The chemical plant loomed against Gotham's perpetually overcast sky like a monument to industrial negligence, its rusting smokestacks and corroded storage tanks a testament to decades of corner-cutting and regulatory capture. Ace Chemicals had been a fixture of Gotham's manufacturing sector since the 1940s, producing everything from industrial solvents to pharmaceutical precursors, and its safety record was exactly what one would expect from a company that had operated in Gotham for that long—which is to say, catastrophic.
Batman crouched on a rooftop overlooking the facility, his cape pooling around him like liquid shadow as he surveyed the scene below. The police had already come and gone, their investigation of the previous night's break-in apparently complete—yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the evening breeze, but no officers remained on site. Security had been "enhanced" following the incident, which in Ace Chemicals' case meant two additional guards had been hired to stand around looking bored while collecting overtime pay.
"Alfred," Batman said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm at the plant. Sending you visual feed now."
"Receiving, sir. The facility appears quiet."
"Too quiet." Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl's lenses, scanning the building's exterior for signs of activity. "According to the police report, the break-in targeted the experimental compounds wing—specifically, a batch of chemical agents that were being developed for... let me guess... cosmetics applications?"
"The report does mention cosmetic applications, sir. Something about skin-whitening compounds and mood-altering aromatherapy products."
"Of course it does." Batman's voice carried a weight of bitter recognition. "Because that's how it always starts. Experimental chemicals, cosmetic applications, and then someone falls into a vat and comes out as a homicidal maniac with a permanent smile and an inexplicable immunity to his own toxins."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Never mind. I'm going in."
Batman launched himself from the rooftop, his cape spreading to catch the air as he glided toward the chemical plant's upper level. The current suit's gliding capabilities were limited compared to what his upgraded design would offer, but they were sufficient for this approach—silent, unexpected, and positioned perfectly to enter through a ventilation shaft that the security assessment had apparently overlooked.
The interior of the plant was a maze of pipes, catwalks, and massive chemical storage tanks, all illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of industrial lighting that hadn't been upgraded since the Reagan administration. Batman moved through the shadows like a ghost, his presence undetected by the handful of night-shift workers who were more focused on their card games than on the possibility of intruders.
The experimental compounds wing was located in the facility's east section, separated from the main production areas by a series of security doors that had been designed to contain chemical spills but were completely inadequate for preventing determined intruders. Batman bypassed them easily, his lockpicking skills—Bruce Wayne's lockpicking skills, honed by years of training with masters across the world—making short work of mechanisms that had probably been cutting-edge in 1985.
Inside the wing, the evidence of the previous night's break-in was immediately apparent. Several storage containers had been opened, their contents partially removed. Chemical formulae were scattered across workbenches, some of them bearing handwritten notes in a script that Batman didn't recognize. And in the center of the room, connected to a complex array of tubes and monitoring equipment, was a large industrial vat filled with a luminescent green liquid that seemed to pulse with its own inner light.
"Well," Batman murmured, staring at the vat with a mixture of recognition and grim determination, "there you are."
This was it. The vat that, in the original timeline, would transform a small-time criminal—or a failed comedian, or a chemical engineer, or whatever origin story the writers had decided on that particular week—into the Joker. The catalyst for decades of suffering, thousands of deaths, and the single most destructive criminal career in Gotham's history.
And Batman was going to make sure it never happened.
"Alfred, I need you to access Ace Chemicals' personnel records. Cross-reference with anyone who's had access to this wing in the past week—employees, contractors, visitors, anyone."
"Working on it now, sir. The company's digital security is... not impressive."
"Shocking." Batman began photographing the scattered documents, his cowl's built-in camera capturing every formula, every note, every piece of evidence that might prove useful. "Also, I'm going to need a complete chemical analysis of the compound in this vat. I'm taking samples."
"Is that wise, sir? Unknown chemical compounds can be extremely dangerous."
"I know exactly what this compound is, Alfred. Or rather, what it will become if it's allowed to be used as intended." Batman produced a series of sample containers from his belt and began carefully extracting portions of the luminescent liquid. "This is a precursor to something called Joker Venom—a neurotoxic compound that causes uncontrollable laughter, facial muscle paralysis, and death. In its current form, it's probably not lethal, but with the right modifications..."
He trailed off, his mind racing through the possibilities. The Joker's signature toxin had been one of his most devastating weapons, responsible for countless deaths across multiple timelines. But the same chemical principles that made it lethal could potentially be modified for beneficial applications. Mood enhancement. Anxiety treatment. Dental anesthesia that actually worked without leaving patients drooling and disoriented.
"I'm taking all of it," Batman decided. "The samples, the formulae, everything. This research is too dangerous to leave in Ace Chemicals' hands, but too potentially valuable to simply destroy."
"And the person who broke in last night? The one who presumably wanted this research for themselves?"
"That's who I'm here to find." Batman finished collecting his samples and turned his attention to the security system. "There should be camera footage from the break-in. Let's see who we're dealing with."
The security footage was grainy, poorly lit, and shot from angles that suggested the camera placement had been designed by someone who had never actually watched a security camera feed in their life. But it was enough.
