So Many Plans!
The last twenty-four hours had definitely been some of the worst of Thomas Wayne’s already cursed life.
The System was failing again and again.
He was losing control of the situation.
Again.
He was losing people.
Losing resources.
And he had no intention of losing anything else.
When Clark had dragged his broken body back to the hideout and brought him around, Thomas had expected almost anything.
Sympathy.
Reproach.
A lecture about morality.
Maybe even an offer to help deal with the situation in Gotham.
But the first question the Kryptonian asked, standing over him in the half-darkness, had nothing to do with Thomas’s broken ribs.
It wasn’t even about what the hell they were supposed to do about Kirkman.
Clark asked about Barbara.
Thomas remembered that moment with crystal-clear, terrifying clarity.
He had needed an almost inhuman amount of effort to suppress the tremor in his voice.
Not a single muscle in his face had moved as he spat blood and fed Clark the cover story he’d prepared in advance.
In a dry, calm voice, he explained that Barbara Gordon was involved in a critically important mission to recover erased digital data.
For her own safety, her location had to remain strictly confidential.
Superman, of course, hadn’t completely believed him.
Suspicion had flashed through Clark’s eyes, but he had been in too much of a hurry to leave the city, so he wisely dropped the subject.
Thomas wasn’t fooled.
He would come back to it eventually.
Superman was stubborn.
I’ll have to stage her death properly.
An accident.
Or better yet, pin it on Kirkman.
The thought came with an icy detachment.
The surgical pod hummed steadily around him.
Mechanical arms quietly reset the fragments of his ribs and secured them with surgical staples.
Every movement sent a dull flash of pain through his chest, but Thomas only clenched his jaw tighter.
He was currently inside a backup Batcave deep beneath Robinson Park.
It was damp, unfinished, and barely used.
So far, this location hadn’t been compromised by Protocol Nix, nor had it been discovered by that bastard who knew far too much.
Barbara Gordon’s body was currently hidden inside one of the anonymous private morgues owned by a Wayne Enterprises shell company.
At the thought of the girl, the heartbeat monitor inside the surgical pod accelerated.
Thomas closed his eyes.
Instead of darkness, he saw her face.
He felt the fragile cartilage of her neck beneath his Kevlar gloves.
He remembered the life fading from her widened eyes inside that elevator.
His hands, resting on the armrests of the pod, began to tremble slightly.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t remorse.
It was raw emotional overload, an echo of the primitive, blind fury that had driven him to kill a woman who could have been his daughter.
His son’s legacy.
He hadn’t merely lost a loyal ally, erased databases, and a tactical advantage.
He had finally lost the last scraps of his principles.
And the most terrifying thing for Thomas Wayne was that he would do it again without hesitation.
If that was what it took to keep from losing anything else, he would burn this entire city to the ground.
Kill Kirkman…
Now that the thought had fully taken shape in his mind, there was no longer a trace of doubt or hesitation.
Not like there had been ten hours earlier.
That pale, undead creature was breaking every variable.
Kirkman was becoming too powerful, and he was doing it frighteningly fast.
But his physical strength and gigantic fighter weren’t even the greatest threat.
The bastard’s greatest weapon was information.
He knew things he shouldn’t know, and he had absolutely no ability to keep his mouth shut.
Aquaman was right, Thomas grudgingly admitted.
With difficulty, he turned his head and reached with uncooperative fingers toward a barely visible panel inside the pod.
A quiet click.
A hidden compartment slid open.
Inside, nestled in refrigerated slots, five small syringes glowed faintly.
Each contained a different-colored stimulant.
Thomas didn’t hesitate.
He pulled out the most dangerous one.
Red.
He handed the syringe to one of the surgical manipulators and forced himself to relax the muscles in his neck.
He closed his eyes.
His teeth ground together as he suppressed an animalistic growl.
The thick needle pierced his carotid artery.
Then it pumped the burning liquid directly into his bloodstream.
It was pure, concentrated hell.
Liquid fire tore through his nervous system.
