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"Power comes in response to a need, not a desire. You have to create that need."
- Goku (Dragon Ball Z)
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<(Bruce Wayne POV)>
"You are more brutal and well-trained than even me," KGBeast muttered weakly after I tore off his cybernetic arm. "Are you even a hero?"
"I don't remember claiming to be one," I replied, voice deep and modulated, before knocking him out cold with a sharp backhand across the jaw.
"They were good," I muttered, planting two micro-trackers on their unconscious bodies. "Their teamwork almost reminded me of Bucky and Falcon from that Marvel series. Remind me to locate them later, Cortana. If they prove reliable enough, Black Hood might put them to work as gang enforcers. I do need some fresh blood in there. I don't want to continue using the Colony as grunts for gang work."
"Understood. But for now, I suggest you prioritize," she advised, flashing multiple heat signatures closing in. One cell even contained a restrained figure, struggling against her chains.
A mini-cannon deployed from my left shoulder plate, locking onto the advancing inmates. But instead of lethal plasma-based rounds, it launched impact web shots—synthetic webs modeled after Peter Parker's own web-fluid formula. The shots struck fast, pinning the armed prisoners to the ground and the walls before they could even raise their weapons. "Let's see Spider-Man pull that off," I smirked inwardly.
"Sir, the woman in chains isn't listed in the prisoner database. I can cross-reference Arkham's employee records, but they're as reliable as clickbait news articles on the internet. The system hasn't been properly updated in years. Half the people listed there either don't work here anymore or aren't even alive. Likely intentional—an easy way to keep corrupt personnel employed without scrutiny," Cortana reported. "However, she does appear in other public records which I can easily access..." she trailed off, suddenly pausing.
"What is it? Did her identity surprise you? That's not common. Is she a Metahuman with potentially world-ending powers?" I asked dryly, half-joking, but not completely ruling it out in a universe as dark as this one.
"No. She's a normal human. A psychiatrist. But the thing is... you've met her before. You saved her from Victor Zsasz. Since then, something changed in her digital patterns. I suspect she might have even taken the Arkham position willingly. Odd, considering most victims avoid places like this after what they've been through," Cortana finished, her tone carrying a rare note of confusion.
"Maybe she's just a curious cat. What's her name?" I asked, stepping toward the cell to release her. Although her bruised and bloody face was hard to make out—I could clearly see her bleached, unnaturally pale skin, which was likely the result of some chemical exposure—but her battered condition told me enough. She wasn't a threat. The scene itself made that obvious. No way was she working with these criminals. Still... she looked familiar. The bleached skin, especially, reminded me too much of...
"Dr. Harleen Quinzel," Cortana answered.
I froze. My hand instinctively reached for my Bat-tool as the cold logic in my mind screamed at me to eliminate her right then and there. The Ventriloquist—or whoever orchestrated this prison takeover—was dangerous, but they were nothing compared to the Joker… or his equally unstable partner, Harley Quinn.
A lot of delusional DC fanboys in my previous life obsessed over her—enchanted by her playful animated persona or Margot Robbie's seductive portrayal of the character in Suicide Squad—but none of that changed the actual reality. Harley Quinn was a murderer. Not just a victim or pawn. She willingly aided the Joker, killed for him, and committed unspeakable atrocities alongside him until their breakup. Hell, even after their breakup, she never put a complete stop to her illegal activities. Terrorism, slaughter, brutality—she had done it all in the comics. I even remembered a Dark Multiverse cover in a comic-con event from my past life, where she beat Alfred to death alongside other criminals.
Logically, shooting her now was the safest option. My NZT-enhanced mind begged me for it. Her redemption arc be damned.
"Bruce, do you know her?" Cortana asked. She had access to much of my memory, but I had never shared the full depth of my knowledge from my past life with her, at least not beyond what was strictly necessary. So, she had no awareness of who Harley Queen was. 'Also, how did I even overlook her? With an eidetic memory, forgetting her doesn't add up. Feels... unnatural. Like something made me forget about her.' I frowned as an unsettling thought surfaced.
