Erick sat in his ergonomic chair, upholstered in reinforced synthetic leather, its backrest molded perfectly to the curves of his back, a design he'd created himself in one of the many basement forge upgrades. The command room—an expansive subterranean compartment beneath Hargrove Mansion, its polished concrete walls reinforced with E10 alloy plates that absorbed vibrations and blocked external signals—was illuminated by a soft blue glow from holograms projected by miniaturized quantum projectors in the high ceiling. The air was fresh and filtered by silent ventilation systems, laden with the subtle ozone scent of active circuitry and the low hum of servers in racks in the background, processing data in real time. He analyzed the information he'd gathered from the previous day's mission, the holograms floating before him like digital ghosts: textual reports in scrolling columns, high-resolution images captured by tiny drones he'd deployed during the escape, and spectral scans of recovered artifacts.
His main focus was on the sphere—a large, iridescent anomaly, approximately 1.70 meters tall, whose surface pulsed with internal light patterns that varied between shades of deep blue and emerald green, as if breathing cosmic energy. The holograms displayed detailed analyses: emission spectra, internal energy fluctuations, and patterns that didn't match any known terrestrial technology. Erick frowned, his blue eyes reflecting the holographic glow, as he cross-referenced data with his knowledge base. He knew this sphere was linked to the New Gods and Apokolips—a memory that came directly from his past life, a distant echo of the DC universe mythology he carried since his rebirth. He didn't need more details; enough to feel the apprehension growing in his chest. Bringing something like this to his base could be a catastrophic risk—unwanted portals, cosmic probes, or worse, the attention of entities he wasn't yet prepared to face.
Aside from that, the fact that Superboy and Megan had become attached to the sphere complicated everything. The restored memories showed Superboy interacting with it as if it were a living being, responding to its pulses of light with instinctive curiosity, and Megan feeling primitive mental echoes of it, like a nascent consciousness. Engaging with them now would be counterproductive—the young team was already weakened by the mission on Bialya, and an internal conflict could undo the newly re-established bonds. Erick shook his head, deciding to let it pass for now; better to observe from afar than to risk an unstable alliance. He made a fluid movement with his right arm—a broad and precise gesture, as if drawing back an invisible curtain—and the hologram with videos of the sphere flickered once before disappearing, pixels dissolving into thin air like mist in the sun, leaving a luminous void in the central projection.
At that moment, an image of Gotham's map appeared—a detailed three-dimensional hologram, slowly rotating on a vertical axis, with intricate streets like pulsating veins, buildings rendered in translucent blue wireframe, and rivers snaking like dark ribbons. Several red dots blinked in various districts: the East End with dense clusters near abandoned alleys, Crime Alley with clusters near decaying warehouses, the Financial District with markings scattered across skyscraper rooftops, and even the suburb of Blüdhaven showing peripheral infiltrations. These red dots represented points where new gangs had appeared—emerging criminal organizations that hadn't existed weeks before, taking advantage of the power vacuum left by Black Mask's downfall. Natasha's analysis showed patterns: rapid recruitment in poor neighborhoods, weapons smuggled through corrupt ports, and initial operations focused on synthetic drug trafficking and extortion of small businesses. Apparently, with the fall of the Black Mask — whose distribution and intimidation network had dominated the underworld for years — a door had opened for various opportunistic criminals to enter, committing atrocities such as violent robberies of local banks, kidnappings of civilians for ransom, and territorial shootouts that left streets splattered with blood and bullet casings.
Batman, at that moment, apparently—from what Erick and his AIs had managed to identify through hacks into urban surveillance cameras, GCPD radio signals, and stealth drones positioned at key points—was going after more dangerous people who had escaped from Arkham during a recent breach in the security system. Apparently, the Joker was on the loose once again—reports showed explosions in abandoned asylums and maniacal laughter echoing in alleys, with victims left with grotesque smiles carved into their faces. The Riddler was also causing chaos in the city with riddles broadcast via hacks on public screens, forcing the police to waste resources on puzzles that led to time bombs or lethal traps. The problem was that these two represented a gigantic headache, a gigantic waste of time for Batman: the Joker, with his chaotic unpredictability, demanded constant vigilance, and the Riddler, with his elaborate riddles, put civilians at risk while the Dark Knight deciphered encrypted clues. Erick thought, scratching his chin: "This is ridiculous because he'll come out again and cause atrocity again." It would be better if Batman ended it quickly, eliminating the threat permanently, but he understood that Batman didn't follow that line—the rigid moral code against killing, forged in past traumas, was unwavering. As much as Erick disagreed, seeing it as a weakness that perpetuated cycles of violence, he couldn't fight it now; confronting Batman directly would be suicidal, and his priority was protecting his family and allies.
