Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night air is heavy with the scent of gasoline and rain-soaked concrete, the kind of Gotham atmosphere that clings to your lungs no matter how high above the street you sit. Perched on the ledge of a crumbling office building, All-Star blends into the shadows. His suit gleams faintly purple when the city’s neon bleeds across the rooftops — a subtle signal of who he is, and who he’s trying to be.

Across the avenue rises the Thorn Casino. The place looks almost out of place in Gotham, as if it was ripped from Las Vegas and dropped onto crime-stained streets. Its facade glitters in gold and sharp white lights, stretching skyward like it’s daring the city to pull it down. Sleek black cars and stretch limos are jammed into every space of the circular driveway, engines purring as chauffeurs hold umbrellas for their passengers. On the front steps, men in crisp tuxedos and women in shimmering gowns glide through the glass doors, laughter carrying over the hum of traffic.

From up here, Malachi can count at least a hundred guests entering every few minutes — Gotham’s elite rubbing elbows with business moguls from Metropolis, star reporters from Central City, even a senator or two from Washington. The Thorn is the kind of place where every handshake hides an agenda, and every smile masks the possibility of blood on the floor before the night is over.

Malachi’s eyes narrow. His mask’s lenses sharpen the scene in crisp digital overlay: movement scans, license plate IDs, the faint hum of wireless signals bouncing in and out of the building. It’s a perfect night for trouble.

Then his comm crackles in his ear, grounding him back to the moment. It's Nightwing’s voice: “How are things looking?”

Malachi shifts slightly on the ledge, his boots scraping faintly against the concrete as he scans the streets below. Outside the casino’s glowing entrance, the press of Gotham regulars is thick — half gawking tourists, half desperate citizens hoping for a scrap of attention from the men and women walking past them in thousand-dollar suits. Phones flash in the night, paparazzi calling out names, everyone trying to catch a moment of borrowed glamour.

He sweeps his gaze across the block, noting how it clogs with parked cars like arteries about to burst. The surrounding streets, though, are eerily barren — no traffic, no foot patrols, just silence. Too clean. Too planned.

“Crowd’s bigger than I was expecting,” Malachi mutters, adjusting the line launcher at his hip, like it’s just routine. “You didn’t tell me Gotham invited half the country.”

Nightwing’s voice hums back through the comm, dry but steady. “That’s because it isn’t just Gotham. You’ve got business sharks from Metropolis, media kings from Coast City, even a few senators pretending they don’t know whose casino they’re walking into. Everyone who wants to look powerful, or at least shake hands with someone who is.”

Malachi arches a brow beneath his mask, pulling a set of sleek binoculars from his belt. “And what are they actually here for?”

“Just a gala,” Nightwing replies, matter-of-fact. “Rich people showing off to rich people. Bruce would’ve been inside smiling through it if I didn’t need him running backup for you. Either way, it's a distraction to transport that package.”

Malachi smirks at that, unfolding the binoculars as he braces a zipline hook against the ledge. “So… cocktail party on top, secret mission down below. Got it.”

The binoculars flicker alive in his hands, his thumb nudging through settings — night vision, heat scan, wall-penetration. He tunes through the tiers until the glittering facade of the Thorn melts away, layers of steel and concrete peeling back until the basement level sharpens into view.

His eyes narrow. Dozens of heat signatures pop into focus — armed men pacing in tight rotations, rifles slung across their chests. At the center of it all sits what they're after, the package: a single white van. Its sides are marked with a rough, unmistakable emblem: a jagged Joker’s grin painted in dripping violet.

Malachi’s jaw tightens. “You figure out what’s inside yet?”

Nightwing doesn’t hesitate. “No. But whatever it is, that van’s set to roll out in thirty minutes, give or take. That’s your guy's clock.”

Malachi exhales through his nose, the sound half a sigh, half a muttered complaint. “Does she really have to come with?”

On the other end, Nightwing chuckles, a light sound, but one carrying that familiar edge of discipline Malachi can never quite shake off. “Relax. Jason insisted. She needs the exposure to doing things our way instead of the Red Hood way. And—” his tone dips into that infuriatingly patient mentor voice, “—the two of you need to work on getting along.”

Malachi tilts his head back against the stone ledge, rolling his eyes even though his father can’t see him. “Please. The only reason she’s here is to make sure I don’t screw up again.”

There’s silence for half a beat before Nightwing answers, steady and sure. “You’re wrong. I’ve got no doubt you could stop that van without a single complication on your own. But Thawne’s been quiet for months. Too quiet. Whatever’s inside that truck, and whoever’s lurking in that gala, we can’t predict it. Not even Bruce would go at this one solo.”

Malachi finds himself smiling faintly in spite of the weight pressing down on his shoulders. His father’s faith isn’t something he takes lightly. “Nice vote of confidence, Dad. Still doesn’t mean I have to like her.”

“Consider it character development,” Nightwing says dryly.

Malachi huffs a short laugh, then angles his binoculars back toward the glowing casino windows. “What about Thawne himself? He in there? It’s his casino.”

“No,” Nightwing says immediately, then adds, “But scanners picked up his son.”

Malachi blinks, lowering the binoculars just slightly. “His son? Eobard has a son?”

“I’m sending the file to your HUD now. Don’t get distracted—”

A soft click of heels lands behind him on the rooftop, followed by the faint scrape of leather shifting against leather. Malachi doesn’t need to look. He knows. He groans under his breath. “She’s here.”

When he finally glances back, she’s stepping out of the shadows with the ease of someone born to them. Her outfit is unmistakably Jason’s legacy—armored plating over a tactical bodysuit, slim and efficient, shaded in black with crimson accents cutting across the chest and forearms. Two pistols ride comfortably at her hips, gleaming faintly under the rooftop lights. A red mask curves over the lower half of her face, molded tight and sharp, leaving only her sharp eyes visible above it. The hood itself is drawn up, shrouding her features, though strands of jet-black hair spill down in uneven waves past her jawline.

Nightwing’s voice returns in Malachi’s ear, warm with a trace of amusement. “Good luck with the mission.”

Malachi pushes up from his crouch, shaking his head with a reluctant grin. “Thanks, Dad.”

Malachi’s eyes narrow as he studies her. The rooftop light catches on the crimson mask covering her mouth, and for a moment he thinks she’s smirking even before she actually does.

“Xochitl,” he says flatly.

“Malachi,” she returns, stepping up beside him with casual confidence. Her boots make no sound against the gravel of the rooftop, and when she turns, her gaze immediately lands on the zipline harness cinched tight around his waist.

“You have a harness for me?” Her voice is dry, already knowing the answer.

“Nope.” Malachi doesn’t even look at her as he finishes knotting the rope to his grappling gun, giving it a sharp tug for security. “I wasn’t expecting this to be a duo mission.”

Xochitl tilts her head, that half-hidden grin tugging again at the corners of her eyes. “What? The Great All-Star wasn’t expecting help on a mission like this?”

Malachi exhales sharply, a sound close to a laugh but not quite. He rolls his eyes, straightening as he slots the line into place. “I don’t need help. Dad just thinks I do. And your dad doesn’t trust you to go on your own missions.”

Her smirk falters, the crease of a frown slipping into her expression. “Funny,” she says, arms folding over her chest, “because we’ll be on two totally separate tasks.”

That makes Malachi pause. He lifts an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder at her. “What?”

Xochitl shifts her weight to one hip, her hood dipping low over her eyes. “I’m here under orders. My dad wants me to capture Thawne’s kid. You’re going after the package.” She holds his gaze for a beat, sharp and unblinking. “Speaking of… you’ve got the file, don’t you?”

Malachi’s jaw tightens. His frown deepens, a mixture of irritation and grudging relief twisting through him. Irritated that he wasn’t told she’d be working a parallel angle. Relieved that his part of the mission would stay clean. Solo.

Wordlessly, he lifts his grappling gun, aims, and fires. The hook sails across the gap with a metallic thunk, burying itself into the casino roofline. The rope goes taut as he secures it to his belt clip.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, a hidden compartment pops open. A small flash drive glints under the dim rooftop glow. He plucks it free and flips it underhand toward her.

“Here.”

Xochitl catches it without effort, tucking it into her utility belt.

“Just stay out of my way,” Malachi adds, gripping the line and giving it one final test pull. His boots grind into the ledge as he steps up, then—without waiting for her response—he pushes off and slides down the zipline in a clean arc toward the casino roof.

