in the smoke-swirled night of Gotham, gunfire crackled, blending into an ominous symphony of war. His voice, when he spoke into the phone, was a taut wire:
"Has Gordon lit the Bat-Signal?"
The mercenary leader's voice over the radio was calm, but a subtle strain broke through the static: "Not yet. Sky above the precinct's clear."
"Doesn't matter," Alex snapped, his gaze fixed on a worn city map where red marks spread like sores from the docks. "Launch phase three. Now. Drone with the documents—to the central precinct roof. Drone only. Use the deep-encrypted 'Echo-7' channel. No traces. And tell the pilot to pray some jittery rookie doesn't mistake it for a flying bomb and pull the trigger."
Ten minutes passed, each stretching like an hour. The radio hissed:
"'Falcon' airborne. Frequency 'Echo-7,' silent flight. Payload—documents and note. ETA to target: fifteen minutes. Repeating, 'Falcon' en route."
Alex leaned back, exhaling a breath he didn't realize he'd held. The documents… not just papers. A trap set for the mob, the key to their shame and downfall. Now everything hinged on the Shadow.
***
Gotham burned. Crimson firelight danced a devilish waltz on building walls. Screams of the wounded, looters' shouts, siren wails, and explosion roars wove into a hellish cacophony. Batman, a black phantom, glided along cornices, his cape slicing through the smoky air. Below, in an alley, he'd just taken down five thugs smashing a jewelry store window—pathetic jackals sensing weakness. But they were legion. The real war raged in the docks and warehouses—Falcone's and Maroni's soldiers tore into each other with ferocity. Street gangs, like hyenas, ravaged the defenseless city. Police cars with flashing lights stood as mute witnesses, while dirty cops in blue let weapons trucks slip through cordons, their badges glinting treacherously in the firelight. Batman nabbed one after another—thug, mobster, crazed rioter—but the chaos, a many-headed serpent, sprouted new heads. There was no center. No root. Even chaining Falcone and Maroni wouldn't stop Gotham from bleeding under anarchy's knife.
Then—it flared. The Bat-Signal, a piercing white beam cutting through the night's soot, a cry of desperation. Gordon didn't call for trifles. Batman darted to the central precinct roof, materializing from the darkness behind the commissioner, silent as death itself.
"Jim," his voice was a blade slicing the night's quiet.
Gordon flinched, turning. His face, lit by the signal's ghostly glow, was ashen, exhausted. Deep shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless hours of despair.
"Batman…" Gordon's voice broke. "This… this is the end. Falcone's Emerald Casino—rubble. The bank on Fifth, gutted. Looters… they're everywhere, like roaches. Half the precinct… I don't know who to trust. We're drowning. We need… an outside hand." Helplessness, rare for this man, shone in his eyes.
Batman stayed silent. Endless chaos without a face, without a weak point… Then—a buzz. Sharp, metallic. Gordon instinctively raised his pistol, eyes wide with primal fear:
"Kamikaze! Damn it, they're everywhere!"
"Stand down." Batman's command cracked like a whip. He flicked a switch on his belt—his suit's lenses flared with data. Thermal scan: a cold silhouette, no engine or battery heat. Spectral analysis: ceramic, plastic, metal—standard civilian drone. No traces of explosives, chemicals, or radiation. Markings on the hull: Floravita Industries. Trajectory—smooth, predictable, non-aggressive. The drone hovered, dropped a compact metal container with a parachute, then vanished into the smoke.
Batman stepped to the package. Scanners confirmed: paper, ink, cardboard inside. No threat, no trap. He opened the container. Inside was a thick folder stamped with the Floravita Industries logo and a note on heavy, expensive paper. He opened the folder—and the world narrowed to lines and numbers.
Falcone: Crypto wallets (traced chain), transactions through a web of offshore accounts (Caymans, BVI)—millions from drug trade, bribes to the mayor, judges, Senator Kane. Dates, amounts, recipients. Ironclad.
Maroni: Swiss accounts, arms smuggling details (shipments, dates, vessels), recipient lists in the city. Rifles, grenades, MANPADS.
Cops: Names, ranks, bribe amounts. Captain Richard Lawson—150K for covering Falcone's warehouses. Lieutenant Maria Cruz—80K for leaking operational data. Fifteen names total. Nails in the coffin of corruption.