His blood seemed to boil.
His heart began beating so violently that it felt like it might shatter the ribs that had only just been stabilized.
His cells began dividing at an extreme rate, forcibly accelerating the human body’s regenerative abilities to something approaching a full-fledged metahuman.
Cracks in his bones were already knitting together.
Muscle fibers were repairing themselves as he watched.
For this brutal violation of his own biology, he would pay an enormous price.
The stimulant would burn years off his life.
It could even cause cardiac arrest within twenty-four hours.
But that was a problem for later.
Right now, the chemicals would save him several hours of recovery that he simply didn’t have.
Gotham’s clock was ticking in minutes.
The pod beeped, confirming that his condition had stabilized, then opened.
Thomas leaned over the edge and coughed a thick clot of black blood onto the gray concrete floor.
Breathing became easier.
He shakily got to his feet.
His body was burning, but it obeyed him perfectly.
He walked over to the backup Batcomputer.
The system flickered.
The interface of Oracle appeared on the screens.
An old backup AI.
It was thousands of times inferior to the complete algorithm Barbara had destroyed, but Thomas didn’t have the luxury of being picky.
He initiated a search through the databases Bruce had compiled years ago and began methodically filtering through the contacts.
He needed killers.
Specific kinds of killers.
“John Constantine…”
The Briton’s profile appeared on the screen.
Thomas immediately swiped it away.
“Definitely useful when dealing with supernatural threats, but uncontrollable and too far away.
Too many variables.
Not him.”
Next profile.
“Frankenstein?”
“Reliable.
Practically impossible to kill.”
“But Amanda Waller would never send her favorite asset to die, and a fight with Kirkman would absolutely be a death sentence.”
Rejected.
Vampires like Andrew Bennett, who hunted other bloodsuckers?
Too unpredictable.
And Kirkman wasn’t a vampire.
Demonologists?
Wrong profile.
Lone monster hunters with questionable records?
Cannon fodder.
Before reaching the file he wanted, Thomas coldly rejected another two dozen possibilities.
He needed a top-tier professional.
Possibly an entire team of professionals.
People without Superman’s moral restrictions, but with enough resources to put down an undead creature on Kirkman’s level.
His fingers stopped above the keyboard.
His eyes locked onto the lines of text on the monitor.
Van Helsing Order.
Paramilitary organization.
Specialization: vampire extermination.
Historically highly effective against undead entities of all types.
Equipped with advanced weaponry.
Available for contract work.
Extremely expensive.
The entry had been written by his son.
Exactly what he needed.
Money didn’t matter.
There was a branch of the Order in Gotham, just like almost every other piece of supernatural bullshit in this world.
There was a real chance that at least one Master Hunter and an assault team were stationed there right now.
Thomas quickly composed an encrypted contract.
He attached Kirkman’s dossier, along with his own analysis of the creature’s weaknesses.
Then he hit Send.
Immediately afterward, he switched the communication channel to the League’s secure frequency and pressed the speed-dial key.
Long, dull tones followed.
Ten seconds later, someone answered.
The sound of waves and faint static came through the receiver.
“Yes, Thomas?”
Arthur Curry’s voice was lazy and casually regal, but there was caution underneath it.
Batman never called him personally without a reason.
Thomas leaned both fists against the desk.
Every word was difficult to say.
Not because of the physical pain.
Because he had to admit someone else had been right.
“You were right…” Thomas muttered, staring at the dark screen.
“He needs to die.”
“Quickly.”
“And without Clark knowing.”
There was a short silence.
“No way!”
Aquaman sounded genuinely shocked, without even a trace of mockery.
“Batman agrees to a hit?”
“And you’re calling me…
why?”
“Because I need someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”
“Someone whose trident can pierce any armor.”
Thomas’s voice remained cold.
“I want you in Gotham, Arthur.”
“As soon as possible.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not as fast as Barry or our little blue Boy Scout.”
There was a hint of regret in the Atlantean’s voice.