Batman watched as a figure in a red hood and cape—the Red Hood, the identity that the Joker had used before his transformation in so many versions of the story—moved through the facility with the nervous energy of someone who knew they were in over their head. The figure's movements were jerky, uncertain, lacking the fluid confidence of a professional criminal. This was an amateur, someone who had been pushed into this situation by desperation or coercion.
"I've found the personnel match," Alfred's voice came through the communication system. "The individual in the footage appears to be one Jack Napier, a chemical engineer who was terminated from Ace Chemicals approximately three months ago. Official reason: 'workforce reduction.' Unofficial reason, according to internal memos: 'increasingly erratic behavior and concerns about mental stability.'"
"Jack Napier." Batman let the name roll through his mind, comparing it against his knowledge of the various Joker origin stories. In some versions, that was the Joker's real name. In others, it was an alias, or a misattribution, or a deliberate misdirection. The DC Universe had never been particularly consistent about the Joker's true identity—it was part of what made the character so enduring and so frustrating.
"His home address?"
"Sending it to your navigation system now, sir. It's in the Narrows—a low-income housing development on the east side of the city."
"Of course it is." Batman downloaded the security footage and turned to leave, then paused. "Alfred, I want you to contact Wayne Enterprises' legal department. First thing tomorrow morning, I want to begin the process of acquiring Ace Chemicals."
"Acquiring the entire company, sir?"
"The entire company. Their safety record is atrocious, their security is non-existent, and they're apparently developing chemical weapons and calling them 'cosmetics research.' If I own the company, I can shut down the dangerous programs, implement proper safety protocols, and ensure that this particular vat of nightmare fuel never creates another monster."
"That's... a significant acquisition, sir."
"I have the money, Alfred. Might as well use it for something other than buying sports cars and funding galas." Batman moved toward the exit, his mind already planning the next phase of the operation. "Now, let's go have a conversation with Mr. Jack Napier."
The apartment building where Jack Napier lived was exactly the kind of place Batman had expected—a crumbling tenement in the worst part of the Narrows, its hallways reeking of mildew and desperation, its residents the kind of people who had been failed by every system that was supposed to protect them. The building's security consisted of a front door that didn't lock properly and a superintendent who was probably running three different illegal operations out of his basement apartment.
Batman entered through a fire escape window on the fourth floor, moving through the darkened hallway toward Napier's unit. The building was quiet at this hour—it was nearly midnight—but he could hear the muffled sounds of televisions and arguments from behind closed doors, the ambient noise of lives being lived in circumstances that no one would choose voluntarily.
Napier's door was at the end of the hall, distinguished from its neighbors by a small collection of eviction notices that had been taped to its surface and then ignored. Batman paused outside, listening for any indication of activity within.
He heard muttering. Frantic, high-pitched, the kind of muttering that suggested a mind coming apart at the seams.
"—can't go back, can't go back, they'll know, they'll know what I did—"
Batman took a deep breath. This was the moment—the point where his approach would diverge most dramatically from what the original Batman would have done. The Bruce Wayne of the comics would have burst in, subdued Napier, and handed him over to the police. He would have been processed through the system, probably diagnosed with some form of mental illness, and either imprisoned or committed to Arkham Asylum.
And then, eventually, he would have become the Joker anyway. Because that was how these things worked in the DC Universe—destiny, or narrative inevitability, or whatever you wanted to call it, had a way of asserting itself regardless of initial interventions.
But this wasn't the DC Universe that Batman knew from the comics. This was a real world—or as real as anything could be, given the circumstances of his arrival—and in real worlds, destiny was not fixed. People could be saved. Tragedies could be prevented. Monsters could be stopped before they were born.
Batman kicked in the door.
The apartment beyond was small, cluttered, and clearly the residence of someone whose mental state had been deteriorating for some time. Papers covered every surface—chemical formulae, equations, notes written in increasingly illegible handwriting. The furniture had been pushed aside to make room for a makeshift laboratory that looked like it had been assembled from stolen equipment and desperation.
And in the center of it all, wearing the same red hood and cape from the security footage, was Jack Napier.
He was younger than Batman had expected—mid-twenties at most, with the gaunt features and hollow eyes of someone who hadn't slept properly in weeks. His hands were stained with chemicals, his hair was disheveled, and his expression, when he turned to face the intruder, was a mixture of terror and something that might have been relief.
"Oh god," Napier breathed, backing away from the dark figure that had just destroyed his door. "Oh god, you're him. You're the Batman."
"Jack Napier." Batman's voice was the low, gravelly tone that Bruce Wayne had practiced for months—the voice that was designed to inspire fear in criminals and make reasonable conversation nearly impossible. "You broke into Ace Chemicals last night. You stole experimental compounds. You're planning something with those chemicals, and I want to know what."
"I—I can explain—" Napier's voice cracked, his composure shattering like cheap glass. "They made me do it. The mob—they said they'd kill my wife if I didn't help them. They wanted the laughing gas formula, said they could sell it, make millions—"
"Your wife." Batman stepped closer, his presence filling the small apartment like a thundercloud. "You're married?"