The note was short and clear: "The mob is yours. The rest is ours. And tell the honest cops to wear respirators. F.I."
Gordon peered over his shoulder, his breath ragged:
"God… Where did this come from? Who?"
Batman's fingers tightened on the folder, knuckles whitening. His gaze flicked to the burning districts, then back to the note. The one who unleashed this hell had handed him a sword. Sharp, merciless, illegal. Help? Yes. But it was a move in someone else's game, by their questionable rules. The feeling? Not gratitude. Deep, icy distrust mixed with the bitter acknowledgment of the strike's effectiveness. He silently thrust the folder into Gordon's hands, his figure dissolving into the roof's shadows the next moment, leaving the commissioner alone with a weapon that could turn the war's tide but reeked of sulfur.
***
Descending into the cool, softly green-lit depths of the Ark—the second underground complex carved by Geo into the docks' bedrock—Alex felt the contrast. Above, hell. Here, the hum of anxious but living voices. Nearly two hundred refugees, fleeing the street's slaughter, crowded the spacious intake hall. His people—not mercenaries, but ordinary citizens plucked from alleys where they cowered under gunfire—kept order: photographing, recording names, explaining rules. Wall posters bore simple truths: "Respect your neighbor," "Maintain order," "Plants are our life. Don't harm!" Walls, ceilings, even columns were cloaked in Pamela's living carpet of vines and moss—natural filters providing clean air, condensing water, bearing edible fruit. The air was fresh, smelling of earth and life. Alex scanned the crowd: tired, frightened faces, worn clothes, but in many eyes—not just fear, but a spark of hope ignited by the fact of salvation. His superpower processed the data stream: people's conditions, stress levels, potential threats.
Phase four—Pamela's speech—was the key to unity and publicity. Reporters (those brave or paid enough) had taken positions by the stage, cameras ready. While Pamela was absent, Alex helped at the entrance. The first ten passed quickly: scared women, elderly, children. The tenth—a twitchy guy with darting eyes, his hand instinctively reaching into his jacket's inner pocket. Alex's superpower flagged danger: adrenaline spike, micro-movements indicating a hidden weapon (knife), elevated aggression in his biofield.
"Take him out," Alex nodded to two nearby mercenaries, his voice leaving no room for doubt. The guy was swiftly and quietly removed, his protests muffled by a heavy door. Alex was already checking the next.
The eleventh. A girl. "Barbara Gordon," she said. Lean, red-haired, in worn jeans and a hoodie. But something didn't add up. Her stance—poised, balanced on her toes. Leg and core muscles—defined, like a professional athlete's. Movements—economical, precise, no wasted effort. Alex gave a faint smirk. Daddy sent his daughter to scout? But she wasn't pushing, wasn't provoking, and crossing the Commissioner now was suicide.
"Pass, Miss Gordon," he said neutrally, checking her off the list. Their eyes met for a split second—hers sharp, assessing; his deliberately unfocused. She nodded and melted into the crowd.
An hour later, Pamela entered. Her emerald silk dress flowed like water, her eyes blazing with cold, commanding light.
"Ready?" she asked, scanning the sea of people behind the transparent partition, where an improvised meeting hall was set up.
"Cameras on, people gathered," Alex confirmed. "The stage is yours, Ivy. Time to sow."
***
The Ark's hall was a marvel of Geo and Pamela's making—high arches draped in living moss, soft light from bioluminescent fungi, air scented with earth and flowers. Hundreds of eyes, filled with fear and hope, fixed on the wooden platform where Pamela stood, surrounded by pots of otherworldly, pulsing plants. Reporters' cameras hummed. Alex stayed in the deep shadows by the wall, an observer.
Pamela raised a hand—and silence fell like a heavy curtain.
"You're here," her voice, clear and strong, filled the space, "because up there, Gotham burns. Burns from the mob's greed, the scum's cruelty, the chaos they call power. You fled that hell. And you made a choice." She paused, her gaze sweeping the rows. "You signed on to simple rules: respect each other. Don't sow discord. And…" her voice deepened, almost vibrating, her eyes flashing brighter than emeralds, "…live in harmony with nature. Look around! These walls breathe! These plants are your lungs, your water, your food! They're not just decoration—they're the life of this sanctuary! And they're the blueprint of the future! Gotham's future!" Behind her, as if by magic, massive white lilies bloomed, and vines stretched toward the ceiling at unnatural speed, forming a living, breathing arch. "We're not hiding in fear! We're building here! Building a new world! A world of purity, greenery, free of the old order's greed, blood, and filth! You are the first citizens of this world! You are its seeds! And together," she extended her arms to the crowd, as if embracing them, "together, we'll regrow Gotham! From ashes! From hope! From life!"