The Riddler, in particular, was causing Batman a lot of trouble—riddles involving hostages dangling from cranes over the river, or subway bombs with timers based on literary enigmas, made it impossible to leave the Riddler alone, because the chances of him putting people at risk were very high. At this time, gangs were taking advantage of the situation to spread throughout the city: Natasha's reports, compiled from hacked camera feeds and intercepted police reports, showed gang formations over the past few weeks—groups like the "Sand Scorpions" in the East End, trafficking meta-drugs that caused violent hallucinations; the "Shadow Blades" in Crime Alley, extorting shopkeepers with threats of arson; and the "Neon Vipers" in the Financial District, hacking ATMs for money laundering. Apparently, Natasha had identified patterns: recruitment via encrypted social networks, arms supplies from smugglers at the port, and fragile alliances that could be exploited.
Erick plotted routes on the holographic map—red lines snaking through the streets, optimized for efficiency: start in the East End, neutralize three points in sequence with minimal patrols, then jump to Crime Alley via rooftops, avoiding nighttime traffic, and finish in the Financial District with aerial strikes using grappling hooks. He analyzed the best way to be as efficient as possible in dealing with the largest number of gangs during this night—calculating travel time, the probability of enemy reinforcements, and extraction points to avoid prolonged confrontations with the GCPD. The hologram flashed with simulations: scenarios where he and Artemis took down groups of ten to twenty members in minutes, using gadgets like repulsors and concussive arrows to minimize lethality but maximize impact.
At that moment, the door to the command room swung open with a hydraulic hiss—panels sliding to the sides, revealing the corridor illuminated by blue LEDs—and Erick gave a subtle smile, his blue eyes lighting up. Only two people were allowed into his laboratory hideout: himself and Artemis. He was analyzing the hologram when she approached his chair, her light footsteps echoing on the polished concrete floor, and leaned against it casually, her arm resting on the backrest, her body leaning slightly forward.
"What do we have planned for tonight?" she asked, her voice playful but full of expectation, her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders.
Erick turned in his swivel chair, looking at her—she was wearing his white shirt, the thin, soft fabric he wore on casual days, but which was quite short on her, since he was 1.68m tall and she was 1.75m. This revealed a few things: her long, toned legs on display, the curve of her hips outlined by the stretched fabric, and a subtle glimpse of her abdomen, defined by years of archery training. Erick kind of got lost in her curves, his blue eyes tracing invisible lines, his heart racing slightly with recent memories of intimacy—nights where those curves intertwined with his in rumpled sheets.
But she gave a mischievous smile, turning his face forward with her gentle fingers on his chin, the warm touch contrasting with the cool air of the room. "Hey, focus," she murmured, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.
Erick blinked, returning to reality, and said, "I'm just mapping out a route so we can enjoy this night even more." The hologram blinked in the background, optimized red lines tracing efficient paths through the districts, simulations running with time and risk projections.
Artemis gracefully jumped into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, her body settling perfectly, her warmth spreading through her thin blouse. "How fun! Only nerds would think of something like this," she teased, her lips brushing against his ear, the subtle scent of jasmine mingling with the metallic smell of the room.
Erick smiled, his hands instinctively going to her waist, feeling the soft skin beneath the fabric. "All ready for tonight?" he asked, his voice low, full of complicity.
Artemis kissed his cheek, her lips warm and soft, lingering a second longer than necessary. "I hope our night doesn't end only with blood and broken bones," she murmured, her green eyes fixed on his, the implication clear in her seductive tone, evoking past nights where the adrenaline of fighting transformed into intense passion.
Erick smiled broadly, understanding perfectly—the memories of intertwined bodies, sweat mingling with the scent of victory, flashes of pleasure that contrasted sharply with the violence of the patrols. "No," he replied, his voice hoarse, "the night is just a child."