"Jeannie. Her name is Jeannie. She's pregnant—six months—and they said they'd—" Napier's voice dissolved into sobs, his body collapsing against the wall as the terror and stress of the past weeks finally overwhelmed him. "I didn't want to do it. I'm not a criminal. I was just a chemist, a good chemist, and then I got fired, and we couldn't pay the bills, and someone approached me about a job—"
Batman listened as the story poured out of Napier—the unemployment, the desperation, the criminal contacts who had seemed like salvation until they revealed what they really wanted. It was a familiar story, the kind of tragedy that played out in Gotham's shadows every day. Good people, or at least not-bad people, pushed into impossible situations by economic precarity and predatory criminals.
In the original timeline, this was where things would have gone wrong. The mob's scheme would have been interrupted—by Batman or by police or by simple bad luck—and Napier would have ended up in that chemical vat, transformed by accident into something inhuman. The trauma of that transformation, combined with whatever pre-existing mental instabilities he carried, would have created the Joker.
But Batman wasn't going to let that happen.
"Jack," he said, his voice softening slightly from its usual growl, "listen to me carefully. I'm going to help you."
Napier looked up, his eyes red with tears and terror. "What?"
"The people who coerced you—I'm going to deal with them. They won't threaten your family again. And the chemicals you stole—I've already recovered them. There's no evidence linking you to the theft."
"But—but I did it. I broke the law. Shouldn't you be—"
"Arresting you? Turning you over to a police force that's seventy percent corrupt, to be prosecuted by a legal system that will throw you in prison while the mobsters who threatened your family walk free?" Batman shook his head. "That's not justice, Jack. That's just another form of cruelty."
He reached into his belt and produced a business card—plain white, with nothing but a phone number printed on it. "This number connects to a support service for people in situations like yours. Legal assistance, financial counseling, security for your family while the immediate threat is addressed. Call it tomorrow morning. Tell them Batman sent you."
Napier took the card with trembling hands, staring at it like it was some kind of religious artifact. "I don't... I don't understand. The Batman I've heard about... the stories say you're terrifying. That you break bones and leave people hanging from rooftops."
"I do those things to people who deserve them," Batman replied. "You're not one of those people, Jack. You're a victim—a victim who made bad choices under impossible pressure, but a victim nonetheless. What you do now, how you move forward from this moment, that's what will determine who you really are."
He moved toward the window, preparing to leave. "Get help, Jack. For yourself and for your family. And stay away from chemistry for a while. Some formulas are too dangerous for anyone to possess."
"Wait!" Napier called out, desperation in his voice. "The mobsters—the ones who threatened me—they're expecting me to deliver the laughing gas formula tomorrow night. If I don't show up with it, they'll know something's wrong. They might come after Jeannie anyway."
Batman paused, turning back to face the frightened chemist. "Where's the meeting?"
"The old Monarch Playing Card factory. On the waterfront. They've been using it as a front for their operations."
"What time?"
"Midnight. Tomorrow."
Batman nodded slowly, filing away the information. "Don't worry about the meeting, Jack. I'll handle it personally."
"What are you going to do?"
Batman's smile, hidden beneath the cowl, was not a pleasant expression. "I'm going to have a conversation with them about their business practices. And I'm going to make sure they never threaten anyone's family ever again."
The Monarch Playing Card factory was exactly the kind of location that Gotham's criminal element seemed magnetically attracted to—an abandoned industrial building with suitably dramatic architecture, convenient waterfront access for smuggling operations, and enough shadowy corners to hide an army of thugs. The playing card motif was particularly apt, Batman thought, given what he knew about the Joker's eventual aesthetic preferences. In the original timeline, this might even have been the same factory that the Clown Prince of Crime would later use as a base of operations.
Not in this timeline. In this timeline, the factory was going to be the site of something very different.
Batman had spent the day preparing—gathering intelligence on the criminal organization that had coerced Jack Napier, identifying their leadership structure, and planning an approach that would neutralize the threat permanently without generating the kind of collateral damage that would turn him into just another criminal.
The organization, as it turned out, was a mid-level operation run by a man named Sal Valestra—a name that Bruce recognized from his knowledge of the animated series and various comic continuities. Valestra was connected to the larger Gotham crime families but operated with enough independence to run his own schemes, including the laughing gas operation that had nearly created the Joker.
More importantly, Valestra was the kind of criminal who operated through fear and violence, threatening the families of anyone who crossed him or failed to deliver on their obligations. His organization had a body count—not huge by Gotham standards, but significant enough that the police had files on them that would never lead to arrests because the witnesses kept disappearing.
This was exactly the kind of threat that Batman's new methodology was designed to address.
He entered the factory through the roof, dropping silently into the upper rafters where shadows pooled thick enough to hide a small army. Below, on the factory floor, Valestra's operation was in full swing—men were loading crates onto trucks, guards were patrolling the perimeter, and in the center of it all, Sal Valestra himself was holding court with a circle of lieutenants.
