Barbara Gordon hadn't slept in three days. Her eyes burned from staring at computer screens, and her hands shook slightly from the toxic combination of caffeine, stress, and rage. The Batcave's enormous monitors displayed every scrap of intel they'd gathered about Matt's abduction. Surveillance footage. Witness statements. Evidence from the graduation massacre scene.
None of it had led to her brother.
She slammed her fist against the keyboard, sending error messages cascading across the screens.
"God fucking damn it!" The curse echoed through the cave, startling bats from their perches in the distant ceiling. "There has to be something we're missing."
Behind her, Alfred Pennyworth maintained his stoic presence, though concern lined his weathered face. "Perhaps some rest would—"
"I don't need rest," Barbara snapped, instantly regretting her tone. "Sorry, Alfred. But Matt's been in the Joker's hands for three days now. Three days. You know what that monster can do in three hours."
Alfred placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Indeed I do, Miss Gordon. Which is precisely why Master Bruce insisted on handling the interrogation himself."
Barbara's jaw tightened. In the adjacent chamber, Batman was questioning a Joker henchman they'd captured the previous night. One of the few survivors of the graduation attack. Bruce had ordered her to stay put, claiming her emotional involvement compromised her objectivity.
He wasn't wrong. But that didn't make it easier to accept.
The door to the interrogation room suddenly opened. Batman emerged, his expression grim behind the cowl.
"Anything?" Barbara demanded, rising from her chair.
"He claims the original plan was to take Matt to an abandoned military bunker in the Blüdhaven outskirts." Batman's voice was carefully neutral. "But plans changed after your brother was captured. New orders came through from someone higher up the chain."
"Higher than Joker? That doesn't make sense." Barbara ran frustrated fingers through her red hair. "The attack had his signature all over it."
"That's what I intend to find out." Batman moved toward the main computer. "The henchman mentioned a secondary location. An old military installation north of Gotham, near the mountains. It was decommissioned after the Cold War."
Barbara was already pulling up satellite imagery. "There are three decommissioned facilities in that area. This one's been repurposed as a storage depot. This one's completely demolished. But this third one..." She zoomed in on a sprawling concrete structure partially reclaimed by forest. "This could be it."
The Batcave's elevator hummed, announcing an arrival. Both Barbara and Batman turned, tensing slightly until they recognized the figure stepping into the cave.
Dick Grayson, in his brand-new Nightwing gear minus the mask, his face etched with exhaustion that matched Barbara's. "GCPD found another Joker thug. This one was more talkative." His expression darkened. "After I made it clear what happens to people who help kidnap the commissioner's son."
Barbara moved toward him. "What did he say?"
"Joker wasn't working alone." Dick's eyes met Batman's. "He had a partner in this. Someone with enough resources to provide a small army of mercenaries."
"Deathstroke," Barbara concluded. "Has to be. The graduation security footage showed his combat patterns."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. "Slade wouldn't work with Joker unless the contract came from someone else. Someone with deeper pockets and a compelling reason."
"I don't care who's funding this nightmare," Barbara interrupted. "I care about getting my brother back. Now."
She stalked toward the interrogation room, her movements betraying the rage simmering just beneath her controlled exterior.
"Barbara," Batman warned, "your emotional state—"
"My emotional state is the least of that scumbag's problems," she replied without turning. "He's going to tell me exactly where Matt is, or he'll wish the Joker had found him first."
She pushed into the interrogation room before Batman could stop her. The Joker thug sat handcuffed to a metal chair, his purple suit torn and bloody, eyes wide with terror as Batgirl appeared before him.
"Where is Matthew Gordon?" Barbara demanded, voice dangerously soft.
"I-I told the Bat everything I know," the man whimpered. "The bunker near Blüdhaven was just the initial rendezvous. Then we got new orders. Military installation up north. That's all I know, I swear!"
Barbara leaned in, close enough that the man could see the fury burning in her eyes. "Not good enough. My brother has been in the Joker's hands for three days. Do you know what that means?"
The man swallowed. "Look, lady, I'm just muscle. I don't make the plans."
