Despite some scratches over the blue paint and a touch of rust around the edges, the family beast never failed to bring them home. Old but reliable. Emma got it for a few bucks, but Andrew had changed the motor twice. Though it rattled a bit especially around the Old Cobble Lane with its damaged Asphalt, the monotonous hum filled Isaac ears with comfort and memories.
After simple greeting, Isaac entered the car. Emma stiff smiled discourage Isaac's queries. Her dark circles under the eyes were never this deep before. Nor was her driving skill so low, third bump on the ride.
The radio was low and buzzing.
"...is the best we could ask for mankind, it's a gift from the sky..."
"..Kane Street is no longer closed off, officier Holt reassures..."
".tomorrow, expect rain to stick around all day..."
Isaac longed for the days when Andrew managed the BMW 3-Series for its smooth gear shifts and quick but steady acceleration. Emma wasn't a bad driver but it wasn't the same. The security belt once more tightened around his chest. Can't she see the speed bump ahead?
Emma turn off the radio.
The road was clear, no announced incident along the Fox and Gardner street.
"Isaac, check the glove box."
"Is that?"
"Yes."
A thin, slightly greasy wrapper rustled in Isaac hands. A bit larger than its palm, it weighed more than it looked. Despite the time spent, it was warmth and not a simgle smell escaped. Saliva built up, especially at the large W logo sight.
Why didn't she say anything before?
Isaac narrowed his eyes.
Emma stayed focused on the road.
"No pickle Wayne B. Burger double cheese."
"Mom you shouldn't, that's-"
"That's okay sweety."
"Thanks mom"
She just smiled.
Isaac took a mouthful. Sludge and bread please learn from this. Sinking his teeth into the soft bun and patties layers along the creamy sauce and melted cheese contrasting with the crispy lettuce made him forget the last three days for a couple of bites.
'Five bucks for a meal' was one slightly modified slogan from Thomas Wayne at a time. 'Food, and shelter for all.' was another one Isaac remembered. This man from what he saw in the city and school texbook tried his best for its most vulnerable. A good dream. Impossible dream.
The car stopped at the red light.
Emma took a deep breath.
"Monday. Robinson Park."
"What?", Isaac stared at her, the word barely escaping his lips.
"Marcus Hale. The Park Ranger. 12:00 to 20:00"
His ears rang. "Kidding me?"
She still wouldn't look at him. "Papers on your desk."
The burger wrapper crinkled in his grip.
He waited for explanations. There was none. Her hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
Of course it wasn't just the last three days. It never was.
Something wet and warm spread over his hands again. Not grease from the wrapper. Not sweat. There was nothing but this dripping and a bit sticky feel.
"Isaac?"
"Nothing,", he opened his hands slowly, staring at the palms. They were dry. Perfectly dry. At that time, in the alley, they weren't. "how long?"
"Three months."
"The fuck!"
She didn't scream. Eyes saddened by the past. "Don't talk like Frank.", she bit her lower lips.
"But I-"
"TWENTY FOUR hours a days!", she hit the steering wheel. "THIRTY days locked inside another one of their JUVENILE centers is that what you want, Stradaniya Nathaniel Isaac?!"
The words hits like a slap. Numerous reports flooded her mind. Cold, clinical documents she'd read late at night, alone, after the police calls and the lawyer meetings. Photos from intake forms. Stories from other parents who'd lost their kids to the system.
An image flashed before her eyes. Orange colored with a small rectangular board.
She blinked it away, but the nausea stayed.
"I didn't raise a criminal Isaac!"
She parked the car. "That's for your own good."
Isaac clenched his teeth. "Dad wouldn't-"
"ENOUGHT!", Emma's face flushed crimson. She turned to him fully now, eyes wet but fierce. Her son. The last fragile thread of her family. Same straight nose and same dark hair falling across his forehead like Andrew's used to.
She tried to speak only for her tongue to stay still. She reached into the center console, fingers fumbling, and pressed the house keys into his palm. Cold metal against his skin. As he shoved the door open, she lunged forward and grabbed his arm. Her grip was desperate, trembling.
"Isaac... take care of yourself. I love you."
The car restarted with one less passenger.
The wrapper from the burger still crumpled on the passenger floor mat.
Isaac stood motionless in the dim hallway of the building. He watched the little blue dot on his phone—the GPS tracker for her car—turn the corner at the intersection and vanish.
"Sorry.", he whispered to the empty air.
To her. To himself. To the ghosts that wouldn't leave his hands.
A door banged open behind him.