Batman counted the opposition: twelve guards armed with automatic weapons, four lieutenants who were probably armed as well, and Valestra himself. Seventeen targets, plus an unknown number of additional personnel who might be in offices or storage areas elsewhere in the building.
The original Batman would have approached this situation with his usual methodology—dramatic entrance, non-lethal takedowns, property damage, and eventually the handover of evidence to police who might or might not actually prosecute. It was effective, in its way, but it was also temporary. Valestra would make bail within days, the evidence would be challenged by expensive lawyers, witnesses would be intimidated or eliminated, and the organization would be back in operation within months.
Batman was done with temporary solutions.
He dropped from the rafters like a falling shadow, landing in the center of the factory floor with an impact that made the guards spin toward him, weapons rising instinctively. Before any of them could fire, he moved.
The first guard went down to a batarang that embedded itself in his shoulder, the impact spinning him around and sending his weapon clattering to the floor. The second guard tried to bring his rifle to bear, but Batman was already inside his reach, a devastating palm strike to the solar plexus dropping him like a puppet with cut strings. The third and fourth guards opened fire, but Batman was no longer where he had been—he had rolled behind a stack of crates, using the momentary cover to launch a volley of smoke pellets that filled the factory floor with obscuring gray clouds.
In the smoke, Batman was unstoppable.
He moved from guard to guard with the precision of a surgeon and the violence of a natural disaster, each strike calculated to incapacitate without killing—but only barely. Broken arms, shattered kneecaps, dislocated shoulders, cracked ribs. The sounds of combat echoed through the factory—screams, gunfire, the thud of bodies hitting concrete—but the smoke made it impossible for anyone to get a clear picture of what was happening.
When the smoke finally cleared, eleven of the twelve guards were on the ground, unconscious or incapacitated. The twelfth had apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valor and fled through a back exit—Batman had let him go deliberately, because he wanted someone to spread the word about what happened here tonight.
The four lieutenants had clustered around Valestra, weapons drawn but clearly terrified by what they had just witnessed. Valestra himself had produced a handgun from somewhere and was pointing it at the shadows with a hand that trembled visibly.
"Show yourself!" the crime boss shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "I know you're there, Batman! I'll kill you! I'll—"
Batman emerged from the shadows directly behind him, so close that his breath stirred the hair on the back of Valestra's neck.
"No," Batman said quietly, "you won't."
What happened next was brief, brutal, and deeply traumatic for everyone involved.
The lieutenants opened fire, but Batman was already moving—he had grabbed Valestra and used the crime boss as a shield, the man's expensive suit absorbing bullets from his own employees before Batman threw him aside and engaged the shooters directly. Two of them went down to batarangs before they could reload. The third managed to fire another burst, but Batman had already closed the distance, disarming him with a wrist lock that ended with a sickening crack. The fourth dropped his weapon and tried to run, but a thrown grappling hook caught him around the ankles and sent him crashing to the floor.
In less than thirty seconds, the entire organization had been neutralized.
Batman stood in the center of the carnage, surrounded by groaning bodies and the acrid smell of gunsmoke, and turned his attention to Sal Valestra. The crime boss was struggling to rise, blood seeping from a gunshot wound in his leg—a gift from his own lieutenant's poor aim—and his face was a mask of terror that Batman found deeply satisfying.
"Sal Valestra," Batman said, approaching the wounded criminal with slow, deliberate steps. "You run an organization that specializes in coercion and violence. You threatened to murder a pregnant woman to force her husband to commit crimes for you. You have a documented history of eliminating witnesses and corrupting police officers."
"Please—" Valestra gasped, trying to crawl away from the approaching figure. "I have money. Lots of money. I can pay you—"
"I don't want your money, Sal." Batman crouched beside the crime boss, his cowl-covered face inches from Valestra's terrified eyes. "I want information. Everything you know about the other crime families in Gotham. Every corrupt cop on your payroll. Every politician you've bribed, every judge you've bought, every piece of leverage you've accumulated over the years."
"If I tell you that, they'll kill me!"
"If you don't tell me, I'll kill you." Batman's voice was flat, emotionless, utterly convincing. "And then I'll find the information anyway. It might take longer, but I'll find it. The only question is whether you're alive when I do."
Valestra stared at him, searching for some sign that this was a bluff, some indication that the legendary Batman—the vigilante who supposedly never killed—was just trying to scare him into compliance.
He found no such indication.
"Okay," the crime boss breathed, his resistance crumbling. "Okay. I'll tell you everything. Just... just don't kill me."
Batman produced a recording device from his belt and placed it on the floor between them. "Start talking."
The interrogation lasted nearly two hours.
By the time it was finished, Batman had enough information to dismantle a significant portion of Gotham's organized crime infrastructure. Names, dates, locations, financial records—Valestra had been involved in the city's criminal underworld for decades, and he knew where a lot of bodies were buried, both figuratively and literally.
The crime boss was now unconscious, having passed out from blood loss and terror sometime during the third hour of questioning. Batman had applied a tourniquet to his leg wound—he wasn't going to let the man die from something as mundane as blood loss, not when there was still potential value in keeping him alive as a cooperative witness.