The wind snaps past his ears, the city blurring below, the sound of the gala’s music drifting faintly upward as he closes in on his target.

~~~~~

Xochitl exhales a long, pointed sigh, her breath fogging faintly in the night air. “Boys,” she mutters under her breath, the word carrying both annoyance and amusement. She slips the flash drive into the slot in her wrist compartment.

With a soft whirr, the device hums to life. A pale-blue hologram flickers into existence above her arm, light washing over her mask. Instantly, a series of video clips swirl into frame, orbiting in a slow carousel around her.

At the center, the image of a blonde, curly-haired boy about her age appears. His grin is wide, camera-ready, the kind of smile rehearsed from countless posts.

Her father’s voice crackles through the projection, steady and precise.
“Son of Eobard Thawne, Walker Thawne-Scobell. Age eighteen. Spawn of the Reverse Flash.”

The hologram shifts: a press conference clip fills the air, Eobard Thawne himself at a podium, cameras flashing wildly. Behind him, a younger Walker stands stiffly, waving awkwardly at the crowd.

“He was revealed to the Justice League—along with the rest of the world—a few months after Eobard declared his retirement to focus on his business, the Thorn Casino.”

The projection rotates. Now it’s Walker again, this time in grainy clips from social media: a phone screen scrolls past TikTok videos. Walker dances, lip-syncs, and mugs for the camera. Comments scroll in real-time: ‘Thatboywalker 🔥🔥’ … ‘marry me omg’ … ‘Reverse Flash’s kid looks fine as hell’.

“Walker has grown popularity online under the persona Thatboywalker,” the voiceover continues, “where he first went viral on TikTok before spreading to other platforms. Now he’s become a staple in modern media.”

The hologram flickers again. A screenshot of Thorn Casino’s website floats beside clips of Walker hyping it up to millions of fans. His logo appears—stylized lightning bolts in gold and black.

“While he is the son of the Reverse Flash, he has not been directly linked to any crimes. Speculation online suggests he manipulates his fans into supporting Thorn Casino, but nothing has stuck.”

The image shifts to security footage: the Thorn Casino lit up tonight, Walker greeting guests on a crimson carpet, shaking hands with Gotham’s elite. His easy charm practically radiates through the grainy image.

“Now, as the host of this party, he may prove to be an ally of the Joker. If true, it would confirm that Eobard has never truly left villainy—only hidden behind business ventures.”

The hologram rewinds through archived footage of the Justice League council room. Files stamped PROJECT: LEGACY flash across the projection, filled with headshots of various offspring of known villains. Walker’s file lingers the longest, a red “CLOSED” stamped diagonally across it.

“He was the main offspring that kickstarted the Justice League’s Legacy Protocol. But he was released when no evidence could tie him to a crime.”

The voice drops lower, deliberate.
“Now, with probable cause, he is to be captured and brought to the League for interrogation.”

Static trembles across the hologram, and new text scrolls across the top in bright crimson: WARNING.

Clips of yellow lightning arcs across the projection—Reverse Flash at full speed, blurred and deadly.

“Though Walker has not been seen publicly using speed abilities, it is highly probable he inherited them. Extreme precautions are advised.”

The image zooms in on a League-issued Control Collar, sleek and black, a faint blue light pulsing at its center. A schematic expands beside it, labeling power-suppression emitters.

“The Control Collar is to be clipped around his neck immediately upon contact to suppress potential metahuman abilities. This mission must be handled in stealth. Detection risks catastrophic exposure.”

The projection flickers one last time, the voiceover replaced by a line of text scrolling across the bottom, almost casual compared to the debriefing tone:

P.S. — Good luck, Xo. And be careful. This guy’s a flirt.

A laugh escapes her before she can stop it, muffled under the mask. The corner of her mouth tugs upward, a faint smile breaking her otherwise steady demeanor.

She flicks her wrist, collapsing the hologram into nothing but dark sky again. Her fingers flex once, then curl into a fist as she rolls her shoulders and tilts her head side to side, the joints in her neck cracking sharply in the quiet.

The city sprawls beneath her, Thorn Casino gleaming gold like a beacon, her target somewhere inside.

She breathes in deep, steadying. Game face on.

Xochitl tightens the crimson-marked harness around her waist, double-checking the clips with quick, practiced tugs. The name Crimson etched along the strap glints faintly against the rooftop floodlights below, a reminder of the identity she’s still trying to carve out for herself, separate from her father’s shadow. With one last glance down at the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns clustering outside the Thorn Casino, she exhales and clicks the tether into place.

The descent begins in a rush. The steel cable hums under the pressure of her weight, a vibrating song of tension and speed. Wind claws at her hood and pulls her black hair loose, strands whipping across her mask as gravity takes hold. The city lights blur beneath her in streaks of gold and white, and for a moment, she feels like she’s flying—free, reckless, unstoppable. It lasts only seconds, but her stomach flips with the thrill.

Then comes the landing. At the last instant, Xochitl bends her knees, tucks into a roll, and hits the rooftop with a thud softened by precision. The momentum carries her once, twice across the gravel before she comes up steady on her boots. No stumble, no flinch. She smirks behind the mask. Hours of drilling on rooftops with Jason pay off.

It’s then she spots it: a black duffel bag propped neatly against the rusted side of an air vent, a yellow sticky note slapped across the top. Her eyes narrow at the scribbled words—For Crimson. Nightwing’s neat handwriting, all business, all foresight.

She crouches, unzipping the bag. Inside lies a perfectly pressed business suit, sleek and fitted, paired with a shimmering gold masquerade mask whose ornate swirls catch the moonlight. Xochitl sighs, a dry laugh catching in her throat. “Stealth,” she mutters, the word more sarcastic than reverent. Still, she peels out of her vigilante attire, folding each piece of armor and cloth with care before sliding into the disguise. The fabric is cool against her skin, and the mask, once slipped over her face, erases any trace of the girl beneath. From Crimson the vigilante, she becomes Leah Luthor, another face in a sea of Gotham’s elite.

Standing now as someone else entirely, she takes a long breath through her nose, steels herself, then drops smoothly off the roof’s edge. She lands in the alley with a muffled thump and straightens her jacket, adjusting her cuffs before stepping into the glow of the casino’s floodlit front.

The crowd outside is thick and buzzing, but her stride is sharp, confident. In the tailored suit, with her gold mask gleaming, no one questions her. The flashes of cameras burst around her like fireworks, capturing her in pixels she knows will end up on social media feeds within the hour. Random photographers shout out, trying to guess her identity, but she only tilts her chin up, letting them wonder. And though she won’t admit it out loud, the attention feels good—better than crouching in shadows, better than being unseen.

At the entrance, though, her momentum stalls. A burly guard steps forward, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the night. He lifts a clipboard, posture all suspicion.
“Name?” he asks, voice clipped.

Xochitl presses her lips together for a half second, then parts them into a confident smirk. “Leah Luthor,” she replies smoothly, just as Nightwing had instructed. She makes it sound natural, practiced—like she’s always belonged here.

The guard studies her for a beat too long, but then, with a curt nod, he steps aside. “Welcome, Ms. Luthor.”

And just like that, she’s in.

The moment Xochitl steps inside, the noise hits her like a wave. The Thorn Casino glows with gold, every surface polished until it gleams. Chandeliers drip crystal light from the vaulted ceiling, spilling a warm shimmer across the vast hall. Water fountains shoot arcs of glittering spray into the air, their rhythmic splashes competing with the hum of a live string quartet tucked into one corner. Roulette wheels spin, dice clatter across felt tables, and dealers call out bets with crisp, confident voices. The crowd is a dense sea of tuxedos, gowns, and gilded masks, moving in fluid currents between the bar, the gaming tables, and the twin staircases that sweep upward in elegant curves to the second floor.

Xochitl scans the room, eyes sharp behind her mask. No sign of Walker yet—not that she expected otherwise. People like him always made an entrance when they felt like it, when the room was most ready to notice. Fine. She’s patient. She can wait.

For now, blending in is the safer play. She threads her way through the throng with practiced ease, heels clicking softly against the marble, until she reaches the bar stretched along the back wall. The counter gleams under soft lighting, lined with crystal bottles stacked in perfect symmetry. She slips onto a stool and orders something light, just to look the part.

Her gaze drifts as she sips, her lip curling faintly. The whole place feels suffocating. The laughter is too loud, every chuckle sharpened by greed. The clink of coins, the shuffle of cards, the casual throwing away of thousands of dollars on a single hand—disgusting. These people revel in excess, in the illusion of control, when really, half of them are just walking targets. Hosting a gala like this in Gotham is practically an open invitation to chaos. She can already imagine it—gunfire, screaming, the chandeliers crashing down in a shower of broken glass. Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if it happened. The only thing that makes sense for pulling something like this off in Gotham is distraction. A cover. Something worth hiding. Like smuggling a package for the Joker right under the noses of the city’s elite.

Her train of thought is interrupted when movement catches her eye. Another girl—same age, same mask, same name—glides into the room. Xochitl’s stomach drops, though outwardly she keeps her expression cool. The real Leah Luthor. Daughter of Lex himself, with long black braids cascading down her back and a sleek, shimmering dress that probably cost more than Xochitl’s entire wardrobe combined. She wears her golden mask like a crown, her posture dripping entitlement.

Leah spots her almost immediately and crosses the floor with a curious smile. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, voice smooth but edged with an intrigue that borders on suspicion. “I’m Leah.”

For a moment, Xochitl considers lying—but what good would it do? The name’s already blown. So she lifts her glass and answers simply, “Xochitl Gomez.” A half-truth, but close enough. No need to drag Todd into this.

Leah tilts her head, lips curving. “Pretty name. Enjoy the night, Xochitl.” She lingers just long enough to make the moment feel sharp, like she’s filing it away, then turns with a flutter of her dress and disappears into the crowd.

Xochitl exhales, resisting the urge to rub her temples. Close call. Too close. She shifts in her seat, scanning the upper levels again—and there he is. Walker. Sitting casually at a balcony table, flanked by two older men in suits, laughing as though the whole room belongs to him.

Bingo.

~~~~~

Malachi presses his cheek against the cold steel of the vent, eyes narrowing behind the binoculars as he drinks in every detail below. The basement of the Thorn Casino stretches wide like a hangar, industrial and ugly compared to the glittering world upstairs. The space is carved up by suspended steel walkways crisscrossing the chamber, their grated floors clanging faintly under the boots of the patrolling guards.

And there are dozens of them. Armed, armored, stationed with military precision around the perimeter. Their rifles glint under the fluorescent overhead lights, their movements clipped and methodical. This isn’t some ragtag group of casino security—this is an operation.

At the center of it all, the van. Matte black, its paint chipped and streaked with purple, green, and sloppy red spray paint—Joker symbols scrawled across every panel. A grim smiley face stretches across the hood, its paint dripping like fresh blood. The van just sits there on the polished concrete floor, headlights dark, engine silent, a black heart beating in the middle of the room. Four men flank it, each one still and tense, their clown masks staring out with painted grins.

Malachi lowers the binoculars and exhales slowly through his nose. There it is—proof. The Clown Prince’s fingerprints all over this thing. The question is how to stop it without a firefight that’ll bring half the casino crashing down. The guards, the van, those garage doors behind it—if they roll open, the package is gone. Gotham bleeds.

His gaze drifts, scanning for weaknesses. And then he spots it: a control room bolted to the upper wall on the far side. A glass-fronted box, like a parasite clinging to the ceiling. Three guards inside, their silhouettes pacing lazily. Consoles glow green and red in the dim light, switches and monitors painting their bodies in faint electronic haze. That’s the key. Control the room, control the garage doors.

Malachi takes one last breath to steady himself. Then he shifts, pressing his boots against the vent walls, and kicks the grate loose. He snatches it out of the air before it can clang against the floor. Silence. The low hum of the basement swallows him back up.

He drops, sliding down the wall with fluid precision, and lands in a crouch on one of the grated bridges. The steel vibrates faintly under his weight, but no one notices. He freezes anyway, scanning the nearest guards. Their heads stay fixed forward. Good.

He moves low, almost on all fours, hugging the shadows between stacks of crates. Every breath is measured, every step intentional. The smell down here is sharp—oil, gunpowder, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Somewhere above, laughter and champagne glasses echo through the ceiling, muffled but surreal against the silence of the basement.

Then—movement. A guard rounds the corner of a crate, not twenty feet away. He’s bored, shifting the rifle across his chest, whistling a tune off-key through his mask. Malachi presses flat against the side of the crate, counting the seconds as the footsteps grow louder. When the man passes, Malachi strikes.

One arm snakes around the guard’s throat, pulling him into a chokehold before the man can gasp. His boots scrape against the grate, a muffled clatter, but Malachi tightens the hold and drags him down into the shadows. The guard thrashes for a heartbeat, two, before going limp. Malachi eases him to the ground, rolling the body behind the crates, hidden.

He doesn’t linger. Adrenaline sharpens his senses. Every sound is magnified now—the shuffle of boots, the distant murmur of radio chatter, the low hum of the van’s engine ticking faintly as though waiting to roar to life.

He edges forward, weaving between shadows, keeping his body tight and his presence invisible. Each time he crosses open ground, his heart hammers, but the shadows and noise above conceal him. He’s close now—the far wall looming nearer, the control room’s glass glowing faintly above.