"Sorry for what?", a black man muttered closing his mailbox. He slammed the little door shut, shoved past Isaac with a grumbled "Move you dummy", and stuck his arm out for a cab.
Few second later a yellow cab screeched to a stop.
"Yo, driver—Gotham General, step on it. I'm already late."
Isaac didn't move yet.
The cab peeled away into traffic.
The hallway smelled of old mail and stale coffee.
Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried.
With heavy steps Isaac stepped into the second floor. Key in hands, it barely touched the door to apartment four. Why bother? There was nothing waiting for him now. Sleep? Impossible.
He exhaled slowly, fogging the peephole for a second.
Isaac turned back.
One floor down.
He wasn't going home. Not yet. The basement waited.
Ground level reached.
The stairwell light flickered once buzzing like an angry insect.
Another level down.
Isaac descended, each step echoed his sneakers on concrete, the only sound that mattered right now.
And again.
The familiar room. Air growing cooler and thicker with the faint smell of damp concrete and old rubber. The basement door was propped open with a cinder block.
Under a single bare bulb that swung gently on its cord, casting long shadows across the cracked floor, Isaac set up his phone for a three minutes alarm. The synthetic leather, hanging from a sturdy chain didn't move.
He was shadowing some hit. Three days without his routine made him tense, his shoulders relaxed after a few rounds. Instead of the usual jabs combo he focused.
The two thieves, marco face and the inspector. His jaw tightened, a slow heat rose beneath his skin.
It wasn't enought.
The tickle was there.
The pain wasn't. The noise wasn't. The impact wasn't.
When he hit the leather only a slightly bigger mark damaged its form. It wasn't like when he hit them. Something was missing. Or. Maybe, he wasn't special.
Another punch landed with a dull thump. The second came faster. Then the third. He didn't count. When the muscle burned he didn't stop. He could still lift his arm, he could hit.
Sweat pearled on his face.
Front kick. To the chest level. He repositioned himself. Left leg this time. Again.
Knee impacted the bag, then elbows. Repeat.
Sixth alarm bell.
Why?
Isaac snapped his fist forward, the punch jerking out with uneven speed, his shoulder hitching and his breath catching as if his body moved faster than his thoughts could follow. And yet, it was the same. Nothing like that time. None of this adrenaline. No strength.
Isaac screamed.
All his body weighted a ton. He stank. And he couldn't sleep.
What did he think he was? Special? No. Stupid? Yes.
He couldn't line correctly his hands. Must be the sweat and lack of water. I can't continue. I've to move.
Isaac pushed open the basement door, every step weighted more than the last. Why the hell hasn't that shitty elevator been fixed yet? It's been months already. He kicked the chain‑link fence before cold night air hit him—sharp, carrying the smell of wet asphalt, and something sweeter underneath.
He let his feet carry him toward the different lights on the street, unsteady and slow. A small group of people huddled near the curb under Brown Bridge, three or four homeless men and women wrapped in layers of coats and blankets. They sat on overturned crates, holding paper bowls.
Not a big community but the smell seemed rather nice, not the expected layers of dirt, sweat and misery.
After the bridge he would reach the old park where him and Frank used to play with bike figure. At least, it was calmer at that place.
Still he had to past them for his destination.
A figure in a dark blue hooded cloak moved quietly among the homeless, handing out bread rolls and small thermoses of soup. Her movements were gentle, deliberate. She knelt to speak to an older woman, voice too low to carry.
Isaac dragged his feet closer.
The hood slipped back just enough when she turned her head. Violet eyes caught the lamplight—deep, almost luminous, like bruises that glowed.
She saw him at the same instant.
Her hand paused mid-motion, bread roll halfway to the next person. For a second the world narrowed to just the two of them. Then she straightened slowly. The homeless people didn't seem to notice the shift. they kept eating, murmuring thanks. But her posture changed—subtle, guarded.
Isaac's throat felt dry. He took one step forward.
"Wait, please."
She didn't run this time.
Instead she walked toward him, stopping a safe distance away—close enough to speak, far enough that he couldn't reach out. The cloak shifted, revealing the same voluminous book tucked under her arm.
"Who?" she said quietly. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, but there was steel underneath.
"hmm... The cathedral.", he stumbled over his words. "few days ago."
Her eyes flicked to the scar above his left eye—quick, clinical. Then back to his face.
His lips corners rose up.
"So... you live around, handing out food?"
She breathed in, slow and controlled.
"They carry so much pain. Fear. Anger. Hunger. It weighs on them."
Isaac stiffened. Of course she wouldn't say yes, I live in this building and let's make friend.