The other criminals were in similar states—unconscious, injured, but alive. Batman had already called in an anonymous tip to the GCPD, providing enough information to ensure that the arriving officers would find a treasure trove of evidence linking Valestra's organization to dozens of unsolved crimes. The recording of Valestra's confession would be delivered to Jim Gordon personally, along with documentation that would make prosecution nearly inevitable.
But there was one more piece of business to attend to.
Batman made his way to the factory's office area, where Valestra had apparently been running the administrative side of his operation. The room was cluttered with files, computers, and the usual detritus of criminal enterprise, but Batman's attention was focused on a single item: a small safe hidden behind a painting of dogs playing poker.
The safe's contents were exactly what he had expected: cash, weapons, and—most importantly—the files that Valestra kept on everyone he had ever coerced or blackmailed. Jack Napier's file was near the top, containing photographs of his wife and detailed notes about how the leverage had been established and maintained.
Batman took all of it. The files would be destroyed—no one else needed access to this kind of ammunition—but first, he needed to ensure that there were no copies, no backups, no way for this information to resurface and threaten the people it documented.
He was about to leave when his enhanced hearing picked up something unexpected: footsteps on the factory roof. Light, careful, the movement pattern of someone who was trying to be stealthy but didn't have the training to pull it off completely.
Batman melted into the shadows and waited.
The intruder dropped through a skylight moments later—a woman in a green outfit that left very little to the imagination, her red hair cascading around her shoulders like autumn fire. Her skin had a distinctly greenish tint that was visible even in the factory's poor lighting, and her eyes carried a feral intensity that spoke of someone who was not entirely human anymore.
Pamela Isley. Poison Ivy. One of Batman's most iconic adversaries, apparently making her debut much earlier in this timeline than he had expected.
She moved through the factory with the confidence of someone who believed they were alone, her attention focused on something that Batman couldn't immediately identify. As she passed one of the incapacitated guards, she paused, kneeling to examine him with an expression of disgust.
"Humans," she muttered, her voice carrying the distinctive cadence that Batman recognized from countless comics and adaptations. "Always destroying, always consuming, always—"
She stopped, her head snapping up as she suddenly became aware that she was not alone. Her eyes scanned the shadows, searching for the threat that her enhanced senses had detected.
"I know you're there," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "I can smell you. Carbon fiber, electronics, and... fear? No, not fear. Anticipation. You've been waiting for me."
Batman stepped out of the shadows, positioning himself between Ivy and the exit. "Pamela Isley. Former botanist at Wayne Enterprises' agricultural research division. You were involved in an accident six months ago—exposure to experimental plant mutagens that should have killed you but instead transformed you into... this."
Ivy's eyes widened slightly, surprised that he knew her history. "You've done your research. I'm flattered."
"I do my research on everyone who might pose a threat to Gotham." Batman's voice was calm, measured, giving nothing away. "The question is what you're doing here tonight."
"What I'm always doing, Batman. Looking out for my children." Ivy gestured toward the factory windows, through which the polluted waters of Gotham Harbor were visible. "This factory has been dumping chemical waste into the harbor for years. The marine ecosystem is dying. The plants along the waterfront are poisoned. And nobody—not the government, not the corporations, not the so-called heroes—seems to care."
"So you decided to take matters into your own hands."
"Someone has to." Ivy's expression hardened, her feral beauty taking on a dangerous edge. "The humans won't stop destroying the world until someone forces them to stop. If that means eliminating a few corporate executives, poisoning a few industrial sites, making examples of the worst offenders... well, that's just nature taking its course."
Batman studied her carefully, assessing the threat she posed. Poison Ivy was one of the most dangerous villains in his rogues' gallery—her ability to control plants, generate pheromones that could overwhelm human will, and produce a variety of natural toxins made her a formidable opponent even for someone with his level of preparation.
But she was also, in many versions of the timeline, someone who could be reasoned with. Unlike the Joker, whose pathology made rehabilitation impossible, Ivy's motivations were comprehensible—even, in a twisted way, sympathetic. She wanted to protect the environment, to save the natural world from human destruction. Her methods were extreme, but her goals were not inherently evil.
Of course, "not inherently evil" didn't mean "safe to ignore," and Batman had no intention of letting her continue down a path that would inevitably lead to mass casualties.
"I understand why you're angry," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine empathy that seemed to surprise her. "The environmental destruction happening in Gotham—and around the world—is a genuine crisis. The corporations and governments that should be addressing it are instead making it worse. Your frustration is justified."
"But?" Ivy's voice was wary, suspicious of the apparent sympathy.
"But killing people isn't the answer, Pamela. Not because they don't deserve it—some of them probably do—but because it won't actually solve the problem. You can kill every executive at Ace Chemicals, and someone else will take their place. You can poison every factory in Gotham, and they'll just rebuild somewhere else. Violence feels satisfying, but it's not effective."
"And what would you suggest instead? Peaceful protests? Letter-writing campaigns? Working within the system?" Ivy laughed bitterly. "I tried that approach, Batman. I spent years trying to change things through legitimate channels. You know what I got for my trouble? Ignored, marginalized, and eventually transformed into a monster because the company I worked for decided that experimental mutagens were more profitable than safety protocols."