Finally, he reaches another vent, this one set into the wall just below the control room. Malachi attaches his grappling hook with practiced speed, the cable whispering as it reels out. He fires it upward—thunk—and it bites deep into the steel above. He tests the line once, then ascends, boots finding purchase against the wall as he climbs with efficient, silent strength.

In moments, he slips back into the vent, body folding neatly into the narrow shaft. Positives of training with the world's greatest acrobat. Darkness swallows him again, but now he’s close. So close he can almost hear the muffled conversation of the guards inside the control room.

He presses forward, inch by inch, toward the thin slats of the vent grille that overlook the glowing consoles.

Malachi presses his face to the vent grille, narrowing his eyes at the control room below. The space is compact—barely more than a glass-walled booth suspended over the floor. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, illuminating the three guards inside. Two lean lazily against the consoles, rifles hanging loose at their sides. The third paces, his boots echoing faintly on the steel, eyes flicking occasionally toward the garage doors.

And there it is. The control panel. Big red and green switches gleaming under glass casings, the garage door controls practically glowing like a beacon. Malachi’s heart pounds. If he can get those locked, the van can’t escape. Problem is, three guns stand in the way.

He chews his lip, weighing it. Then he makes his move.

Malachi eases the vent grille loose, sets it down without a sound, and drops into the room like a shadow falling from the ceiling. His boots absorb the impact, barely a thud. The pacing guard frowns, head cocking—too late. Malachi surges forward, one arm wrapping around the man’s neck, the other clamping a gloved hand over his mouth. The man thrashes, knees buckling, but Malachi twists and drives him into the wall with a muffled thunk. The air rushes out of him in a wheeze, then silence.

The other two snap up, startled, rifles halfway raised. Malachi doesn’t give them time. He hurls the unconscious guard across the floor, his body clattering into the legs of the first gunman. The man stumbles, rifle scraping against the console as Malachi lunges low, sweeping his legs out from under him. The guard slams onto his back, air knocked from his lungs. Before he can recover, Malachi plants a knee on his chest and drives a sharp elbow into his temple. Out cold.

The last man levels his weapon, finger tightening on the trigger. Malachi reacts instantly. He snatches the fallen guard’s rifle, swings it like a bat, and cracks it against the final man’s wrist. The weapon clatters to the floor, discharging harmlessly into the ceiling with a deafening pop. Malachi grabs the man by the collar and hurls him headfirst into the glass wall. It splinters but doesn’t shatter; the man slumps down, groaning once before going limp.

Silence.

Malachi’s chest heaves. He scans quickly—three bodies, no movement, all weapons disarmed. No alarms. No gunfire to give him away. He did it clean.

He turns back to the console, relief washing through him. Fingers hover over the garage door controls. Unlocked. He just has to hit the switch and this whole setup collapses in on itself.

Then something catches his eye.

Another monitor. A grainy black-and-white feed. Inside of the van. Malachi leans closer, confusion giving way to dread.

There’s a boy inside.

Strapped to a steel chair, arms and legs bound tight with rope. No shirt. Just black boxers clinging to his pale skin. A gag tied around his mouth. His head is bowed at first, brown curls tangled and matted, but then he looks up—right at the camera. His eyes are wide, wet, brown pools silently pleading for someone, anyone, to get him out.

Malachi’s stomach twists. His throat closes. He almost pukes right there on the floor. The name blinking in the corner of the screen seals it:

Mason Thames.

The room seems to tilt. A kid his age. Not a faceless victim, not another body in Gotham’s cycle of cruelty. A boy. Helpless. Malachi’s fingers tremble as he grips the console.

No time. He jerks back to the garage door controls and slams the lever down, locking it into place. For a second, hope surges—

And then the sirens scream.

“Alert! Alert!” a booming mechanical voice bellows from the ceiling. “Trespasser detected in the vicinity. Release the cargo.”

Malachi’s head whips toward the massive garage doors. They groan, metal shrieking as the motors kick in. The floor shakes as they begin to roll upward, inch by inch, chains rattling loud enough to make his teeth hurt. The van’s headlights flicker to life, bathing the basement in a cold white glow.

“No,” Malachi breathes.

He lunges for the lever, both hands clutching it as he yanks it down with all his weight. The locking mechanism slams into place, gears grinding. The doors screech and freeze—but not all the way. They’re already up far enough. A gap gapes wide at the bottom. Wide enough for the van to slip through.

The basement erupts in noise. Guards shout, boots thunder across the catwalks. Dozens of heads snap upward at once, all rifles lifting. From below, it’s clear as day: the vigilante All-Star is standing in the control room, hands on the lever, framed in the glass like a target.

“There! In the booth!”

“It’s him!”

The mob howls in unison, weapons snapping to their shoulders, barrels glinting under the harsh lights.

Malachi’s heart spikes, his stomach dropping.

“...Shit.”

In just seconds, hundreds of bullets slam against the glass panels of the control room, rattling the edges and sending shards clattering across the floor. The sharp staccato of gunfire echoes through the basement like rolling thunder. Malachi’s instincts kick in instantly. He does an unnecessary back handspring, twisting midair, his body landing with the softest thud possible behind a stack of crates. Dust rises in the wake of his motion, glittering faintly in the dim light of the overhead lamps.

“Malachi! We have a problem upstairs!” Xochitl’s voice cuts through the chaos in his comm, sharp and panicked.

Malachi grits his teeth, barely keeping his head low as another bullet tears past, embedding itself in the metal wall just inches from his face. “Yeah, down here, too! What the hell did you do?!” he shouts, voice tight with urgency. The echo of his own words mixes with the roar of gunfire.

“There’s no time to explain!” Xochitl snaps. “Just get the hell up here!”

Malachi’s eyes flick to the garage doors below, partially open and letting in a sliver of dim light. His fingers twitch, the boy strapped inside the van burning in his mind. “This is my task! I’ve got the package!” His voice is urgent but controlled.

“Just tag the van!” Xochitl insists. “We’ll track it down later. If Walker gets away, there’s no promise we’ll find him again!”

Malachi pauses, the reality of her words cutting through the adrenaline haze. He knows she’s right—the van can be tracked. A speedster couldn't. He grits his jaw, feeling the weight of the mission settle on his shoulders.

He exhales sharply. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath, then speaks louder into the comm, voice firm. “I’ll be up there soon.”

He snaps off the comm and glances around the room. Bullet holes pepper the walls, dust hangs in the air like a cloud of static, and sparks from ricocheting shots scatter across the floor. Every reflex honed by years of training is on high alert. Malachi adjusts his gloves and steps lightly toward the ladder leading up from the vent.

His boots make almost no sound against the metal rungs as he begins his ascent, muscles coiled, senses razor-sharp. Every ricochet, every shout from the guards below is cataloged and accounted for. His focus is absolute: get out of the basement, tag the van, and make sure the boy stays alive. There’s no room for error.

Now perched atop the control booth, Malachi’s chest is pounding, every nerve screaming in adrenaline. He pulls his Zipline gun from his tool belt, the metallic weight familiar in his hands. With careful precision, he aims toward the other side of the room, adjusting the tension on the cable before firing. The steel line rockets through the air, slicing past crates and gunfire alike, landing securely on the far edge of the room.

He doesn’t have time to strap himself in. Instead, he grips the cable with both hands, feet tucked, and lets gravity and momentum take over. The wind whips past his face as he glides, metal and sparks blurring beneath him. His eyes scan the basement floor, tracking the van and the dozens of Joker-clad guards surrounding it, guns raised, chaos erupting in every corner.

Suddenly—a sharp snap! A bullet ricochets off the wall, striking the cable mid-glide. The Zipline twangs violently, sending Malachi off balance. He flails, twisting in midair, but physics isn’t on his side this time. With a hard thud, he lands flat on his back atop the van, the impact rattling every bone in his body. Pain shoots through his ribs and a sharp sting bursts in his lip, blood trickling down.

Before he can catch his breath, dozens of clown-masked soldiers swivel their guns toward him, fingers tightening on triggers. Malachi rolls onto his side, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His grip tightens around the handles of his Escrima sticks, leather straps biting into his palms.

He rises to his feet, knees bent, muscles coiled like a spring. The fluorescent light reflects off his purple All-Star suit, giving him a sharp, almost predatory silhouette. His eyes dart from soldier to soldier, calculating angles, distances, and the timing of their next shots.

