THE DEATH KNELL

The vast Batcave was silent except for Victor's agitated voice echoing against the stone walls. The cavernous space, dimly lit by the glow of computer screens and the occasional flickering light from above, had an eerie stillness to it. The only movement came from Victor, who continued her performance in front of the camera, her fingers animated as she gestured dramatically.

Tonight was significant. It was a night of revelations, of secrets unraveling in ways no one could have foreseen. She had survived Deathstroke, but more than that, she had uncovered truths that had been buried in the darkness of Gotham for far too long. The weight of the discoveries made her pulse quicken, but the thrill of exposing them was what truly exhilarated her.

The news she had gathered tonight wasn't just another report—it was a defining moment, a milestone in her career. This was why she had chosen journalism. Not for awards or recognition, but for moments like these—when the city's hidden shadows were dragged into the light.

But not everyone shared her enthusiasm.

Barbara Gordon stood off to the side, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression clouded with unease.

She had once believed that Batgirl—her Batgirl—was the shining beacon of hope for Gotham. That belief had been her anchor in a city where morality was a shade of gray. But now? Now she wasn't so sure.

She had trusted Batgirl, admired her, maybe even idolized her. And yet, here she was, standing before a machine that monitored every soul in Gotham without their knowledge. The realization left her hollow, disillusioned in a way that felt almost personal.

The idol had fallen.

Slade Wilson, standing nearby, observed her with sharp eyes. He could tell she was lost in thought, trapped in her own mind as she processed everything. He reached out, waving a hand in front of her face to snap her back to reality.

"I hate to interrupt your existential crisis," he said, voice laced with sarcasm, "but shouldn't we be running that license plate first? Gordon's still waiting for us to save his ass."

Barbara blinked, startled from her thoughts. "Uh, right. One second."

She turned back to the massive console, fingers flying across the keyboard as she input the numbers engraved on Gordon's glasses.

The screen responded instantly, data flooding in with alarming speed. Batgirl's tracing program was as efficient as ever—that, at least, Barbara could still respect. Within moments, the registration details appeared on the monitor.

But the name attached to the vehicle was a dead end—a pseudonym, no doubt. That wasn't the important part. What mattered was the car's movements, its trajectory over the past 24 hours.

Barbara's eyes narrowed as she analyzed the tracking data. If they couldn't find Gordon through the owner, they could find him through the car itself—where it had been parked, where it had refueled, the areas it had frequented.

The system was already compiling a list of potential locations, narrowing the search radius to a manageable size.

"No one escapes Gotham's surveillance," Slade muttered, watching the screens split into dozens of smaller windows, each displaying different security footage. The AI was already cross-referencing the information, searching for any relevant footage of the car's journey.

Then, a red dot flashed on the map—a final destination, marked in ominous crimson.

Slade's jaw tightened. "No. Not there."

Cindy frowned, glancing at the screen. "What? What's wrong with it?"

Barbara pulled up the data for the area in question. The name appeared on the monitor in bold letters.

Indian Hill.

A junkyard near Gotham's East River terminal.

Once, long before Gotham's foundations were even laid, this land had belonged to the indigenous tribes. But like everything else in the city, it had been swallowed by the ever-expanding jaws of industrialization and gentrification. The tribes had eventually sold their ancestral land for money, leaving Gotham behind to chase a different kind of fortune elsewhere.

Rumor had it, they built casinos in Las Vegas and became rich beyond measure.

But no one remembered who had bought the land from them or what its original purpose had been.

What they did remember was that, after the rise of the automobile industry, it became a wasteland for discarded vehicles—scrap metal stacked into mountains, cars rusting under Gotham's polluted sky.

And now?

Now it was a graveyard. Not just for cars, but for the forgotten, the lost. Homeless men and women made their nests in the empty husks of abandoned vehicles, shielding themselves from the bitter Gotham nights. It was a place untouched by gangs, ignored by criminals—there was nothing to steal, no one to exploit.

Even the most desperate of thieves wouldn't waste their time there. What could they possibly gain? Fleas? Bed bugs?

Barbara still didn't understand why Slade was so on edge. He had spoken about Arkham Asylum and Blackgate Prison as if they were casual stops on a road trip—why did a junkyard unnerve him more than Gotham's worst hellholes?

Cindy, standing beside her, seemed just as confused. "You gonna tell us what the big deal is?"

Slade exhaled slowly, adjusting his armored gauntlets.

"You don't get it," he said finally. "That place isn't just a junkyard."

They waited as he collected his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, graver.

"In my world, Indian Hill was a research facility—one of the most dangerous black sites in America. It was built after World War II, supposedly for 'defense development.' But in reality? It was where the government conducted experiments they didn't want the public to know about. Bioweapons. Chemical warfare. Genetic manipulation."

Barbara's stomach twisted.

Slade's expression darkened. "And in this world? It's not just the U.S. government running the show—it's the Amazons. And if you think their experiments are any less dangerous, think again."

Barbara felt a chill creep down her spine. "What kind of experiments?"

"Take your pick," Slade said. "Mutants, genetic monstrosities, weaponized diseases. Ever heard of magical bioweapons? Because I have. Picture a virus laced with sorcery—one that doesn't just kill, but transforms."

Cindy visibly paled. "So you're saying…"

Slade nodded. "If something goes wrong down there, it won't just be Gotham at risk. It'll be everyone."

The weight of his words settled over them.

If Gotham fell, it wouldn't be the first time. But the consequences of this disaster wouldn't be another crisis to sweep under the rug. It would be a cataclysm.

Barbara swallowed hard. "We need to move. Now."

Cindy hesitated. "And if we're too late?"

Slade exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Then Gotham's about to have a much bigger problem than the Joker."

A long silence stretched between them. Then, Cindy pulled out a flask, taking a swig before offering it to Slade.

He took it, biting off the cork.

Barbara shot them both a look. "You do realize I'm standing right here?"

Slade smirked. "Relax, kid. You're not old enough to drink anyway."

Barbara rolled her eyes. "I'm not waiting for your whiskey. I'm waiting for the good news."

Slade took a swig, then smirked.

"Well, the good news is—it looks like the place has been abandoned since the '90s." He glanced back at the monitor. "And if something had already escaped? Falcone would've been the first to die."

A beat of silence.

Barbara sighed. "That's… kind of good news, I guess."

Slade grinned. "See? I'm always optimistic."

The sarcasm was lost on no one.