“Give me half an hour.”
“I’m on my way.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Thomas ended the call.
A notification chimed on the monitor.
A response from the Van Helsing Order.
Contract accepted.
Status: Strike team mobilized.
Thomas exhaled heavily and looked toward the far end of the cave, where a hidden safe was concealed.
As a last resort…
if none of them can handle him…
I’ll use that serum.
His fingers instinctively curled into fists.
He knew that injecting it would leave him with no way back.
But to protect the little he had left, he was willing to become a monster worse than Charles Kirkman.
Near-total immunity to enormous kinetic impacts.
The ability to summon a futuristic combat fighter the size of a house that could break the sound barrier from a dead stop.
Control over shadows and the ability to forge physical chains from them.
The ability to summon entire legions of skeletons.
A spatial pocket from which he could pull anything, from enormous two-handed swords and glaives to vials of Bane’s serum.
And, worst of all, an absurdly high level of information.
The more they learned about Charles Kirkman’s abilities, obsessively analyzing every action, every swing of his sword, and every sentence he casually threw out, the more clearly they understood one simple truth.
Killing him by charging straight at him wasn’t going to work.
That unpleasant conclusion was accompanied by another, even more terrifying fact.
A pattern that would make any tactician’s hair stand on end.
The more Kirkman “played” with them, the more challenges he completed, the stronger he became.
Literally.
In real time.
“So, big guy?”
“Figure out which rabbit hole he’s pulling your fancy personalized shit out of yet?”
Joker asked lazily, with a slight rasp in his voice.
His one remaining eye remained fixed on the flickering screen.
The monitor displayed footage from a camera that had somehow survived the chaos outside West Hospital.
Among the smoking craters, a man wearing a stolen Batman costume casually wandered across the asphalt with a gigantic black sword resting on his shoulder.
Every so often, apparently out of boredom, he kicked pieces of smoking mutant flesh across the pavement.
Bane stood nearby, towering over the wheelchair Joker sometimes used purely for amusement.
The mercenary set his tactical tablet aside.
The thick tubes running across his body pulsed steadily, pumping green venom through his veins.
“No.”
Bane’s voice was deep and hollow, as though coming from inside a barrel.
“My people checked everything.”
“He isn’t connected to any of my cartels, laboratories, or chemical suppliers.”
“That serum is coming from nowhere.”
“Tsk.
What a disappointment.”
Joker clicked his tongue irritably while scratching the stump where his left hand had been severed.
“Another trick from up his sleeve.”
“This guy is basically a walking Swiss Army knife!”
“The operation needs to be called off.”
“My contract doesn’t cover pointless suicide.”
“I’m leaving.”
Bane spoke in a flat, emotionless voice as he placed the tablet into the chest pocket of his tactical vest.
He wasn’t asking permission. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
He was stating a fact.
“Oooooh, did the big guy get scared of the pointy-eared necromancer?”
Joker drawled mockingly.
He abruptly spun his wheelchair toward Bane, exposing rotten-looking teeth inside his crooked, scarred grin.
“Where’s that legendary warrior spirit of yours?”
Despite the clown’s taunts, Bane remained completely calm.
There wasn’t a trace of fear in his eyes.
Only cold, mechanical calculation and heavy contemplation.
“And where is your legendary intelligence, clown?”
Bane crossed his massive arms over his chest.
“What do you think Kirkman did during the final minute of his little game?”
Joker’s smile disappeared.
His remaining eye narrowed dangerously.
He threw a quick, sharp glance toward the corner of the room.
Jonathan Crane sat hunched over a separate cluster of monitors.
Scarecrow wasn’t wearing his trademark mask.
His face was pale and sweaty, but he was still dressed in his favorite filthy rags.
He nervously tracked the other locations involved in their collapsing plan.
“He went back to the site of the first bridge explosion…”
Scarecrow began uncertainly as he clicked through the keyboard.
“And…
he pulled a random rescue worker into the shadows.”
“A random.”
“Rescue worker.”