"Wrong answer." Barbara grabbed him by the throat, lifting him and the chair he was bound to with strength born of desperation. "You were there. You helped take him. Which means you're as responsible as the Joker himself."
"Batgirl." Batman's voice came from the doorway, a warning.
She ignored him, tightening her grip. "Last chance. Where exactly is this installation? What does the Joker want with Matt Gordon?"
"I don't know!" the thug gasped, face purpling. "Something about testing him! Joker said the kid was special! Said he did something years ago that proved it!"
Barbara's blood ran cold. "What do you mean, special?"
"Dunno! Just that the boss had a history with him. Something about a previous encounter. Please... can't... breathe..."
Strong hands gripped Barbara's shoulders, pulling her back. "Enough," Batman said firmly.
She shook him off violently. "Don't tell me what's enough! That's my brother out there! My little brother who's never hurt anyone in his life!"
"And this isn't helping him," Batman countered. "We have the location. Robin is already coordinating with GCPD. We move in thirty minutes."
The thug gasped for air as Barbara reluctantly released him. "You people are crazy," he wheezed. "All of you."
"You have no idea," a new voice said from the doorway.
Barbara turned in shock. Her father, Commissioner James Gordon, stood in the entrance to the interrogation room, still in his work clothes, service weapon holstered at his side. His face was haggard with exhaustion, eyes bloodshot behind his glasses.
"Dad," she whispered, suddenly aware she was still in full Batgirl regalia. "I can explain..."
Jim Gordon removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I've known for years, Barbara."
The room fell silent. Even Batman seemed momentarily caught off guard.
"You... knew?" Barbara managed.
"That my daughter moonlights as Batgirl? That she worked with Batman even after the Joker put her in a wheelchair?" Gordon's voice was weary beyond measure. "I'm a detective, Barbara. Not a great father, perhaps, but a decent detective."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Gordon replaced his glasses, his gaze moving from his daughter to Batman and back. "Because I respected your choice. Because I understood your need to fight back after what the Joker took from you." His expression hardened. "But right now, he has Matt. And I don't give a damn about jurisdictions or vigilante protocols or anything else. I want my son back."
Batman nodded once, a gesture of profound respect. "We move now. Nightwing has the coordinates."
As if summoned by his name, Dick burst into the room, his expression urgent. "Satellite thermal imaging just picked up a massive heat signature at the installation. Something's happening there. Something big."
Barbara felt her heart seize. "Matt?"
"We don't know," Dick admitted. "But whatever it is, we need to go. Now."
The four of them moved as one toward the Batcave's vehicle bay, united by a single purpose. Barbara caught her father's eye as they prepared to depart.
"We'll find him, Dad," she promised, voice catching. "We'll bring him home."
Gordon's weathered hand found hers, squeezing briefly. "I know. But what worries me is what he might have become after three days with the Joker."
Barbara had no answer for that. Only the cold fear that had lived in her chest since the moment Matt disappeared.
__________________________
The installation echoed with screams.
Matt moved through the corridor like a nightmare given form, each step bringing him closer to the central chamber where his targets awaited. League assassins rushed him in waves, their training impressive but ultimately futile against what he had become.
Three attacked simultaneously, blades flashing in the dim light. Matt weaved between them without breaking stride, his right hand shooting out to crush the first assassin's windpipe. The second managed a single slash that caught nothing but air before Matt's elbow connected with his temple, liquefying the brain beneath.
The third assassin demonstrated more caution, circling with blade extended. Matt simply waited, head tilted slightly, bloody fingers flexing. When the attack came, it was a flurry of expert strikes designed to overwhelm through speed and precision.
Matt moved faster.
He caught the assassin's wrist mid-strike, applying pressure to the arterial pathway that caused instant numbness. The blade clattered to the floor. Matt's follow-up strike shattered the man's sternum, driving bone fragments into vital organs. The assassin was dead before he hit the ground.
More came. Always more. Mercenaries with military-grade weapons. League members with ancient combat techniques. Joker's thugs with desperate, animal brutality. None of it mattered. Matt dispatched them with ease, his movements flowing like water, impossible to predict or counter.