"I know. And I'm sorry that happened to you." Batman took a step closer, his body language shifting from threatening to something almost conciliatory. "But I'm also in a position to offer you something that peaceful protests and letter-writing campaigns couldn't: actual power to make changes."
Ivy's eyes narrowed. "What kind of changes?"
"Wayne Enterprises is going to acquire Ace Chemicals. Tomorrow. And when that acquisition is complete, the first thing we're going to do is shut down every illegal dumping operation, implement proper waste treatment protocols, and begin environmental remediation of the sites that have already been damaged."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because I'm Batman." The statement carried an absolute certainty that seemed to give Ivy pause. "And because I'm going to prove it to you, right now, by doing something that the corporate world would never expect."
He reached into his belt and produced a small device—a communicator tuned to a very specific frequency. "This connects directly to Wayne Enterprises' environmental compliance division. Call them tomorrow morning. Tell them Batman sent you. They'll have instructions to involve you in the remediation planning—as a consultant, not a prisoner."
Ivy stared at the device, her expression a complex mixture of suspicion, hope, and confusion. "You're offering me a job?"
"I'm offering you a chance to actually accomplish your goals without becoming a monster in the process." Batman pressed the communicator into her hand. "The choice is yours, Pamela. You can continue down the path you're on—killing people, destroying property, escalating until someone puts you down permanently—or you can accept that there might be another way."
For a long moment, Ivy said nothing. Batman could see the conflict playing out behind her eyes—the rage that had driven her for months warring with the hope that she might not have to become what she had been becoming.
Then her expression hardened, and she dropped the communicator to the floor.
"Pretty words, Batman. But I've heard pretty words before. From executives who promised to do better while they kept poisoning the planet. From politicians who talked about climate change while they took money from oil companies. From heroes who claimed to care about justice while they protected the systems that created this mess in the first place."
She raised her hands, and Batman saw the vines beginning to stir in the cracks of the factory floor—plants that had been dormant moments ago now responding to their mistress's call.
"If you really want to help the environment, Batman, you can start by getting out of my way."
Batman sighed. He had hoped this would go differently, but he had prepared for this outcome.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Pamela."
He raised his arm, revealing a device that had been concealed in his gauntlet—a compact flamethrower that Lucius Fox had developed for situations exactly like this one.
"But I should mention: I came prepared."
Ivy's eyes widened as she recognized the threat. "You wouldn't—"
"I would rather not. But if you force my hand..." Batman's thumb hovered over the ignition trigger. "Your powers are formidable, Pamela. Your control over plants is nearly absolute. But fire doesn't care about your control. Fire just burns."
The vines that had been creeping across the floor hesitated, their growth slowing as Ivy processed the threat. Batman watched her carefully, ready to act if she decided to test his resolve.
"You're bluffing," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"I never bluff." Batman's voice was flat, certain. "I'm also not a murderer. I don't want to hurt you, Pamela. I don't want to destroy the plants you control. I want to help you accomplish your goals through means that don't involve killing innocent people. But if you force me to choose between your life and the lives of the people you're planning to hurt, I will make that choice. And you won't like the outcome."
The standoff stretched for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. Batman could see Ivy calculating odds, assessing threats, weighing the possibility that this dark figure in front of her was genuinely different from the corporate villains she had been fighting.
Finally, slowly, the vines began to retreat.
"This isn't over," Ivy said, her voice carrying a mixture of anger and something that might have been respect. "I don't trust you. I don't trust your corporation. And I definitely don't trust your offer of 'consultation.'"
"That's fair. Trust has to be earned." Batman lowered his arm, deactivating the flamethrower but keeping it ready for quick deployment. "All I'm asking is that you give me a chance to prove that I'm different. If I fail—if Wayne Enterprises doesn't deliver on its environmental commitments—you'll know where to find me. And you can hold me personally accountable."
Ivy studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the exit, her movement fluid and inhuman in ways that reminded Batman of how far she had already traveled from ordinary humanity.
At the door, she paused and looked back over her shoulder.
"The communicator," she said. "I'll use it. Once. If your people disappoint me, the next conversation we have will be very different."
"Understood."
She vanished into the night, leaving Batman alone in the factory surrounded by unconscious criminals and the fading echoes of a confrontation that could have gone very differently.
"Alfred," he said, activating his communication system, "we have a new... asset. Maybe. Her name is Pamela Isley, and she's going to be calling the environmental compliance division tomorrow morning. Make sure they're ready for her."
"Is this the young woman with the plant-based abilities you mentioned in your threat assessment files, sir?"
"The same. She's dangerous, Alfred. Incredibly dangerous. But she's also potentially an ally, if we can earn her trust."
"And if you can't earn her trust?"
Batman looked down at the flamethrower still attached to his gauntlet.
"Then I'll be ready."