“Alright,” he mutters through gritted teeth, the taste of blood bitter on his tongue. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, ready. “I can tussle.”

~~~~~

Xochitl presses her back against the upturned table, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air. Screams echo around the casino floor as guards dive for cover and glass shatters under stray bullets. Her chest rises and falls sharply, each breath coming out in ragged bursts. Crimson suit stretched tight over her frame, the red Hood drawn low over her brow, she props herself up just long enough to line up a shot.

“Where is he?!” she mutters under her breath, voice barely audible over the chaos. Her finger squeezes the trigger, and the sound of the bullet snapping through the air cuts through the mayhem. A guard stumbles, but only from the sting—rubber rounds. She curses under her breath, teeth gritted. Damn it. Dad insisted on these. Real bullets would’ve made this easier.

The confrontation with Walker hadn’t gone very well. Xochitl had slipped away from the chaos at the bar below and made her way toward the dual staircases, moving with the practiced confidence of someone who had spent years mastering her stealth. The name she was using—Leah Luthor—opened doors, figuratively and literally, as she ascended, weaving between elegantly dressed guests who had no reason to question her presence.

By the time she reached the top floor, Walker was perched at the VIP bar, relaxed, a couple of his friends leaning against him, laughing quietly. His curls caught the low light from the golden chandeliers above, and his eyes lit up when he noticed her, mask shading only his eyes, not his smile.

“Well, hey there, beautiful. Got lost?” he asked, voice easy and playful, just enough charm to draw attention without seeming overbearing.

Xochitl shrugged lightly, keeping her tone casual. “Needed a break from the ruckus downstairs.”

Walker shooed away his friends with a wave and motioned for her to sit beside him. She obliged, sliding onto the barstool with a practiced elegance that made her seem completely at ease.

“So, who are you?” he asked, leaning slightly toward her, as if he expected her to reveal some elaborate, mysterious identity.

“Wouldn’t it be more fun for you to guess?” she replied smoothly, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Walker grinned and rattled off names with a mock flourish: “Uh… Vanessa Vale? Tiffany Monroe? Wait—maybe Charlotte Sterling?”

“No. None of them,” Xochitl said, shaking her head, lips curved into a polite, teasing smile.

Finally, she said, “Leah Luthor.”

“Shit,” Walker breathed, eyes widening just enough to betray his surprise. “Daughter of Lex Luthor at my gala? I’m honored.” He gestured toward the bartender to order her a drink before she could protest.

Xochitl forced a smile and a soft laugh, blending in with the crowd. It was a practiced mask; she had been trained to make her presence believable without revealing her true purpose.

“Enjoying the party?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Xochitl shrugged, keeping her response casual. “It’s been… nice. I’ve enjoyed the company.”

Walker leaned back slightly, playful but not imposing, and asked, “So… what does a guy have to do to get a dance with a girl this pretty?” His tone was teasing, lighthearted, his grin inviting.

A flirtatious back-and-forth began, the kind that felt effortless and natural, a dance of words and smiles. He leaned in, joked, she parried with clever remarks. Xochitl’s eyes flicked subtly toward her pocket, where she kept a League-issued Control Collar. The metal glinted faintly under the ambient light, a silent promise of the task she had to accomplish.

She slid the collar out discreetly, readying herself to wrap it around his throat if necessary, when Walker’s hand landed over hers, warm and unexpectedly gentle.

“Oh, babe,” he said, his voice a mix of charm and ease, “we won’t be needing that.”

Xochitl froze for a heartbeat, her mind calculating options, weighing risk versus reward. The corners of his mouth lifted in that easy, teasing grin of his—innocent, flirtatious, disarming. And for a moment, all the tactical training and mission planning had to compete with the simple fact that Walker Thawne, charismatic and unassuming, was entirely unaware of the danger he was in.

Xochitl made the swift decision to come to a stand, her movements fluid, trained, deliberate. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled a small, compact gun from the inside of her coat and fired it straight up into the air. The sharp ping of rubber-on-metal ricocheted off the walls of the VIP balcony, a loud, commanding signal that immediately scattered the crowd. Guests shrieked and dove for cover, cocktail glasses shattering, chairs scraping against marble. The chandeliers above swayed slightly, casting fractured light across panicked faces.

Walker’s personal guards, however, remained immovable, rifles trained on her in an instant. Their stance was perfect, bodies tense, eyes calculating. Walker himself raised a hand calmly, his tone casual but authoritative: “Leave us,” he said, leaning back in his chair as though the chaos around him were inconsequential.

Xochitl’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at his composure, but she didn’t let up, her voice hard and steady: “I don’t know, you might need them,” she countered, finger lightly grazing the trigger.

Walker chuckled softly, a low, amused sound that carried no hint of panic. “What? You plan on shooting a speedster?” he asked, glancing at his guards. “Leave us.”

There was a tense pause. The guards exchanged wary glances, the silence thick with unspoken tension. Finally, with obvious reluctance, they backed away, rifles still poised but no longer aimed directly at her.

Now, alone with Walker, Xochitl shifted her stance, gun trained precisely at his forehead. Her left hand gripped the edge of the League-issued Control Collar, holding it down at her side, ready to snap it around his neck at a moment’s notice.

“Well,” Walker said, voice calm and amused, “this was bold of you. Walking into my own casino and training a gun at my forehead.” He didn’t flinch, didn’t betray fear.

Xochitl’s eyes narrowed. “Your father’s casino,” she corrected sharply, her tone clipped.

He shrugged, lazily, as if it were an irrelevant detail. “Either way, the gun’s unnecessary.”

“Well,” she shot back, “it’s either the collar or the gun.”

Walker laughed, a sound light, teasing, confident. “You know I’m not putting that collar on. You might as well pull the trigger,” he said with a grin that somehow felt more daring than reckless.

Xochitl’s grip on the gun tightened, her knuckles whitening.

“You and I both know those bullets are rubber,” Walker continued, tilting his head as though analyzing her. “I recognize those guns anywhere. You’re the Red Hood’s protégé, right? Crimson? I take it you’re not really Leah Luthor, then.”

Xochitl’s jaw tensed. “Collar. Now,” she said, voice firm, unwavering.

Walker’s grin widened slightly, a spark of challenge in his eyes, but he stayed seated, hands raised just enough to remain nonthreatening.

Then, suddenly, red alarm lights began to flash across the room, bathing the walls and gold accents in an urgent, pulsating crimson glow. The high-pitched sirens pierced the air, cutting through the quiet tension like a knife. Guests shrieked anew from elsewhere in the casino, security rushing toward the source of the alarm, and the soft hum of electronics escalated into a blaring cacophony.

Walker moved like a bolt of lightning, a streak of golden light zipping across the VIP balcony. In a blink, he was in front of Xochitl, hand snatching hers mid-grip, disarming her before she could react. The gun clattered to the floor, bouncing lightly against the marble. In one fluid motion, he pinned her against the wall, his speed undeniable, leaving only a whisper of air as he came to a stop.

“Well,” he said, voice low and teasing, leaning just enough to press the edge of his palm against the golden mask concealing her identity, “it was nice meeting you, Ms. Protégée.” He didn’t attempt to lift the mask—just a small prod, a playful jab.

“But that’s my cue to leave,” he added with a grin. Before she could process, he zipped away again, leaving nothing but a gust of wind and the faint shimmer of residual speed. Xochitl’s heart raced as adrenaline surged through her veins. She pressed her palms to the wall, catching herself, and in that brief moment, realized fully what she had suspected: Walker had indeed inherited his father’s superspeed.

The blaring alarms around the casino were relentless, but Xochitl had already calculated her next move. With a series of agile flips and silent steps, she made her way to the twin staircases. Each movement precise, every sound muted against the high-pile carpet. She emerged onto the roof, quickly stripping off the heavy, gilded business suit that had allowed her to blend in moments ago. Her Crimson suit waited beneath, tight-fitting, functional, and ready for combat. She slipped back into it with practiced speed, the red hood snapping up over her head, guns securely holstered at her hips.

From the roof, she scanned the casino below. Guards were mobilizing, guests were screaming and diving for cover, and the alarm lights painted the building in a frantic, pulsing red. Xochitl gritted her teeth, taking a moment to center herself. Then she dropped down into the alleyways, using shadows and overturned carts to mask her approach. Every step was calculated. Every breath measured.

Before long, she had worked her way back into the heart of the casino, slipping through service doors and side halls, back into the maelstrom of blaring sirens and gunfire. Now, in the present tense, she crouched behind a table that had been turned onto its side for cover, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as bullets rained around her. The acrid scent of gunpowder and the echo of terrified screams filled her senses.

The crash of glass echoes across the Casino as Malachi smashes through the roof-top window, landing in a roll that sends shards scattering across the floor. Sparks from the broken lights flicker, casting chaotic shadows over the scene. He pops up immediately, kicking a stray guard back into a wall with a swift roundhouse kick before swinging his Escrima sticks into another guard’s side, sending him sprawling into a set of crates.

Xochitl hears the distinct whing of bird-a-rangs spinning through the air, striking the rifles of guards who were raising them toward Malachi. She springs up from behind the overturned table, pistols drawn, flipping sideways to land a precise shot that knocks the weapon from a guard’s hands. Rubber bullets ricochet harmlessly off steel columns, but the timing is perfect.

“Malachi!” she shouts over the din of alarm bells and screaming.

“Joker setup,” Malachi shouts back, ducking a swing from a thug wielding a baton. He counters with a sharp jab to the stomach, using the momentum to sweep the man’s legs from under him. “The package got away, security’s ridiculous—and I couldn't get the tag on it!”

“Shit!” Xochitl says, firing a second shot that clips a guard’s kneecap, dropping him instantly. “Walker got away, too!”

The two move in sync, fluid, almost instinctual. Malachi spins low, sweeping two guards off their feet with precise footwork, and simultaneously slides his Escrima stick between another guard’s wrist and weapon, disarming him in one motion. Xochitl spins around a steel column, firing rapid shots at two more approaching enemies. She vaults onto a raised platform, using the height to pull a third guard toward her, tripping him into the railing.

“Cover me!” Malachi shouts, ducking a knife swing. Xochitl fires a rubber slug into the attacker’s chest, knocking him back, and Malachi rolls forward to land a spinning kick that sends a second guard into the wall with a heavy thud.

“Are you okay?” Xochitl asks mid-action. She has noticed the dozens of cuts and bruises all over his face, no doubt from the trouble she caused him down in the basement. She vaults over a crate and sends a quick stun blast from the butt of her gun into a guard attempting a sneak attack.

“Yeah! Just—this is nuts,” Malachi shouts, ducking under a swinging pipe and countering with a precise elbow strike that sends another man crashing into a stack of crates. He spins, sticks poised, blocking another guard’s knife thrust.

Xochitl reloads on the fly, sending another guard sprawling with a precise shot to the chest. She ducks a wild swing, letting the attacker crash into a wall, then rolls behind Malachi. “I didn't see where he went.” she shouts over the chaos.

Mason ducks a wild swing, then swipes a stunned guard away with a well-aimed kick. “I did,” he shouts, voice tense but controlled, spinning to face another attacker. He pivots, blocking a baton with the side of his arm and knocking the guard off balance, sending him sprawling into a pile of crates. “He's on the roof where we ziplined in. They’re taking a chopper—there’s no way we can follow from the ground!”

Xochitl nods, processing the information. Her mind clicks into place. The escape is imminent, and they need to intercept before the helicopter gets too far. She spins on her heel, lining up a few guards who are closing in from the side, and fires rapid shots that ping off steel columns, knocking weapons aside. She flips sideways, letting a guard run into another before kicking him cleanly into a wall, clearing a path.

Malachi darts into the middle of the room, crouching under the shattered window from which he had crashed moments earlier. He props his grapple gun, adjusting the tension and checking the line. Sparks and broken glass litter the floor, the smell of smoke and gunpowder thick in the air. He glances at Xochitl; she nods, guns raised and ready, taking precise shots to hold the remaining guards at bay.

“Now!” he shouts, motioning with his hand.

Without hesitation, Xochitl barrels forward, running straight into his outstretched grasp. He tightens his grip as he fires the grapple upward. The cable whistles through the air, catching firmly onto the edge of the building’s roof. With a swift tug, the momentum lifts them both upward. Bullets whip past them, shattering glass and ricocheting off steel, but they rise out of reach, the world spinning beneath them as the grapple line hums under tension.

They land hard on the golden rooftop, rolling to absorb the impact. Sparks from the broken window still drift behind them. Their eyes immediately lock onto the source of the bright spotlight: a helicopter hovering above the tall apartment complex they had met up on. The beam sweeps across the rooftop, highlighting three figures moving with precision—one unmistakably Walker, his posture calm but alert, scanning the chaos below.

Malachi wastes no time. He grabs Xochitl again, checking his grip on her. Without a word, he fires another grapple toward the side of the building, aiming for the edge near the helicopter’s line of sight. The line shoots outward, whistling through the air as Xochitl braces herself, her fingers tightening on her weapons.

The grapple snaps taut, sending Malachi and Xochitl shooting up the side of the apartment complex at a speed that makes the city lights blur beneath them. Their momentum carries them high above the ground, and when the grapple releases, they crash down onto Walker's two guards with precise force. Both guards go down instantly, bodies slamming against the concrete ledge with muffled thuds.

Walker grimaces, muttering under his breath, “Oh shit,” before reacting with lightning reflexes. He leaps toward the helicopter his men had dropped, intent on escaping, but Malachi moves faster. With a low growl, he tackles Walker mid-jump, pinning him against the side of the building as the helicopter’s gunners train their rifles on them from above.

Bullets streak past, pinging off walls and ricocheting dangerously close, but Xochitl freezes for just a moment too long. Her hand dips to her tool belt and she pulls out the disruptor. “No!” Malachi shouts, eyes wide, but she pulls the trigger anyway.

The disruptor round streaks upward in a silver arc, slamming into the helicopter with a crackling explosion of sparks and fire. The craft wails violently as its rotors fail, spinning out of control. Malachi tries to shield Walker and Xochitl from debris, but the chaos is immediate. The helicopter tilts, plummeting toward the Thorn Casino.

The impact is catastrophic. The massive, golden roof of the casino shatters under the weight, collapsing in on itself with a deafening roar. Flames and smoke erupt from the top, engulfing shattered steel and glass. Water from decorative fountains boils into steam as the explosion rocks the surrounding streets. The sound of sirens slices through the thick haze of smoke, mingling with distant screams and the occasional collapse of weakened structures.

Xochitl stumbles back, pressed against a fractured wall, breathing hard. Her hands shake uncontrollably as she surveys the destruction. The rooftop is gone, replaced by a burning crater. Sparks rain down like fireflies, and chunks of the casino tumble to the streets below.

Her heart drops. What have I done? The thought hits her like a physical weight. The mission was supposed to be clean, precise. But now—chaos. Destruction. People could be hurt, lives ruined. People killed. She swallows hard, the acrid smoke stinging her throat, and glances at Malachi, who still has Walker pinned to the floor. He looks at her with sympathy before he shakes his head and pulls a Control Collar from his tool belt. He swiftly wraps it around Walker's neck as he shouts obscenities at him, but he's quickly silenced as a mouth gag is wrapped around his mouth.

Malachi ties Walker's hands and legs together before propping him up against the stairwell door. "i'll call Batman. Notify him that the mission was a failure."

Chapter Text

Malachi Grayson-Barton stands rigid in the dimly lit hallway of Gotham Central, arms crossed tight against his chest, eyes fixed through the one-way mirror. On the other side of the glass, the room is all steel, shadow, and a single hanging light. Batman circles Walker Scobell like a wolf closing in on prey, his cape dragging softly across the floor, boots punctuating the silence with deliberate steps.

To Malachi’s left, Nightwing leans slightly forward, arms folded in a way that mirrors his son, his expression caught between focus and frustration. On the other side of Malachi, Commissioner Jim Gordon chews on a toothpick, trench coat hanging heavy on his shoulders, his weathered face set in a tired scowl. None of them say a word. The only sound is Batman’s voice and Walker’s panicked replies filtering through the hidden speaker.

“What was in the package?” Batman growls, leaning across the table, his fists slamming down against the metal surface with a sharp clang.

Walker flinches, his hands cuffed, his voice cracking as he stammers, “I told you, man, I don’t know! It wasn’t my business.”

Malachi exhales slowly, his thoughts swirling.

It could’ve ended differently. Should’ve ended differently.

The memory of tonight’s mission replays in his head like a film he can’t turn off. The van was right there—right in front of him. He could’ve stopped it, opened the doors, saved the boy trapped inside. All it would’ve taken was a moment of precision. Instead, Xochitl had tipped Walker off to their presence, throwing everything into chaos. And when things spiraled, she didn’t hesitate—she pulled the trigger on the disruptor, sending an entire helicopter into the Thorn Casino.

Six people dead. Six.

And now she’s sitting in some room with her father, acting like she’s grieving. Yeah, bullshit.

Malachi clenches his jaw, heat rising in his chest. Xochitl has killed before—dozens, maybe more. This isn’t going to scar her. The only difference this time is that she’d been six months clean from a kill. And tonight, she made up for every month she’d skipped with six bodies buried under twisted steel and fire.

But why should he feel bad about it? If it weren’t for her, the mission would’ve been a complete success.

“Then why was the package under your casino?” Batman’s voice cuts through the haze of Malachi’s thoughts, hard and unrelenting.

Walker slams his palms against the table, the chains on his cuffs rattling. “I didn’t know shit!” His voice cracks again, raw with fear and exhaustion.

Malachi doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. His mind stays on the boy.

The boy in the van.

The one he could’ve pulled out if things had gone right.

At least there’s one thing Walker and Xo don’t know. In the split-second chaos before everything collapsed, Malachi had gotten a tracker on the van. A small win in a night full of losses. He hadn’t told anyone yet—not Xo, not Nightwing, not even Batman. He’s planning to keep it that way until the time is right.

Later, he’ll tell Nightwing, and he’ll explain why he lied earlier about failing to tag the van. The truth is simple: he didn’t want to work with Xo again. He won’t. Not if he can help it.

And when he finds the chance, he’ll tell his father about the package too. About how it wasn’t a shipment of drugs or weapons, but a boy. A living, breathing boy hidden inside the back of a van. Malachi hasn’t had the chance yet, but the weight of it sits on his shoulders, heavier than his own shadow.

Another thud brings him back.

“What was in the package?” Batman repeats, his voice colder now, each word a knife pressed against Walker’s throat.

“I said I don’t know!” Walker’s voice is hoarse, breaking under the pressure. Sweat drips down his temple as he squirms in his chair.

Batman’s voice, usually gravelly but controlled, is now a storm. He grabs Walker by the collar of his orange GCPD jumpsuit, ripping him up out of the chair with ease, and slams him against the cold concrete wall hard enough that the mirror rattles.

“Was Thawne working with you!” he bellows, inches from Walker’s face.

Walker groans in pain, one hand clutching his ribs, his feet dangling slightly. “I told you, man, I don’t know! I wasn’t working with nobody!” His words come out desperate, broken by gasps for air.

Malachi flinches. He wasn’t expecting the old man to lose it like that. His stomach twists as he looks away, jaw clenched tight. His grandfather has always been terrifying in the cowl, but this? This feels different. Personal.

“You aren’t going to stop him?” Malachi mutters under his breath to Jim Gordon, who stands beside him with a paper cup of coffee in hand. The detective doesn’t even flinch.

“When have I ever been able to stop the Bat?” Gordon replies calmly, almost bitterly, before taking a slow sip.

Inside, Walker cries out as Batman shoves him back into the chair and hammers him with more questions. “Then why was the package under your casino?”

“I didn’t know shit! I swear!” Walker’s voice cracks, pleading.

The session ends abruptly when Batman grips the chair and hurls it back against the table with Walker still in it. He points a finger down at the wheezing crime boss. “You don’t move until you talk. No food, no water. Nothing.”

He storms toward the door and exits, the air in the observation room growing heavier as his shadow crosses through. Jim frowns, clearly wanting to object, and calls after him, “That’s against code, Bruce—” but the door is slammed shut in his face before he can finish. Gordon curses under his breath and follows after him down the hallway.

That leaves Malachi standing there beside Nightwing. His father’s shoulders sag as he rubs at his temples with both hands. The weight of the night presses down on all of them.

“What’s he so upset about?” Malachi asks, voice sharp with defensiveness.

Nightwing lowers his hands, staring at his son with a look equal parts exhaustion and frustration. “He’s pissed about your guys’ performance tonight.”

Malachi scoffs, his voice rising. “Both of us? I didn’t do shit! If Xochitl hadn’t gotten her cover blown like an idiot, I’d have stopped that van and saved—”

“You can’t put this on her!” Nightwing snaps, his voice suddenly a whipcrack in the room. His glare cuts deep, silencing Malachi for a half-beat. “We all make mistakes. Missions go south sometimes—completely south. Whether we like it or not. But you—” he stabs a finger at his son “—you let her kill six people.”

“Me?” Malachi barks, stepping forward. His pulse is pounding, his face red. “She’s the one who pulled out the disruptor gun—”

“—and it was your job to stop her!” Nightwing cuts him off with a shout. His voice is so sharp that Malachi almost recoils. “When someone like her reacts on instinct, when she does something she’ll regret for the rest of her life, you’re supposed to be the one who pulls her back. You were supposed to save her from this.”

Malachi shakes his head violently. “If I leapt for her, Walker would’ve gotten away.”

There’s silence for a moment. And then, in a voice far quieter but even harsher, Nightwing asks, “What was your mission tonight?”

Malachi freezes. His throat dries, his gaze drops to the floor. He knows the answer, but the words won’t come.

So his father answers for him. “To stop the van. And to protect your cousin.” His jaw clenches. “And you failed at both.”

The shame burns Malachi’s face hotter than his anger. He can’t bring himself to look up, can’t stand the weight of his father’s eyes. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

“You’re done,” Nightwing says finally, his voice flat and final. “You’re off this case.”

And with that, he turns and leaves, his cape brushing the frame as he disappears into the hall. The door swings shut behind him, leaving Malachi standing alone in the suffocating silence of the observation room.