Chapter 72
Erick finished delivering the final punch to a bald, extremely tall man—his fist colliding with the man's jaw in a dry, violent crack, the impact echoing through the abandoned warehouse like muffled thunder. The man's muscular body, tattooed with faded gang symbols, lay stretched out on the cracked concrete floor, covered in dust and rusty debris, his open mouth bleeding profusely, revealing several missing teeth—missing incisors and molars, leaving irregular gaps where blood trickled in thick rivulets. Blood ran from his nose as well, the broken cartilage rapidly swelling into a purple bruise, and the fabric of his cheap shirt ripped moments before the blow, exposing ribs that rose and fell in shallow, painful breaths. The man gurgled softly, his glazed eyes rolling back before he completely collapsed, his body motionless except for the involuntary trembling of his muscles.
Erick looked around, breathless but composed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically beneath his black and gray uniform reinforced with alchemical kevlar plates, sweat trickling down his forehead and mingling with the dust clinging to his skin. The warehouse—a dilapidated building in Gotham's East End, with peeling brick walls covered in faded graffiti, piles of rotting crates stacked in dark corners, and the strong smell of mold mixed with spilled oil—now served as the stage for the carnage. Scattered on the floor lay the bodies of 10 men, all bearing some kind of severe physical damage, the result of Erick's brutal efficiency. One lay with both legs completely broken—femurs cracked at impossible angles, protruding bones tearing through his dirty jeans, blood coagulating around the open wounds where the skin had ripped like paper. Another had an arm with the bone broken so far that it protruded from the flesh, the radius ulnar bone bulging in a dirty white contrasting with the bright red of the exposed muscle, the man groaning softly as he tried to staunch the bleeding with his trembling good hand. And another had a cut on his eye, as if some object had been thrown towards his eye and caused great damage—an improvised blade of Erick's, perhaps a sharp piece of metal from the surroundings, leaving an irregular wound that crossed the eyelid and the eyeball, blood and vitreous fluid running down his cheek, the man blind on that side, screaming incoherently in pain. Among other cowardly types of different damage: one with sunken ribs, his chest concave where a kick had collapsed his thorax, hissing breath like a punctured bellows; another with a dislocated jaw, hanging loose like a broken hinge, drool mixed with blood dripping onto the floor; and yet another with an inverted knee, the joint twisted 180 degrees, ligaments torn producing immediate, purple swelling.
The air in the warehouse was heavy, laden with the metallic smell of fresh blood, sour sweat, and the urine of men who had lost control in the terror of the fight. Erick adjusted his gloves, his knuckles aching despite the protection, and communicated with Artemis via a communicator implanted in his helmet—a high-frequency encrypted link, unbreakable by ordinary scanners. "How did it end up there? How are things with you?" he asked, the modulated voice echoing clearly in his mind, as he scanned the area with infrared visors to confirm there were no more threats, the display flashing with cold thermal signatures from the fallen bodies.
Artemis responded via the link, her voice confident and slightly breathless, echoing as if she were beside him: "I also took care of the group you selected for me. Do we have anything else planned for tonight?" Her tone carried a mixture of satisfaction at her victory and anticipation for what would come next, imagining her scene—probably another similar warehouse in the adjacent district, bodies scattered in a similar fashion, arrows lodged in non-lethal but incapacitating spots.
Erick replied, his tone practical as he assessed the damage around him—an overturned crate revealing boxes of synthetic drugs, plastic packets filled with white powder that he planned to incinerate before calling the police. "Go back to the mansion. I have another base to investigate. Apparently, Penguin is starting to outsource his work to smaller gangs. I'll take a look, but I shouldn't take long."
They spoke like this, the mental connection conveying not only words, but emotional nuances—her reluctance to separate, mixed with trust. "All right. I'll be waiting for you," she would reply, her suggestive tone laden with promises, before the communication was severed with a subtle mental click.
Erick made the call to the police—an anonymous signal via encrypted line, routed through phantom servers in multiple countries to avoid tracking, reporting the exact location of the warehouse, the knocked-out criminals, and the exposed drugs. "Ten suspects immobilized, East End, warehouse on 5th and Maple. Trafficking confirmed," he murmured into the disposable communicator, his voice distorted by modulators to sound unrecognizable. He left the abandoned building, the metal door creaking as it was pushed, emerging onto the dark Gotham street—cracked sidewalks covered in trash, streetlights flickering intermittently, the humid air heavy with the smell of impending rain and overflowing sewage.