The acquisition of Ace Chemicals was announced three days later, covered by every business publication in Gotham as an unexpected move by Wayne Enterprises into the industrial chemicals sector. The official press release spoke of "strategic synergies" and "commitment to sustainable manufacturing practices," the usual corporate boilerplate that meant nothing to anyone who wasn't paid to pretend it did.
Behind the scenes, the acquisition served very different purposes.
Bruce had immediately ordered a complete review of Ace Chemicals' research programs, resulting in the termination of seventeen projects that were either dangerous, unethical, or both. The luminescent green compound that might have created the Joker was transferred to Wayne Enterprises' secure research facility, where it would be studied for potential beneficial applications under conditions that made accidental exposure essentially impossible.
The laughing gas formula—the precursor to what would have become Joker Venom—received special attention. Bruce's initial assessment had been correct: the same chemical principles that made the toxin lethal could be modified for therapeutic applications. Within a week, he had a team of Wayne Enterprises researchers working on a variant that could provide effective dental anesthesia without the dangerous side effects of existing options.
"It's quite remarkable, actually," Lucius reported during one of their increasingly frequent technical meetings. "The compound's mechanism of action targets neural pathways associated with pain perception and anxiety response simultaneously. If we can stabilize the formula and reduce the dosage, we might be looking at a revolution in pain management."
"Keep me updated on the progress," Bruce replied. "And make sure the research team understands the security protocols. I don't want anyone getting the idea that this compound could be weaponized."
"Understood. On a related note, the Poison Ivy consultation seems to be going... surprisingly well."
"Surprisingly?"
"Ms. Isley has been... intensely focused on the environmental remediation planning. Her knowledge of plant biology and ecological systems is genuinely impressive, and she's proposed several innovative approaches to cleaning up the contaminated sites." Lucius paused, his expression uncertain. "She's also extremely hostile to anyone she perceives as not taking the work seriously enough. We've had three resignations from the environmental compliance department in the past week."
"Are the resignations because of legitimate workplace concerns, or because they were the people responsible for the environmental violations in the first place?"
"Mostly the latter, sir."
"Then I consider that a positive outcome." Bruce made a note to review the personnel files of the departed employees. If any of them had been actively involved in the illegal dumping, they might need to be dealt with more... directly. "Continue supporting Ms. Isley's work. And make sure she has access to whatever resources she needs."
"Are you certain that's wise, sir? Given her history and capabilities—"
"I'm certain that treating her like an enemy will guarantee she becomes one. And I'm certain that treating her like an ally might—might—result in gaining one of the most powerful environmental advocates on the planet." Bruce leaned back in his chair, considering the strategic implications. "The original Batman never managed to convert Poison Ivy from villain to ally, despite numerous opportunities. I intend to do better."
The acquisition of Arkham Asylum was announced two weeks later, and it generated considerably more controversy than the Ace Chemicals deal.
Arkham had been Gotham's primary facility for the criminally insane since 1921, its gothic architecture and troubled history making it one of the most infamous institutions in the country. The facility had been operated by the city for most of its existence, funded by a combination of state allocations and private donations, and managed by a succession of administrators whose qualifications ranged from "genuinely dedicated mental health professional" to "actively corrupt political appointee."
Bruce's offer to acquire the facility and convert it to a private, non-profit operation had been met with immediate skepticism from almost everyone—mental health advocates worried about privatization, politicians worried about losing patronage opportunities, and the general public worried that a billionaire playboy had no business running an institution for the criminally insane.
Bruce had addressed these concerns in a press conference that Mike Chen would never have been able to deliver but which Bruce Wayne handled with practiced ease.
"Arkham Asylum, in its current form, is a failure," he had said, standing before a crowd of reporters with the easy confidence of someone who was used to being the center of attention. "The recidivism rate is catastrophic. The treatment outcomes are among the worst in the country. And the security record speaks for itself—I don't need to remind anyone how many times dangerous individuals have escaped from Arkham to threaten Gotham's citizens."
He had let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "Wayne Enterprises' proposal is simple: we will invest in complete modernization of the facility, including new security systems, updated treatment protocols, and a comprehensive review of staffing and administration. We will maintain full transparency with oversight bodies and mental health advocacy groups. And we will achieve something that the current administration has never managed: actually helping the patients while keeping Gotham safe."
The political negotiations that followed had been grueling—Bruce had spent more time in the past two weeks meeting with city council members, state legislators, and regulatory officials than he had spent on Batman activities—but in the end, the deal had been approved. Wayne Enterprises now owned Arkham Asylum, and Bruce had begun implementing the changes he had planned.
The public-facing renovations were extensive: new security systems, modern medical facilities, upgraded patient housing, and a complete overhaul of the treatment programs. These changes were visible, documented, and designed to address the legitimate criticisms that mental health advocates had raised.
The private modifications were considerably more... specialized.
"The sub-basement has been completed, sir," Alfred reported during their nightly briefing in the cave. "Access is restricted to biometric locks keyed to yourself and, at your discretion, designated personnel. The monitoring systems are operational, and the secure containment cells meet or exceed the specifications you provided."