"No. I don't," I lied to avoid giving Cortana an explanation. After all, I myself wasn't sure how closely this version of Harley Quinn aligned with what I remembered about her from my past life. "But I have a bad feeling about her. Her vitals are stable for now. So let's leave her here for now. We'll deal with the criminals first." I said after a small voice in the back of my mind reminded me that killing her without evidence would make me no better than any other deranged, cynical murderer out there. Cold logic had its limits.
"Understood," Cortana's voice confirmed as I advanced toward the central wing before casting one final glance at the restrained Harley and the other webbed-up prisoners. For a moment, I considered breaking a few of their limbs—just to keep them down longer—but time was against me. The Ventriloquist needed to be stopped before this thing spiraled further.
On my way to the warden's sector, I encountered no additional inmates, which wasn't surprising. I had already neutralized far more prisoners than should've been loose in the first place. However, what I did find were multiple labs, each repurposed into makeshift artificial growth chambers for mushrooms. Strange fungal strains filled the rooms—white, funnel-shaped mushrooms with crimson, blood-like droplets seeping from their caps.
Cortana identified them as similar to Hydnellum peckii—the bleeding tooth fungus—but these were far more sinister, almost as if they were genetically altered. As if someone had forcefully mutated the species with dangerous levels of radiation for reasons I didn't yet know.
As I approached the Warden's office, I spotted several more guards stationed outside, heavily armed with submachine guns and body armor stripped from the asylum's own security teams. Activating my cloaking system again, I slipped past them without a sound before taking out my Bat-tool and activating the advanced audio scanner to see if I could pick up some information on what was actually happening here before going in guns blazing.
"Eh, how much longa is dis gonna take, huh? The coppers might bust in if we keep stallin' like dis," snarled a wooden puppet perched on the hand of an elderly man who was none other than Arnold Wesker, its carved mouth snapping as it waved a Tommy gun toward a group of people in lab coats—likely researchers or medical staff. "Even that KGBeast fella and his lil' lapdog are nowhere to be found. I tell ya, it's like nobody in dis town knows how ta do business no more!"
"Don't worry, Mr. Scarface, we're finally ready now," the lead scientist responded. "Dr. Strange had successfully extracted the enhanced Bliss compound from the mutated fungi before he left. We've built a pathogen bomb around it and calibrated it for deployment in the generator room. Once armed, it will aerosolize the compound into the atmosphere, where it'll react with humidity. The thermal updraft from the generator will push the aerosol into the clouds, mixing it directly into the city's water supply facility located behind the asylum."
"This won't just trigger mass euphoria—it'll induce hallucinations and mass suggestibility too. Gotham will experience peace like never before, just like Mr. Strange intended it to be. The only challenge has been fine-tuning the payload to infect the water without dispersing too thinly into the air. But it's ready now." The scientist handed a small remote to the puppet. "This trigger works from up to five miles out. You can detonate it from a safe distance once all of us escape. Without this trigger, no one else can detonate or deactivate the bomb except me." The scientist said with some excitement, fully expecting some praise from the mob boss.
"I see, I see. Ya did real good. Both him and Mr. Strange, dey're gonna be mighty pleased wit' what ya pulled off. I'll make sure ya get some nice words in ya favor, capisce?" Scarface said, his wooden face twisted into a grin. Then, without warning, he raised the Tommy gun toward the group of scientists and opened fire without hesitation. "Maybe we even hold a lil' moment o' silence... in honor o' your untimely demises! Hahahahahaha!" the puppet cackled as it emptied the magazine into their bodies, ensuring none of them were left breathing.
"Alright, it's finally time we set da last piece o' dis plan in motion. You ready ta scram, Sickle?" Scarface asked, while Arnold Wesker dutifully reloaded the now-empty Tommy gun with practiced hands.
"I'm bored. Don't care," Sickle replied flatly, his voice void of interest. He picked up a discarded gun from the floor and crushed it effortlessly into shards between his massive fingers. "I miss my brother," he sighed, tossing the fragments aside.
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