The silence hung by a thread. Then applause erupted. Hesitant at first, then louder, swelling into a standing ovation. People wept, embraced, gazed at Pamela with awe. Even cynical reporters forgot their cameras for a moment, captivated by her power and vision. Alex, in the shadows, allowed himself a rare, genuine smirk. Pamela hadn't just spoken. She'd lit a torch. This moment's footage would go viral. Gotham would see not just a shelter, but a future under Floravita Industries' banner.
The echo of Pamela's speech still thrummed in Alex's bones, but the time for words was over. The hour of the fifth, final phase had come. Six hours of hell. Gotham was a nightmare: entire blocks ablaze, shop windows shattered on asphalt, gunfire ringing like a mad salute, sirens wailing an endless dirge. Stopping it by ordinary means was impossible. Blood called for blood. But they lived in a world where rules weren't written only by humans.
"Time, Pamela," Alex said, his voice quiet but firm. Her eyes sparked with that dangerous green fire.
They climbed to the roof of the docks' highest point—an old factory tower. From here, Gotham lay bare: a sea of fire, smoke clouds, flashes of gunfire, car headlights crawling like fireflies. An apocalyptic tableau. Alex's superpower, stretched to its limit, parsed the chaos into vectors of force, pockets of resistance, streams of fleeing people. But the scale was monstrous.
Pamela knelt on the cool concrete, her palms pressing against it. The earth sighed. Not a tremor—a deep, powerful pulse from the depths. From cracks in the concrete, It erupted. A massive plant, stems thick as arms, inky blue, pulsing with inner light. Buds the size of car tires clenched and unclenched like hearts. "Blue Lotus of Absolution," Pamela whispered, her voice distant, as if from another realm. "It will put them to sleep. All who breathe rage and fear."
She closed her eyes. The lotus buds opened with a soft, rustling sigh. Not smoke, but a dense, bluish-silver mist of microscopic spores poured out. It didn't rise in a column—it slithered, a living veil, weightless but relentless, carried by the night breeze. The mist blanketed the docks, crept along streets, filled alleys, settled on roofs, seeped through windows. A Falcone soldier aiming from behind a barricade dropped his rifle—his eyelids fused, and he crumpled to the asphalt. A looter dragging a box of jewelry stumbled, sat, then slumped sideways, his face oddly serene. Gunfire faded, one shot at a time. Screams quieted, replaced by the heavy, even breathing of the sleeping. Thirty minutes later, the giant lotus on the tower quivered. Its blue petals drooped, shriveled, and fell like tears, exhausted by the colossal effort. Pamela breathed heavily, sweat dripping down her temples, but a faint, triumphant smile played on her lips.
Gotham fell silent. Not just hushed—it sank into a deep, unnatural sleep. No gunfire. No screams. Only the rustle of wind through ruins and the wail of distant sirens. The mob war, the war of all against all, was over.
But Alex felt the world blur. His eyelids turned to lead, thoughts tangled in cotton. The spores… his unique mind had no defense against this biological weapon. His legs buckled, his body began to slump. Pamela, with reflexes honed in her greenhouse jungles, lunged forward. Her strong arms caught him, keeping him from falling. She knelt gently, cradling his head in her lap. Her fingers, cool and tender, wove into his hair.
"Sleep, Alex," she whispered, her voice softer than the falling petals. "You've earned rest. We… we did it."
The first rays of dawn, crimson and tentative, pierced the smoke, painting the ruins in hues of hope and sorrow. The city lay wounded: blackened building husks, seas of shattered glass, cars frozen in the bluish haze like an icy lake. But in this heavy, strange silence, something new lingered. Peace. As if Gotham, bleeding for a century, had finally caught its breath.
"This is the beginning," Pamela said, gazing at the sleeping city, her hand still stroking Alex's hair. "Of our Gotham."
The wheel of destruction, spun to madness, had finally stopped. Now came the hardest part—building a new world from the ashes of the old.