Bruce nodded, studying the facility schematics that Alfred had pulled up on the main display. The sub-basement was invisible to anyone who didn't know to look for it—concealed beneath layers of legitimate infrastructure and accessible only through a series of hidden passages that would require both physical presence and proper authorization to navigate.
"The monitoring feeds?"
"Live and recording to secure servers in the cave. You'll have complete visibility into every area of the facility, including the areas that the official cameras don't cover."
"Good." Bruce highlighted the secure containment section of the schematics. "These cells are designed for a specific purpose, Alfred. The patients who end up here won't be the standard Arkham population—they'll be the ones who have proven that conventional containment is insufficient. The ones who escape no matter what security measures are in place, who manipulate staff and fellow patients, who treat incarceration as a minor inconvenience in their ongoing criminal careers."
"You're creating a prison within a prison."
"I'm creating a backup plan for when the regular prison fails. Which, based on historical patterns, it will. Repeatedly." Bruce turned away from the display, his expression grim. "The original Batman spent decades watching the same criminals escape from Arkham over and over, killing more people each time, and he never did anything to actually fix the problem. He trusted the system when the system had proven, countless times, that it couldn't be trusted."
"And you intend to be the system's backup?"
"I intend to be Gotham's last line of defense against the monsters that the system can't contain. If that means maintaining my own secure facility underneath the official facility, then that's what I'll do."
Alfred was quiet for a moment, processing this information. "And what happens to the individuals who end up in your secure containment cells, sir? Do they stay there forever?"
"That depends on them." Bruce's voice carried a weight that suggested he had given this question considerable thought. "Some of them might eventually demonstrate genuine rehabilitation—real change, not just manipulation of the system. Those individuals will have a path back to the regular facility and, potentially, to freedom."
"And the others?"
"The others will stay where they can't hurt anyone. Comfortable, well-fed, medically monitored—but contained. Permanently." Bruce met Alfred's eyes, his expression unwavering. "I know that's not how the justice system is supposed to work, Alfred. But the justice system isn't working. People are dying because we keep giving monsters second and third and fourth chances to kill again. At some point, protecting the innocent has to take priority over rehabilitating the guilty."
"That's a significant departure from traditional Batman philosophy, sir."
"Traditional Batman philosophy got a lot of people killed." Bruce's voice was flat, certain. "I'm trying something different. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. But at least I'll be able to say that I actually tried to solve the problem instead of just managing it forever."
That night, Batman patrolled Gotham with a different feeling than he had experienced since his arrival in this world. The suit was still the old design—the upgraded Beyond suit was weeks away from completion—but something had changed in how he approached the work.
He had prevented the Joker. He had neutralized a criminal organization. He had potentially converted an enemy into an ally. He had acquired the resources to actually address Gotham's institutional failures instead of just treating their symptoms.
For the first time since Mike Chen had died and Bruce Wayne had awakened, he felt like he might actually be making progress.
The police scanner crackled with reports of minor crimes—robberies, assaults, the usual Gotham nightlife—and Batman responded to each one with an efficiency that surprised even himself. His body moved with the fluid precision of someone who had trained for years, his mind assessed threats and opportunities with a clarity that Mike Chen had never possessed, and his resolve carried him through encounters that would have terrified his previous self.
He broke up a mugging in Crime Alley, leaving the perpetrators zip-tied for police collection and the victim with a business card for Wayne Foundation victim services. He disrupted a drug deal on the docks, confiscating a shipment of narcotics and gathering intelligence on the supply chain that he would follow up on later. He caught a gang of car thieves in the act, administered some educational violence about the consequences of criminal behavior, and disappeared into the night before the police arrived.
It was good work. Necessary work. The kind of work that the original Batman had done for decades.
But Bruce knew, deep in his bones, that this was only the beginning. The threats he had seen in his visions—the metahumans, the cosmic entities, the apocalyptic events that would reshape the world—were still coming. The Joker had been prevented, but there would be other monsters. Poison Ivy had been temporarily redirected, but there was no guarantee that her trajectory had been permanently altered.
The rogues gallery was coming. The Justice League was coming. The Crisis was coming.
And Batman would be ready.
He landed on a rooftop overlooking the Gotham skyline, his cape settling around him like wings at rest. The city sprawled before him in all its corrupt, beautiful, impossible glory—a city that had been the setting for countless stories of tragedy and triumph, and which was now his responsibility to protect.
"Alfred," he said, activating his communication system, "I'm coming back. Have the workshop ready. I want to review the Beyond suit progress and make some additional modifications to the design specs."
"Of course, sir. Shall I prepare dinner as well?"
"Please. Something substantial—I have the feeling we're going to be working late."
"Very good, sir. And Master Bruce?"
"Yes?"
"Well done tonight. All of it."
Batman allowed himself a small smile beneath the cowl. "Thanks, Alfred. But we're just getting started."
He fired his grappling hook and swung into the night, leaving behind the rooftop and the city and the weight of everything that had happened in the past weeks. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new threats, new opportunities to prove that his way was better than the original Batman's endless holding pattern.
But for tonight, he had done good work. Real work. Work that might actually make a difference.
And that, more than anything else, was what he had always wanted.
END OF CHAPTER THREE