~~~~~

Malachi sits in the bathtub of his room at Wayne Manor, the soft hiss of the hot water filling the tiled space. Steam clings to the mirror, curling through the air like smoke as the bubbles rise around him, covering everything below his waist. His bare chest is mottled with bruises, thin cuts striping across his ribs and arms, each sting dulled by the heat seeping into his muscles. He leans back against the porcelain, his jaw tight, a cigarette pinched between his fingers.

He takes another long drag, the tip glowing red in the dim light. Smoke drifts lazily from his lips as he stares at nothing. His father’s words keep circling in his head like a wound that won’t close. It’s not my job to make sure Xo doesn’t do something absolutely stupid. He benched me for that? His teeth grit, the anger sinking deeper with every exhale.

The door opens with a soft creak. A man enters, tall and composed, dressed in a tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and tie, polished shoes clicking against the floor. His face is calm, thoughtful, but half of it gleams with a robotic sheen—sleek metal plating where skin should be, a glowing eye pulsing faintly. Dreadlocks fall neatly past his shoulders, contrasting against the steel of his cybernetics.

He wheels in a small silver table, its surface laid out with gauze, ointments, syringes, and rolls of bandages. He moves without rush, every motion deliberate.

“Good evening, sir,” the man says in a smooth, steady tone. His name is Mekonnen Knife—Mk for short. Son of Cyborg caretaker, and friend.

Malachi exhales another cloud of smoke, watching it rise toward the ceiling. “I don’t need help, Mk,” he mutters, voice low, worn out. His eyes flick to the man’s calm face before darting away. “And please—we’ve talked about this. Don’t call me sir. You’re not a servant.”

Mk crouches down beside the tub, the faint mechanical whir of his cybernetics barely audible as he lowers himself. His hands move with a gentleness that belies their strength as he takes a jar from the table, dips his fingers into an ointment, and begins to dab it across the bruises on Malachi’s chest. The cool balm spreads under his touch, sinking into battered flesh.

“Sorry, Kai,” Mk says softly, using the nickname only he dares. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “But Dick insisted I talk to you.”