Outside, he waved his hands as if preparing for something—fingers outstretched, wrists swirling to warm his muscles, feeling the fire element within him respond with a growing heat in his palms. He threw his arms down as he leaped—a powerful jump, bent legs propelling him upward—and from his hands and feet shot jets of orange flame dancing like living bonfires, the controlled elemental fire propelling him into the sky with a low roar, the surrounding air heating in visible waves. Once he was about 100 meters away—the warehouse below looking like a dark miniature among decaying buildings, distant police sirens approaching—he released the flame, twisting his body in the air with athletic grace, bringing it parallel to the ground. He used his flames once more to propel himself forward—short, controlled bursts from his palms, adjusting trajectory like a human rocket, the heat dissipating the night chill around him. When he gained sufficient speed—the wind howling in his ears, the Gotham skyline rapidly approaching—he would stop using his flames and begin using his suit's glider to reach the location—nanofiber-reinforced fabric wings unfolding from the back of his uniform, capturing updrafts to glide toward the port district, privileged information obtained via Natasha's hacks into encrypted communications from informants.
Upon arriving at the location, he would stop atop a large water tank perched on an adjacent building—a rusty metal structure, painted a peeling gray, with leaks dripping dark water onto the cracked asphalt. He would crouch on top of it, his body pressed against the cold metal to minimize his silhouette against the cloudy sky, and look down, using his helmet's vision to see—internal visors activating thermal and enhanced audio modes, detecting heat signatures from sporadic pedestrians and passing vehicles, magnifying details in phosphorescent green to penetrate the darkness. He could also see his investigation site: an abandoned warehouse, its brick facade covered in dry ivy and graffiti, rusty metal doors locked with thick chains, broken windows boarded up with rotten wood.
Using his helmet, he could see some strange men on the corner—hooded figures, long coats concealing stacks of weapons, smoking cigarettes whose embers flickered orange in the dark, possibly Penguin's men guarding the perimeter, low conversations in hoarse tones about "the boss" and "the delivery." He descended, gliding silently to the roof of the shed—wings retracting with a subtle click, feet touching the corrugated zinc without a sound, thanks to shock-absorbing soles.
Up there, he began planning his entry—analyzing vulnerabilities: rusty fans that could be removed, obstructed chimneys, and a central skylight covered in dust and cobwebs. Using the verno kit—enhanced night vision in his helmet, magnifying details in phosphorescent green—he spotted a skylight locked with rusty padlocks above the shed. He approached and, using two fingers pointing forward, concentrated a very small amount of flame there—the elemental responding with focused heat, thin blue flames like blades of plasma. He intensified these flames until they seemed to become cutting blades, the surrounding air crackling with heat. He touched the skylight and managed to melt the metal, the iron melting into red droplets that dripped into the dark interior, allowing him to cut the entire skylight in a precise circle, opening a space to jump and look inside.
He leaped into the warehouse—a controlled jump, landing on a support beam with perfect balance, his uniform absorbing the impact silently—and walked in the shadows, using his helmet-mounted computer to detect people's movements: thermal sensors mapping heat signatures, directional microphones picking up breaths and footsteps, and motion scans predicting trajectories. The warehouse was vast—piles of dust-covered crates, rusty machines rusting in corners, the humid air smelling of mold and old oil, concrete floors stained with puddles of water leaking from the ceiling.
He approached, searching the warehouse until his helmet detected voices—low murmurs echoing from a lit area in the background, the display flashing with real-time transcriptions. He followed these voices, guided by his helmet, scaling beams with feline agility, his body merging into the shadows cast by hanging lamps.
Upon arriving, he hid behind one of the support beams in the warehouse ceiling—cold, rusty metal beneath his gloved hands, fine dust falling lightly as he carefully positioned himself to avoid making a sound. The warehouse was vast and dimly lit, moonlight filtering through cracks in the broken windows and creating silvery streaks on the stained concrete floor. Erick looked down, his helmet visor automatically adjusting to enhanced night vision, magnifying details in shades of phosphorescent green and highlighting thermal signatures. Several henchmen occupied the warehouse's ground floor, armed with considerable firepower: heavy machine guns perched on makeshift bipods atop crates, assault rifles with red laser sights dancing on the walls, pistols in shoulder holsters, and open boxes revealing fragmentation grenades and extra ammunition in charging belts. The air was thick with the strong smell of gun grease, old gunpowder, and cheap cigarettes burning in makeshift ashtrays.