His stomach grumbled.
"Sorry I-", he stopped at the offering mug.
She held it out. "Tomato soup.", her fingers flexed. "Still hot", she blew away some steam. Her violet eyes watched him. Patient.
In that small gesture—blowing gently on the soup so it wouldn't burn him—something twisted sharply in Isaac's chest.
For a split second, it wasn't a stranger standing there.
It was Lena.
Same careful hands. Same quiet patience. The girl from middle school who used to share half her sandwich with him when he forgot his lunch, who would blow on his hot chocolate exactly like that so he wouldn't burn his tongue. The girl who smiled like the world still made sense.
The girl who stopped answering his texts the summer before high school.
The girl who chose a different life.
"Thanks.", Isaac grabbed the soup. His stomach growled, traitorously. But his mind screamed caution. Never accept anything from stranger even if it is pretty girl. Too many cases of drugged disappearances.
He scanned the street. No vans. No sketchy guys lurking. The homeless looked fine, tired, but fine.. It should be ok? Isaac brought the mug to his lips but didn't drink.
Her expression didn't change, but something in her posture tightened—just for a second. She inhaled slowly.
In the deepest shadow under the bridge, a man with the gray beard dropped his bowl. He coughed hard, struggling to catch his breath. It didn't bother the other companions. With a quick move from his pocket to his mouth the cough started to calm down.
Isaac lowered his mug.
No lipstick mark on the rim.
The girl clicked his tongue. "Coward."
Before he could snap back—before the flash of anger could fully ignite in his chest—she stepped forward and closed her cool fingers around his wrist. The one holding the mug. He flinched but didn't resist. Why did he feel more at ease? The tickle behind his eyes warmed, almost settled.
She lifted the mug—still gripped in his hand—to her own lips and took a small, deliberate sip. Swallowed.
Held his gaze the entire time.
"No poison.", she said. Not a question. A statement, quiet and matter-of-fact. "Now drink," her hands let go of Isaac. "or don't. Your choice."
"Okay.", He took a sip. Warm. Real. No burn. No dizziness. He exhaled shakily.
She gave the tiniest nod.
"Good."
The Batcomputer hummed in the dim cave, screens glowing with spectral analysis overlays. One after the other, the simulations failed. For days it gathered data, compared, analysed and predicted sequences for chemical reactions. Despite the growing number of samples collected from dealers, junkies, and the alley fight, the analysis remained locked at the same dead-end layer.
Batman stared at the molecular breakdown of the Rage Juice sample from the alley. Layer 47: synthetic anabolic esters, identifiable. Layer 89: psychoactive amplifiers, traceable to black-market precursors. Layer 112: anomaly.
No chemical signature. No atomic weight. Just a persistent red-black waveform that refused to resolve into anything quantifiable. It pulsed like a heartbeat—slow, deliberate, angry, dissipating.
Alfred's voice came from behind him, calm but edged.
"Master Bruce, you've run the simulation seventeen times. Every replication attempt fails—the compound simply degrades. Even your purified variant loses eighty-seven percent efficacy within hours."
Batman's gloved finger traced the waveform.
"It's not degrading. It's... withdrawing."
He pulled up a secondary scan—occult frequency overlay he'd calibrated after the last incident with Etrigan. The red-black pulse matched no known resonance patterns. Unknown, diluted, but unmistakable a blessing. Or a curse stamped into the drug's very essence.
Alfred stepped closer.
"And you intend to use it against Superman?"
Batman didn't look up.
"Chemical component can be isolated and stabilized for a single dose."
Batman opened the contingency file labeled KRYPTON-9.
Split-screen footage played: two humanoid figures carving through streets like butter, the city nothing more than a sandbox for their fury. Other tabs cataloged ultrasonic weapons, laser blasters, thermal charges, reinforced armors.
The most recent schematic glowed at the center: heavy plates, servo-assisted skeleton, and a small injector port on the left forearm.
Labeled: RAGE-OPT-1 (limited efficacy, non-reproducible).
Almost ready.
Almost.
"Bruce."
"It provides a temporary strength multiplier once Superman is below thirty percent power. No long-term addiction profile. No visible residue. Better than Venom. Cleaner than fear toxin."
He paused.
Alfred folded his arms.
"Once more, you would be inviting the devil into your veins. Even diluted. Different face."
Batman closed the file.
"I've survived worse."
Alfred's voice dropped.
"It wasn't you."
Batman pulled his cowl forward, the white lenses catching the red glow from the screen.
A single bright red dot burned on the monitor all night long.