Malachi sighs, leaning his head back against the edge of the tub. The smoke curls upward. He doesn’t look at Mk, but he doesn’t push him away either. In truth, Mk's hands feel good against his chest. It's a wonder that he ever fell into the fortune of having a butler like him. Sure, Mk used to work at the Watch Tower alongside his father, but when Cyborg laid him off, telling him he worked too hard and needed a break, he took to Wayne Manor. As a cyborg programmed for productivity, it's hard for him to just sit around and do nothing. And, since they had been friends long before, Malachi had no problem taking Mk as his butler.

Mk’s fingers glide with precision and care across Malachi’s chest, spreading the cool ointment over the dark bruises blooming beneath the steam. His touch is firm where it needs to be, but delicate, almost reverent, as though he knows just how much pressure each sore spot can bear. Malachi exhales slowly, trying to hide how good it feels—the way the sting eases with each careful dab, the way Mk’s calloused-yet-gentle hands move with a quiet steadiness that makes him want to close his eyes.

“So,” Mk says at last, his voice breaking through the hum of the running water. His glowing cybernetic eye flickers faintly as it studies Malachi’s face. “What happened?”

Malachi takes another drag of his cigarette, smoke rolling from his lips as if the explanation leaves a bad taste in his mouth before it even begins. “We were put on a mission,” he mutters, bitterness threading through every word, “me and Xo. A gala at the Thorn Casino—Eobard Thawne’s kid was hosting it. Package was supposed to go to Joker. We were there to intercept it.” He shakes his head, his wet hair clinging to his temples. “But Xochitl fucked up. Package got away.”

Mk dabs gently at a cut along Malachi’s collarbone, his dark brow furrowed, but his face calm. He’s always calm. Always listening. “What’d she do?”

Malachi shifts slightly in the tub, water sloshing against porcelain as he glares at the bubbles rather than Mk. “She exposed herself to the kid’s presence. Alarm tripped. Everything went to hell. The package slipped through our fingers.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the tub’s edge, cigarette dangling between his fingers. A ghost of pride sneaks into his tone. “But I managed to stick a tracker to it.”

Mk nods once, wiping away excess ointment with a clean strip of gauze before reaching for more. “So what’s the problem?”

Malachi lets out a humorless laugh, rolling his eyes. His voice drops with a tinge of embarrassment. “Well… Xochitl accidentally caused an accident. And naturally, as she does, she got all the attention when we got to the GCPD. Meanwhile, I didn’t even get a chance to explain that I got a tracker on the van, or that the package is a live human boy.” His words sharpen, mocking. “‘And Dad yelled at me for letting Xo hurt herself mentally.’” He sneers the word, tapping ash into the tray balanced on the tub’s edge. “Then he kicked me off the case before I could tell him anything.”

Mk arches an eyebrow as he smooths another layer of ointment along Malachi’s ribs, his fingers tracing gently between bruises. “So now you haven’t told anyone about the tracker or the package because… what? You want to be spiteful?”

Malachi groans, tipping his head back against the tiled wall. “Okay,” he admits reluctantly, smoke curling from his lips, “yeah, I hear how bitchy that sounds.” He narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “What would you do?”

Mk shrugs, his dreadlocks brushing against his shoulders as he reaches for a roll of gauze. He begins wrapping Malachi’s arm with practiced precision, the fabric snug but not too tight. “Well, I’m not nearly as stubborn as you. So, if it were me, I’d tell someone. Let them handle the package.”

Malachi stares up at the ceiling, glaring as though it holds the answer. The touch of Mk’s hands—strong yet impossibly gentle—makes him tense, though not with discomfort. He doesn’t want to admit how much he likes it, how much he notices the care in every movement. “I don’t want anyone else to handle the package,” he says firmly. “I want to handle it myself.”

Mk’s lips curve into the faintest smile. “To prove your worth to your father?”

The words cut sharper than intended. Malachi’s jaw tightens, offense flashing in his dark eyes as he finally turns his head toward Mk. He hates being so easy to read, but maybe that’s just Mk—half-cyborg, half-man, and entirely too empathetic.

Steam clings to the bathroom walls, curling upward like ghostly fingers while Malachi sinks lower into the water, cigarette balanced between his lips. He doesn’t answer Mk’s question right away, only exhales a thin plume of smoke toward the ceiling. Mk sighs, the sound softened by the calm weight in his voice.

“Why do you insist on believing your father is disappointed in you?”

Malachi’s jaw tightens. “Because I fail at every mission he puts me on,” he snaps—not harshly, just tired, raw.

Mk shakes his head, dipping the cloth into ointment again and dabbing carefully at the line of bruises along Malachi’s ribs. His touch is delicate despite the half-metal precision of his right hand. “If that were true, why is he still assigning you missions?”

The question hits harder than Malachi wants to admit. He leans back, closing his eyes for a second, letting the thought soak in along with the warmth of the bath. For the briefest moment, he feels weightless, and Mk’s words—like his hands—ease something knotted inside him.

Mk finishes his work across Malachi’s chest and shoulders, wiping away the last streak of ointment. His voice is casual but edged with care. “Are there any injuries under the waist I should be aware of?”

Malachi cracks one eye open, a grin tugging at his lips. “You wanna reach under the bubbles and find out?” He throws in a wink for good measure.

For once, the cool composure on Mk’s face falters. A subtle blush spreads across the organic half of his skin, warm against his dark complexion. The cyborg half stays expressionless, unblinking. “Very funny, sir,” Mk mutters, a dry laugh escaping as he stands and begins packing the medical kit back onto the silver table.

Malachi watches him go, smirking faintly, though his chest feels a little tighter than he expected at seeing Mk flustered.

As Mk turns to wheel the cart toward the door, Malachi calls out. “Mk, what was the Legacy Protocol?”

The question makes Mk freeze mid-step. His hand lingers on the cart handle before he slowly looks back. “The Legacy Protocol?”

“Yes,” Malachi says, leaning forward now, cigarette perched between two fingers. “I overheard Dad and Grandpa talking about it. Something about Walker being the first on the list.”

Mk exhales through his nose, weighing what to say. He shrugs, but his words come measured, careful. “It was a plan me and Dad designed. A rehabilitation program for children of the biggest villains in the world. You don’t really get to choose to be good or evil when you’re born into villainy. We thought we’d give them a choice.” His gaze drifts, almost as if he’s looking past Malachi, through the steam. “But… plans don’t always work out.”

Malachi nods slowly, the explanation sinking in. He flicks ash into the small dish by the tub, then meets Mk’s eyes again.

Mk clears his throat and straightens, slipping back into that blend of professionalism and quiet care. “You should really tell your dad about the tracker. I won’t do it for you.” He wheels the cart toward the door, then glances back once more, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh—and you should stop smoking before Alfred finds out.”

~~~~~

The chill of Gotham’s night still clings to Malachi’s suit as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the GCPD. The lobby smells faintly of burnt coffee and bleach, and the fluorescent lights overhead hum with their usual unwelcoming buzz. He keeps his head up and his stride confident—bagel in one hand, steaming cup of coffee in the other—as though he belongs here. In a way, he convinces himself, he does.

The All-Star suit gleams under the overhead lights, the dark plating and blue streaks catching against every angle. His boots click evenly against the tile floor as he threads through the late-night shuffle of tired cops and half-asleep desk workers. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He repeats that to himself.

At the far end of the hall, the front desk of the interrogation block glows faintly from a lamp. Aaron Cash, his heavy frame slouched in the chair, is scribbling something into a logbook when Malachi approaches. Cash glances up, and the look in his eye says he isn’t buying anything without a fight.

“Pretty late for a visitor,” Cash mutters.

“I’m scheduled to interrogate Walker,” Malachi answers smoothly, flashing the kind of grin that looks rehearsed but natural. “Figured I’d do everyone a favor and keep him talking.”

Cash raises a skeptical brow, his good hand resting against the desk while his hook clinks lightly against the wood. “Scheduled, huh? Strange I didn’t see that notice.” His gaze drops to the coffee and bagel. “And Gordon said no food or drinks in the same room as the prisoner.”

Malachi doesn’t miss a beat. “Special orders from Gordon,” he lies without hesitation, leaning on the desk like he’s in on some inside joke. “You know how he is—always playing his cards close.”

Cash narrows his eyes, weighing the words. “I’ll comm Gordon for confirmation,” he says slowly, “but for now, go on. Don’t make me regret it.”

Malachi forces a nod of thanks, though he feels the clock ticking faster in his head now. Every second is borrowed time.

He pushes through the heavy door, the air instantly different—colder, tighter, tinged with the sterile sting of disinfectant and something darker beneath it. His boots echo against the concrete as he follows the narrow hall until he reaches the door marked for Walker.

The hinges groan as Malachi steps inside. Darkness swallows most of the room, the only light coming from the solitary lamp hanging low above the metal table. Its cone of light pools onto Walker, who slouches in the chair with his wrists shackled to the steel. His blonde curls are a tangled mess, strands sticking in places with dried sweat. Blue eyes that once burned with defiance now look drained, dim, almost hollow. His nose is crusted with dried blood, the faint trickle having streaked across his upper lip.

“I told you,” Walker mutters hoarsely, not even bothering to raise his head, “I don’t know anything.”

Malachi freezes mid-step, lips parting at the sight. “Jesus,” he says under his breath, a sharp reaction to the bruises scattered across Walker’s face and the way his body looks half-broken under the lamp. Batman’s handiwork, no doubt.

That single word is enough to draw Walker’s eyes up at last. The change is almost instant—tired submission snapping into something else entirely. His posture straightens just slightly, and despite the pain that flickers in his face, his expression shifts into that fabricated charm.

“Oh shit,” Walker rasps, his lips curling into a bloody grin. “Well if it isn’t Nightwing’s boy wonder.” His teeth are streaked red when he laughs, though the sound cracks into a groan of pain.

His gaze shifts, catching sight of the bagel and steaming coffee Malachi still holds. “What’s this? You come to torture me by dangling food in front of my face?” He laughs again, weaker this time, and the sound crumbles into another groan.

Malachi bites his lip, his mind racing. Without answering, he drags out the metal chair opposite Walker and lowers himself into it, the coffee and bagel landing softly on the table between them.

Malachi slides the coffee and bagel across the cold metal table, the paper crinkling under the fluorescent light. Walker eyes the offering with suspicion, his cuffed wrists lifting just enough to hook the bagel clumsily.

“I figured you were hungry,” Malachi says, leaning back in the chair, arms folded as he waits.

Walker turns the bagel in his hands like it’s some kind of puzzle. His lips curl into a smirk, though his voice is hoarse. “What is this? Poison? Truth serum? Venom?”

Malachi only shrugs, his tone even. “It’s Thomas’ Plain Bagels.”

Walker frowns at that, but hunger wins out. He tears into the bagel, chewing slowly at first, then devouring the rest like he hasn’t eaten in days. He gulps down the steaming drink next, not even bothering to check inside before taking a sip.

“Is this coffee?” he asks, lifting his brows in disbelief. “At midnight?”

Malachi shrugs again. “I need you awake.”

Walker drains the cup until it’s empty, then stares into it with the disappointed look of a man denied seconds. When his gaze returns to Malachi, the swagger returns. He kicks his feet up onto the desk, slouching into the chair like the bruises across his face don’t exist.

“Look, if you think feeding me rations is gonna get me to tell you anything, I’m sorry to disappoint,” Walker says. “I don’t know shit. I told that to your friend in black, but apparently he has hearing issues.”

Malachi leans forward, voice steady. “I believe you.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow. “You do?”

“Of course I do,” Malachi replies with a nod. “I mean, what reason do you have to lie? What could Joker blackmail you with that would scare you? You’re a celebrity, rich, greedy, untouchable. You don’t care about anyone else. Unless he was threatening you personally—which I doubt, considering your superspeed—you’ve got no reason to lie.”

Walker frowns at the jab, his jaw tightening, but he eventually nods. “Right. So you believe I’m innocent. Why not let me go?”

“Oh, I will,” Malachi says calmly. “Soon. But I do find it hard to believe you didn’t know Joker’s goons were operating in your dad’s casino basement. So tell me—why’d you let them stay?”

Walker’s expression hardens, his voice sharp. “Look, man. I told you I don’t know nothing—”

“I promise this isn’t being recorded,” Malachi interrupts. “This conversation is just between me and you. Scout’s honor. I just need to know why you let them stay. Was it your dad’s plan?”

Walker lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Eobard? That deadbeat? No. He was serious about giving up the villain shit. The guy wanted to focus on his business, his casino. Poor bastard though—it’s not working. He’s bleeding money.”

He exhales, the weight of it sinking into the air before he continues. “Look, the gala itself was my idea. It was gonna happen with or without Joker’s goons. I needed a way to drag in some extra cash to keep the casino alive, so I thought, why not host a party for the wealthiest people in the country and let them pour their money into my pockets?”

Walker pauses, his eyes narrowing as if testing Malachi’s patience. “The Joker thing… I really did know nothing. All he told me was that he needed the basement. So I let him, because he slid me some more money. I had no clue what his plan was, but I figured one of you heroes would show up eventually. I had an escape plan ready. Y’know—before I ended up in a situation like this.”

The lamp above sways faintly, the shadows across Walker’s face deepening as the room settles into silence.

Malachi studies Walker for a long moment, noting the bruises on his face, the dried blood on his lips, and the faint tremor in his hands as he fidgets with the cuffs. He keeps his tone calm but firm. “This package we’ve been trying to pry out of you—it’s a van. A van for the Joker, we assume. We found out that inside of it is a guy. He’s about my age. Mason Thames—rings a bell?”

Walker blinks, clearly confused, then shakes his head. “No. But trafficking… that’s pretty fucked up, even for my standards.”

Malachi narrows his eyes, disappointed but not surprised. He had hoped that Walker had some knowledge of the situation. He presses on. “I placed a tracker on the van before it got away. When I checked it an hour ago, they were parked at Ace Chemicals. Any idea what they could be doing there?”

Walker shrugs, the hint of fear in his expression. “I don’t know. Really. I swear, I have no clue. You’ve got me—locked up in this hellhole and playing mind games with a kid like me?”

Malachi exhales, the tension in his shoulders tightening as he leans back in the chair and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Great. Thanks for your service, but I should get going before Cash notices I’m not actually permitted to be here.”

Walker’s eyes widen in panic, and he jerks forward on the seat, his voice desperate. “Wait! Please! You said you thought I was innocent. Get me out of here before that Bat comes back!”

Malachi hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin as a new idea sparks in his mind. He looks down at Walker, assessing how much he can push without tipping off the officers outside. “Hmm…” he mutters under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the table. He leans in slightly, tone lowering, conspiratorial. “Maybe… we can work something out. But you’re gonna have to listen carefully, and you’re gonna have to trust me a little more than usual.”