Not only that, but with information he didn't have, which came as a surprise to him, Penguin himself was there—a short, fat man with a gleaming monocle in his right eye, wearing a glossy black top hat that contrasted with his impeccable pinstripe suit, his nose prominent like a bird's beak, and his characteristic hoarse voice echoing like a raspy, authoritative croak. He was sitting on one of the stacked crates, smoking a thick Cuban cigar whose smoke rose in dense blue spirals, the strong smell of premium tobacco mingling with the mold of the shed and creating a visible cloud around him.
In front of Penguin, seated on another crate with a relaxed yet alert posture, was a woman whom Erick immediately recognized as his girlfriend Artemis's sister, thanks to their past life—where knowledge of the DC universe included details about Cheshire, the lethal assassin linked to the League of Shadows. However, he had never seen her in these clothes or with this mask in this life: revealing clothing that also allowed for mobility in combat, a tight-fitting green kimono of light, stretchy fabric that molded to her slender, athletic body, her long legs exposed through high side slits that allowed for fluid kicks and movements, and a deep neckline revealing her collarbone and a glimpse of tanned skin. She wore curved sabers at her waist, sheaths ornamented with subtle Asian patterns, sharp blades gleaming in the moonlight filtering through cracks in the windows. The Cheshire mask, styled like a cat's face with blood-red details, narrow, menacing eyes, and whiskers styled like curved blades, confirmed everything. He only knew that she was an assassin who cared for her sister, complicated ties that Artemis rarely mentioned, but which carried deep emotional weight.
Erick listens to their negotiation. Apparently, he was lucky to arrive just in time for the negotiation, and thanks to his helmet, he can hear exactly what is being said, the directional microphone picking up every word, every breath, every calculated pause.
The Penguin speaks, his voice hoarse and nasal, blowing smoke from the cigar he holds between chubby fingers adorned with gold rings: "The shipment is late. You promised me you'd resume deliveries this week. So, what's the excuse now?"
Cheshire — Jade — replies in a calm, lethal tone, legs crossed revealing her black combat boots, her voice low but sharp as a blade: "The weapons were intercepted. My contractors called me here just to pass on the message. If you really want these weapons, you're going to have to pay extra."
At that moment, Penguin punches the crate he's sitting on, the impact a dull echo in the shed, the cigar trembling between his lips, his face flushing with rage. "I've already given you enough money. I want my weapons. You promised me alien technology, and I want it."
Jade shows no reaction whatsoever to the explosion, her eyes behind the cat mask impassive, her posture unwavering. "If you really want Gotham, to own it all, to be the biggest mobster in Gotham, you know what you have to do. Extraterrestrial technology isn't cheap."
The Penguin snorted, his round face flushing even more, veins bulging on his forehead, his top hat tilted slightly. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You want to use me to keep Batman busy. After all, once my rise to power starts to grow, nobody will be able to stop me."
You could see an almost hallucinatory desire on Penguin's face — small eyes gleaming with unbridled greed, his mouth twisted into a predatory grin, as if he envisioned empires crumbling at his feet, all of Gotham under his control.
Jade rises with feline grace, her green kimono whispering against her skin, the sabers at her waist swaying slightly. "I was hired only to pass on the message. You know how to send the money to them. Whether you actually accept or not is irrelevant to me. Give me your answer now."
And this time you could see the Penguin's face red with rage, snorting like a cornered animal, the cigar almost falling from his mouth. He shouted, his voice echoing through the beams of the shed. "Fine, fine. But if you try to trick me in any way, you'll have a big problem with me. And I may be small compared to you. But even every giant has his weak point."
He rose with effort, his fat body swaying, and snapped his fingers—a signal to his henchmen, who moved like trained shadows, rifles slung over their shoulders. He and his men left the warehouse, doors creaking open, footsteps echoing in the damp Gotham night, leaving Jade alone in the area lit by hanging lamps, the air now silent except for the distant dripping of leaks in the ceiling.
Erick stood watching Jade there, her body tense against the beam, his mind racing through options—confront her? Follow her?
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