There weren't enough fighters left in the shelter.
Gordon hated the idea of arming criminals, but reality didn't care about pride. With patrol numbers thinning and supply routes collapsing, he needed bodies—any bodies—on rotation.
The inmates were compliant for now, kept in line by fear of the lingering toxin threat. But fear wasn't loyalty. And it sure as hell wasn't trust.
Wayne Manor's defenses would remain under direct control. No compromises there.
If the criminals wanted privileges, they could earn them the hard way—outer expeditions, supply retrieval, perimeter sweeps.
Disposable trials.
Lex approved of the logic.
—
The next morning, the Mark 20 was fully charged.
After breakfast, Lex drove several miles away from the manor—well beyond camera coverage and drone sweeps—before summoning the armor from storage.
The black-and-gold plating assembled around him in seamless segments, guided by Sunzi's synchronized control.
Though it was his first time wearing Stark tech, the process felt intuitive. Automated clamps. Neural sync calibration. HUD projection stabilizing in his field of vision.
"Systems online," Sunzi confirmed.
The repulsor engines ignited.
Lex launched.
Acceleration hit like a punch to the chest.
The city blurred beneath him.
The Batmobile suddenly felt prehistoric.
Jets? Slow.
This—
This was velocity.
Wind resistance screamed against the armor's shielding as he cut across Gotham's skyline in a clean arc.
"One word," Lex muttered.
"Exhilarating?" Sunzi suggested.
"Awesome."
He banked left—
Red alert symbols exploded across the HUD.
"Warning. Unidentified aerial object approaching at extreme velocity."
The alert repeated three times.
Radar locked onto a fast-moving heat signature more than ten kilometers out.
Ten kilometers.
Gone in a blink.
A streak of red and blue tore past him so close the turbulence rattled the missile bays.
Lex swore.
"Was that—"
"Identity confirmed," Sunzi said calmly. "Superman."
Lex's stomach dropped.
Superman's territory was Metropolis. He didn't casually patrol Gotham. Not without reason.
And that flyby had been reckless.
Too reckless.
Lex replayed the encounter in his mind, cold realization setting in.
If they'd collided—
Two hundred micro-missiles strapped across his body.
Superman would've walked away.
Lex would've been vapor.
"So this is why Stark didn't wear this thing," he muttered. "It's a flying bomb vest."
"Replaying footage," Sunzi said.
The HUD shifted into slow motion.
The red-and-blue blur resolved into a face.
Grayish skin.
Veins darkened.
Eyes empty.
Lex's jaw tightened.
"That's not Superman."
"Biological degradation detected," Sunzi confirmed. "Conclusion: infected state."
Zombie.
A Kryptonian zombie.
Lex felt the thrill of flight drain from his bloodstream.
There were plans—distant, ambitious plans—to one day confront Superman in Metropolis. Kryptonite contingencies. Hypothetical scenarios.
All of that evaporated.
If Kryptonite even worked on an infected Kryptonian was a complete unknown.
Until there was absolute certainty—
Abort.
He disengaged flight mode and stored the armor midair before descending safely.
Superman could wait.
—
Instead, Lex returned to Blackgate.
Ada had taken the Osprey. The helicopter still sat abandoned.
He climbed into the cockpit.
The controls felt familiar almost immediately.
Muscle memory he hadn't consciously trained for locked into place. His piloting skill—whatever strange enhancement had gifted it to him—functioned flawlessly.
He lifted off smoothly.
Ace-level control.
After confirming Ada's position earlier during his aerial sweep, he navigated directly toward her.
The Osprey sat in open desert terrain, surrounded by a perimeter of decaying infected.
Dozens of corpses littered the sand.
Ada stood untouched.
Lex stored the helicopter and boarded the transport.
"Take me to Dr. Isaacs."
She complied without hesitation.
Once airborne and stabilized in autopilot, she retrieved a sealed Umbrella tactical kit.
"If you're entering the underground facility," she said calmly, "wear this."
Lex had initially imagined something simpler—kick the door in, open fire, let the Python armor handle the rest.
But subtlety had value.
He geared up.
—
Hours later, the Osprey descended toward a desert farm encircled by steel barricades.
From above, it looked like a dying agricultural outpost.
Lex knew better.
The real facility was underground.
As soon as he stepped onto the sand, a stench hit him.
Rot.
Not just decay.
Mass death.
He followed the smell toward a drainage ditch.
Then he saw them.
Hundreds of bodies.
Each one identical.
Same face.
Same features.
Alice.
Clones.
Shot through the head.
Necks severed.
Limbs torn apart.
A graveyard of Alices.
Umbrella's cloning capability bordered on obscene. Endless test subjects. Endless soldiers. Endless disposable assets.
Lex swallowed down bile.
They bypassed the ditch and entered the farmhouse.
Inside waited a ten-man tactical unit.
No challenge.
Ada's rank outranked theirs. They stepped aside.
The elevator doors slid open.
Lex adjusted his grip on the assault rifle.
If anything went wrong—
He had Ivy's toxins.
He had the Mark 20.
Two hundred missiles were more than enough to erase everything below.
The elevator descended.
A soft chime.
Doors opening.
The smell hit first.
Fresh blood.
Metallic.
Thick.
The corridor beyond was painted red.
Severed arms.
Torn torsos.
Bodies shredded beyond recognition.
Walls gouged.
Ceiling splattered.
This wasn't a firefight.
It was slaughter.
A one-sided massacre.
Lex's pulse slowed instead of quickening.
Something had already torn through Umbrella's underground base.
And whatever had done this—
Was still here.
....
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