~~~~~

A road trip with Scobell is borderline torture, even if only for two hours. Malachi sits in the driver’s seat of a battered ’94 Chevy Impala, the kind of half-dead sedan you could find parked and forgotten on any corner in Gotham, its cracked vinyl seats groaning with every bump in the road. Walker, legs kicked up on the dashboard, is slouched in the passenger seat with a taco in each hand, grease and sauce dripping carelessly down his chin and onto the already-stained prison jumpsuit. The smell of beef, cheese, and hot sauce lingers heavy in the stale air of the car, mixing unpleasantly with the faint odor of oil and cigarette smoke that seems baked into the fabric.

Walker had refused to budge until he got food. Stubborn to the core, he’d practically sat down on the sidewalk and declared he wasn’t going anywhere until he ate. Malachi, annoyed but unwilling to waste time arguing, had reluctantly driven them to Taco de la Noche, a dingy taco stand tucked beneath the flickering neon of a pawn shop sign. To his surprise, the joint was open at one in the morning, manned by a half-asleep cook with a tired face but a cheerful attitude. The guy hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t cared that Walker was still wearing his bright-orange jumpsuit with the collar dangling around his neck. Just made the food, slid the greasy paper bags across the counter, and told them to have a good night like it wasn’t Gotham City at all.

Now, with the tacos half-devoured and Walker’s lap covered in sauce, Malachi keeps his eyes fixed on the road, knuckles pale against the steering wheel. Walker laughs through a mouthful, oblivious to the mess, wiping his face with the back of his hand like a child.

Getting to this situation had been a nightmare in the first place.

It hadn’t been a plan, not really—more of a “hope this works” kind of move. Malachi had known there was no walking Walker out of GCPD without a miracle. So he’d made a gamble. Inside that interrogation room, with the clock ticking down on his time, he unclipped the Control Collar that kept Walker’s speed in check. He had paused for a long moment before doing it, catching the feral grin stretching across Walker’s face, that gleam in his eyes that promised chaos. But Malachi swallowed the doubt and released the lock.

The next instant was a blur. Walker had scooped him up, and the world exploded into motion. They shot through the corridors of GCPD in a streak of blinding light, papers flying, desks rattling, officers shouting after them as their voices warped and muffled under the roar of velocity. The fluorescent lights above melted into smeared lines. By the time Malachi could process the movement, they were bursting through the front doors and streaking down blocks of Gotham in seconds.

When they finally skidded to a halt, Malachi stumbled away from Walker and hurled into the nearest bush, bile burning his throat. Walker, meanwhile, rolled his shoulders and winced, the toll of his injuries catching up with him now that the adrenaline had eased. He cracked his neck to the side, muttering, “God, it hurts to run like this.”

And then—he vanished. Malachi blinked, chest tightening, panic rising in him. He thought he’d screwed up, that in freeing Walker he’d just unleashed another nightmare back into Gotham. His gut sank at the thought of Batman learning he had helped.

But just seconds later, Walker was back, materializing in another burst of light, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. “You’ll just send the Bat after me if I run away,” he muttered, almost annoyed at himself. And with that, he stood still long enough for Malachi to snap the collar back onto him.

From there, things got slightly easier. They found the Impala parked two blocks down, its door lock no match for Malachi’s nimble hands. The engine coughed to life like it hadn’t been touched in months, but it worked well enough. They pulled away under the cover of Gotham’s grimy night, made their detour for tacos, and now rolled steadily through the city streets, heading straight for Ace Chemicals.

ChatGPT said:

A road sign streaks past the windshield, lit orange by the faint glow of Gotham’s dying streetlamps. Malachi’s hands tighten against the steering wheel as the car hums down the cracked asphalt of Amusement Mile. In the distance, the skeletal silhouette of the abandoned Ferris wheel looms against the cloudy night sky, a ghostly reminder of better days that never were. The city feels alive, always watching—graffiti-coated brick walls rising up on either side of them, a half-burned billboard advertising Iceberg Lounge specials, the faint thunder of sirens chasing somewhere far behind. The whole place reeks of oil, rain, and faintly of chemical discharge from the Narrows, and the dashboard’s green glow flickers across Malachi’s clenched jaw.

He lets his mind drift, though he shouldn’t. A live boy stuffed inside a van. Ace Chemicals. What in God’s name could the Joker want there? His stomach knots. Were they planning to alter him? Pump him full of Venom, like Bane’s army had years ago? Or worse—turn him into a weapon Joker could mold, break, and rebuild as a laughing corpse? Torture crossed his mind too, because that was always Joker’s specialty. But why Mason Thames? Who was he to warrant this? Just some random kid caught in the crossfire—or something more? The questions pile on each other, heavy and without answer, until Malachi’s temples ache.

He’s cut short by the wet, revolting sound of Walker’s chewing.

“Do you always eat so obnoxiously?” Malachi mutters, jaw twitching as his eyes stay glued to the road.

Walker rolls his eyes dramatically, his mouth still half full. “Well, sorry if my eating isn’t up to the superhero code. Speedsters get hungry easily. You try being locked in a room without food or water for a day, beaten until you can’t breathe, and then tell me how you like it,” he growls.

Malachi exhales slowly, forcing down the spike of irritation. He’s right. He hates that Walker’s right, but the truth bites. Batman had been unusually harsh this time. Almost cruel. Nightwing had chalked it up to Batman being angry with him and Xochitl for screwing up the Casino mission, but even then… Bruce’s eyes had burned hotter than usual. Something else was simmering beneath the surface.

“I haven’t gotten the chance to apologize for that,” Malachi admits, swallowing his pride. “He can… get that way sometimes. I assure you it was nothing personal.”

Walker slouches in the passenger seat, licking grease off his fingers before rolling his eyes again. “It sure felt personal.”

The car hums past the glowing neon sign of Monarch Theater, its letters half-burnt out. Shadows cling to Crime Alley like smoke, and Malachi’s gaze flickers for just a second toward the alley’s mouth. A place soaked in too much history. He shakes it off. He doesn’t like being anywhere near here.

“He was having a bad day,” Malachi says, forcing himself to stay steady. “Things weren’t… going according to plan. He doesn’t like that.”

Walker studies him, smirking through a mouth still full of food. A piece of lettuce slides down his chin. “It’s about that Red Hood chick, right? Boy, she was a hottie. But I assume the big ol’ bat wasn’t too happy with you two causing so much chaos. How many people died, anyway? I haven’t gotten to find out because, well, y’know.”

Malachi’s grip on the wheel hardens until his knuckles pale. He doesn’t want to answer, but the silence feels worse. “Six,” he grits out.

Walker lets out a whoop of surprise, leaning back and nearly spilling half a taco on the seat. “Six?! Hell, I was expecting more. You probably hurt my father more than those families, putting a helicopter through the middle of his most famous Casino in Gotham. Hell, it might even bring the bastard out of retirement.” His grin spreads wide, a shark baring teeth. “Imagine that. Reverse Flash back on the streets, with sidekick: me! What’ll I call myself? Speedy? No, that’s the Arrow’s freak protégé. Oh, how about Rush? That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

Malachi exhales, long and tired. The thought of Eobard Thawne stepping foot back in Gotham makes his blood run cold. Surely not. Surely the man would stay buried in his so-called retirement, away from the chaos. And Walker? No chance. No matter how much he jokes about it, he won’t be walking free again.