Bane slowly emphasized every word.
Then he shifted his heavy gaze from Joker to Crane.
“Now answer one question for me.”
“Where.”
“Did.”
“Nygma.”
“Go?”
A dead, ringing silence settled over the bunker.
Joker’s eye widened in surprise.
The grin on his mutilated face twitched and slid downward.
Crane understood a second later.
When the realization hit him, he let out a strangled gasp.
Horrified by his own blindness, Scarecrow jumped out of his chair and began pacing nervously across the concrete floor, muttering curses and grabbing at what little hair remained on his head.
“The rescue worker…”
“That was Eddie.”
“He changed clothes after falling for the trap.”
Crane looked desperately at Joker.
“We overlooked Edward.”
“Kirkman took him.”
“Tsk…”
“Without Eddie, our show loses its charming little mystery!”
Joker muttered irritably, rolling his one eye theatrically.
“Although…”
His voice suddenly dropped into a cold, almost sane whisper.
“It already lost it.”
“Nygma is finished.”
At that moment, Joker’s eyes met Crane’s.
One brief instant.
An almost imperceptible nod.
Still sitting in his chair, the clown made a casual, almost dance-like movement with his shoulders.
Then he snapped the fingers of his remaining right hand.
Jonathan Crane, standing directly behind Bane, moved with terrifying speed for a scientist.
A pneumatic injector slid from the wide sleeve of his rags directly into his palm.
One step forward.
A sharp, merciless strike against the exposed section of Bane’s neck, directly beneath the Kevlar collar.
A hiss of compressed air.
Crane immediately jumped three meters backward like he’d been burned, waiting for Bane’s retaliation.
He didn’t need to worry.
Bane’s eyes widened in surprise.
He opened his mouth and tried to raise a hand to crush Crane’s neck.
But the neurotoxin worked instantly.
The mountain of muscle simply went limp.
His enormous body crashed onto the concrete floor with a deafening impact, like a safe being dropped from a great height.
“This time, Doctor Crane, you’ve outdone yourself!”
Joker giggled with childish satisfaction as he climbed out of his wheelchair.
“Ten out of ten for grace!”
“And one hundred out of one hundred for chemistry!”
He walked over to the collapsed giant and casually kicked him in the temple with his heavy boot.
No reaction.
The paralysis was absolute.
“Which isn’t surprising when your own skin is on the line, right, Johnny?”
The clown’s voice became much quieter and harder.
He didn’t even turn toward his ally.
Crane swallowed nervously and nodded.
“You prepared the ‘D’ sample for the recipient?”
Joker nodded toward Bane’s body.
He looked at the unconscious mercenary as though he were nothing more than a lump of modeling clay.
“Y-yes,” Scarecrow stammered, wiping his fogged glasses.
“Synthesis is complete.”
“But…
are you sure?”
“Wouldn’t that be…
too much?”
“Last time…”
“I remember perfectly well what happened to Metropolis last time, Johnny.”
Joker slowly turned toward the scientist.
His grin widened into a horrifying, manic smile that exposed all thirty-two teeth.
Absolute madness danced in his remaining eye.
“That’s exactly what we need, my dear doctor!”
“That scale of tragedy!”
“Gotham deserves its own little doomsday!”
The clown turned away and shoved his hands into the pockets of his purple coat.
At his signal, four heavily built goons wearing masks emerged from the dark corners of the bunker.
Grunting under the weight, they grabbed Bane’s limp body and dragged him down the corridor toward an improvised operating room.
The important thing is that the big guy has enough juice left to deal with our new Batsy.
Joker calculated the odds coldly while maintaining his idiot’s grin.
But even if the D sample doesn’t tear Kirkman to pieces…
If that pointy-eared freak eats this surprise too…
Well.
There’s always Plan B.
Run.
Very far.
And very fast.
Joker let out a cracked, unpleasant laugh as he listened to the heavy boots dragging Bane’s body across the concrete.
From this moment on, the game was beginning to take on genuinely bloody shades.