“Slow down, Rush,” Malachi mocks, the name sharp on his tongue. “When this is over, you’re going straight back to GCPD to live out your sentence for harboring a fugitive.”

Walker frowns, his bravado slipping for just a heartbeat. “You wouldn’t really put me back there, would you, Kai?”

"Sure I will. All prisoner's deserve to live out their sentence, whether they help a hero or--" Malachi freezes.

“What did you just call me?” Malachi asks, his voice low, almost a growl beneath his breath.

Walker raises an eyebrow, chewing the last bite of his taco. “Kai? Like, short for Malachi?”

Malachi suddenly slams on the brakes. The car screeches across the cracked asphalt, the tires leaving long black streaks behind them. Walker lurches forward in his seat, catching himself against the dashboard with a curse. Malachi doesn’t hesitate—he yanks an Escrima Stick from his tool belt, flicks his thumb across the control, and the weapon hums alive with electric current. He holds it just inches from Walker’s throat, the blue glow casting sharp shadows across his face.

“How the hell do you know my name?” Malachi snaps.

Walker freezes up, his bravado vanishing as he pulls back against the seat. “Jesus, dude! Put that shit away!”

“How do you know my name,” Malachi repeats, slower this time, his glare cutting through the darkness like a blade.

“Chill!” Walker shouts, throwing up his hands. “Look, I heard you and the Red Hood girl talking, saying each other’s name. That’s it! You didn’t think I wouldn’t have cameras on every building around the Casino, did you?”

Malachi narrows his eyes, the tension in his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. After a long, measured pause, he deactivates the stick, the hum dying out, and slides it back into his belt.

“Who have you told?” he asks, his tone still edged.

“Nobody,” Walker says quickly, shaking his head. “There’s no point in telling anyone your guys’ first names. Except, maybe the girls. There can’t be that many Xochitl’s in town. But like I said—I’m not a villain, and I’m not working for the Joker. I don’t care who you are under the mask. So relax with the shock sticks, will ya?”

Malachi doesn’t answer. He just grits his teeth, his hands flexing against the steering wheel as he shakes his head in frustration.

The silence lingers for a beat before Walker breaks it, smirking again, his usual smugness creeping back. “What’s your relationship with that girl, anyway? You two dating? That’d be a shame. She’s hot.”

Malachi nearly gags. He shoots Walker a disgusted look. “Dude, gross. That’s my cousin.”

Walker only shrugs, unbothered. “Lucky me, I guess.”

Malachi’s fist snaps out and punches him in the arm, drawing a groan from Walker, who winces and clutches the spot. He’s still sore from his earlier beatings, and the pain clearly lands.

“Shut up,” Malachi mutters, turning his attention out the windshield.

The headlights cut through the misty night air, illuminating the monstrous shape that rises ahead of them. Off Gotham’s coast, connected by a rusted steel bridge, stands Ace Chemicals. The factory looms like a graveyard of industry, its jagged chimneys coughing out faint wisps of smoke into the starless sky. The main compound stretches across the water, a sprawl of corrugated metal buildings, rusted pipes, and tangled catwalks. Greenish light seeps through shattered windows, reflecting off black pools of runoff that gather along the cracked pavement. The bridge leading into the facility looks skeletal, its girders streaked with rust, the rails sagging in places as though one wrong step would send the whole thing plunging into the black waters below.

The factory hums faintly, a sickly mechanical rhythm that carries across the water like a heartbeat. To most, the sight of it is a warning. To Gotham, it is a scar.

Malachi tightens his grip on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the building’s silhouette.

“We’re here.”

~~~~~

The terrace creaks beneath their weight, a skeletal structure bolted to the side of Ace Chemicals like it was never meant to hold anyone for long. Rust gnaws through its beams, leaving sharp flakes that crunch beneath their boots. The railing is bent, warped, and split in places, threatening to give way if leaned on too heavily. All around, remnants of forgotten life cling to the ledges—pots filled with withered plants, brittle stems bowing under the weight of shriveled leaves. Dead vines snake across the brickwork, their roots long starved of water. The air carries a faint chemical sting, heavy and metallic, as if even the plants here were poisoned out of existence.

Malachi crouches low beside a broken pane, keeping his voice hushed as he explains. They had to sneak around for hours just to get up here. Guards were everywhere, every corner, every catwalk—it was locked down tight. They couldn’t find a clear path. Malachi, reluctantly, had to take Walker's collar off again. And for the first time tonight, Walker did as he was instructed. Because at this point, why the hell not? Malachi had a death plan, trying to stop the Joker. Regardless, once they were inside the compound, Malachi put the collar back on and grappled the two of them onto the terrace.

Below, the main atrium stretches out like the heart of the facility. Pools of dim, greenish light spill across cracked tile and steel beams overhead. And in the center—squatting there like a beast—is the Joker’s black van. Its body is tagged in garish streaks of purple and green graffiti, Joker’s twisted smile and mocking eyes sprayed across the sides. It looks less like a vehicle and more like a trophy in this light. A monument to the clown’s chaos.

Guards in clown masks pace around it, rifles in hand, their boots stomping in an almost military rhythm. They’re on edge, scanning every shadow, every rusted doorway, daring anything to step too close.

Malachi frowns, his whisper slipping through his clenched teeth. “What’s it doing here?”

But Walker isn’t listening. He’s still slouched back against the terrace, his hands behind his head like he’s sunbathing instead of hiding in a death trap. “Why don’t you just jump in there and take them all out?” he says casually, nodding toward the atrium floor.

Malachi glares at him, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, great idea. Kill the guards, scare off the van, lose the package again. Brilliant.”

He’s about to say more when a steel door grinds open below. The sound echoes off the atrium walls like a scream.

Malachi freezes. His eyes track the figure that emerges.

A tall, looming silhouette in tattered robes, his very presence pulling the air cold. Burlap sacks stitched into a mockery of humanity hang from his frame, a gas mask fused into his face with tubes trailing down into his chest rig. Rusted syringes gleam at his belt, while his gauntlets bristle with hooked needles, each one ready to inject terror itself. The cowl of his mask is pointed, its hollow eyes glowing faintly in the dark, a nightmare given form.

Scarecrow.

Behind him, six guards stagger in under the weight of heavy boxes, the word CAUTION stenciled across their sides in bright, threatening red. They march in silence, flanking the doctor like offerings to their priest of fear.

“Oh, shit,” Malachi mutters.

Walker sits up instantly, his smugness replaced with intrigue. “What?”

“It’s Scarecrow,” Malachi says, voice grim.

Walker’s eyes flick down, and for once, he looks rattled. He joins Malachi at the broken window, both of them peering into the atrium as Crane and his men move toward the van.

Scarecrow stops at the rear doors, his voice muffled through the filter of his mask as he orders them to open it. The guards obey, fumbling with the latches, the hinges groaning as the metal doors swing wide.

And then—chaos.

From the dark belly of the van, a figure bursts forth. Mason Thames, barefoot, clad only in his boxers, launches himself at Crane with raw desperation. His shoulder slams into Scarecrow’s chest, knocking the doctor backward into his men. The boxes tumble from their grip, scattering across the floor.

Mason doesn’t stop. His legs pump wildly, propelling him across the atrium toward the exit. His hands are still bound at the wrists, but he must’ve freed his legs somehow. Adrenaline and sheer survival drive him forward.

The clown-masked guards shout, rifles raised, and give chase. Mason’s almost at the door, almost free, when it slams open from the other side.

Something enormous bursts through.

A thick, twisting vine as wide as a man’s torso lurches into the atrium, its thorns glistening in the sickly light. It whips through the air and coils around Mason’s torso, yanking him off his feet. He thrashes, kicks, but the plant tightens its grip, pinning him helplessly in its grasp.

Then she steps through.

Poison Ivy.

Her every move radiates effortless allure, her figure silhouetted by the doorway’s light. Her red hair tumbles like wildfire over her shoulders, her eyes glowing with that dangerous, inhuman green. Dressed in leaves that shift and cling as if alive, she commands the room without speaking a word.

She smirks as she takes in the scene. “Crane,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “you need to be more careful with the boss’s toys.”

With a languid motion, she plucks a flower from the vine coiled around Mason. It blooms instantly in her hand, petals unfolding with unnatural vibrance. She presses it beneath Mason’s nose.

He inhales once. His eyes flutter. And then his body goes limp.

Unconscious.

ChatGPT said:

“Holy shit,” Malachi mutters, shaking his head as Ivy loosens her grip and the living coil peels away from Mason’s ribs. The kid slumps, dazed—only in black boxers, wrists still bound—before two clown-masked guards rush in to catch him by the arms. They haul him, half-dragging, back to the Joker van. The rear doors yaw open; box after box stamped with bold black CAUTION triangles already crowd the cargo bay. Mason disappears inside with them, the doors slam, external latches snap, and a padlock clicks home.

“What are Ivy and Crane doing here?” Malachi breathes, eyes combing the atrium for the answer—over the scaffolds, the flickering sodium lights, the oily vapor rising off chemical vats. “What’s in those boxes? What do they have to do with Mason?”

“I don’t know,” Walker says from the slanted roof, panic tightening his voice for the first time. “But if these two are working with the Joker, then we should really get out of here.”

The van’s engine coughs alive—low, hungry, echoing off concrete and glass. Malachi surges to his feet. “No!” He reaches for the Escrima sticks at his belt—

Walker yelps.

Malachi whips around just as a thick green vine, glossy as wet lacquer, whips through the terrace rail like a whipcord and corkscrews around his torso. It cinches chest, arms, and legs in a single crushing coil, bark-thorn ridges biting through his suit. Air knifes from his lungs; the pressure climbs fast enough to star him at the edges of his vision.

“Well, well,” a voice purrs.

Rising into view on the other side of the shattered railing is a carnivorous bloom—a giant Venus flytrap petal turned into a platform. A boy rides it down, hands clasped behind his back like he’s on a Sunday stroll. He looks their age: tan complexion, short, tight curls that gleam as if always damp, eyes sharp with amusement. “You really should have listened to the incel.”

Walker sucks a breath to fire back, but the vine pinning him snakes higher, unfurling a secondary tendril that slaps across his mouth and seals tight. His protest blurs into a muffled snarl.

Both vines yank hard.

Glass screams. The terrace window explodes inward as Malachi and Walker are hurled through it in twin arcs, safety wire and glittering shards fanning around them. Below, the entire floor pivots in shock: clown soldiers jerk their rifles up; Scarecrow’s burlap cowl tilts; Ivy’s green eyes flash. The boy descends between them on his floral dais, and the vines lower their captives to either side of him like trophies, still cinched tight, still choking.

“Mother. Father,” the boy declares, voice smooth and proud as he surveys the gathering. “I’ve caught a traitor and a trespasser.”