A squad of mercenaries formed a firing line, their automatic weapons creating a wall of deadly projectiles. Matt sensed every bullet's trajectory before it left the barrel, his body twisting and flipping through spaces between death. He reached the first gunman and tore the weapon from his hands, using it to shatter the second's jaw before driving the stock into the third's throat with enough force to collapse it.
The fourth mercenary abandoned his rifle, drawing a combat knife with shaking hands. "What the hell are you?" he whispered.
Matt didn't answer. Words were meaningless now. Only action had value.
The knife never connected. Matt caught the man's arm, bent it back until bone splintered through flesh, then delivered a precise strike to the carotid artery. The mercenary collapsed, blood fountaining from his neck in rhythmic pulses that quickly weakened as his heart failed.
Matt continued forward, unstoppable, inevitable. His white dress shirt, once pristine for graduation, now hung in crimson tatters from his lean frame. His movements betrayed no fatigue, no hesitation, despite the bodies piling in his wake.
In the central chamber, awareness of the approaching carnage spread among the remaining defenders. Heartbeats accelerated with fear. Breathing patterns became irregular. The scent of adrenaline and terror filled the air.
"Oh shit, here we go...," someone whispered while swallowing nervously.
Deathstroke stood near the chamber's center, sword drawn, single eye narrowed as he monitored the approaching sounds of combat. "Form ranks," he ordered the remaining mercenaries. "Concentrated fire when he enters. No one breaks formation."
Talia al Ghul positioned her elite assassins strategically throughout the chamber, her expression betraying nothing of her thoughts. "Disable him," she instructed. "My father wants him alive."
Ra's al Ghul himself stood on an elevated platform at the chamber's rear, hands clasped behind his back as he observed the preparations. Beside him, the Joker giggled intermittently, his excitement growing with each distant scream that reached them.
"Our butterfly approaches," Joker sing-songed. "Wings fully extended, beautiful and deadly."
"Your metaphors grow tiresome," Ra's replied coldly. "This was to draw out the Detective, not create... whatever that boy has become."
"Art rarely follows the commissioner's instructions," Joker countered with a theatrical shrug. "Sometimes the canvas decides to paint itself!"
The massive doors to the central chamber shuddered suddenly, as if struck by enormous force. Then again. The third impact dented the reinforced metal inward.
Deathstroke raised his hand, signaling his mercenaries to ready their weapons. "Steady," he commanded. "Wait for a clear shot."
The doors crashed open with a sound like thunder.
Matt stood in the entrance, blood dripping from his fingertips, sightless eyes somehow finding each person in the room with unerring accuracy. For a moment, silence reigned as both sides assessed one another.
Then hell erupted.
Twenty League assassins rushed him simultaneously, attacking from multiple angles with perfect coordination. Matt flowed between them, his movements almost beautiful in their lethal precision. The first five died before they realized the fight had begun, their bodies dropping with broken necks, crushed throats, or shattered skulls.
The sixth managed to slice a shallow cut across Matt's arm before receiving a palm strike that drove nasal bone fragments into his brain. The seventh and eighth died from their own allies' blades as Matt redirected their momentum with subtle manipulations.
Deathstroke's men opened fire, forcing Matt into evasive action. He dove behind a concrete pillar, calculated trajectories based on sound alone, then emerged in an unexpected direction. Three more mercenaries fell before they could adjust their aim, their bodies riddled with friendly fire as Matt moved through their formation like a ghost.
Blood pooled on the concrete floor. Bodies created macabre obstacles throughout the chamber. Still Matt advanced, unstoppable, inexorable.
A mercenary with a shotgun appeared in Matt's path. The weapon discharged with a thunderous roar, the spread of buckshot passing through empty air as Matt flipped over the blast. He landed behind his attacker, seized the man's head, and twisted with precise force. The crack echoed through the chamber like a gunshot of its own.
More assassins fell to his unnatural precision. More mercenaries died screaming or begging or silently, depending on where and how Matt struck them. Joker's thugs, witnessing the slaughter of trained killers, broke ranks and fled toward the rear exits, only to find them sealed by Ra's al Ghul's command.
Matt cut through them all, his violence cold and methodical. No wasted movement. No wasted lives. Each death served a purpose, clearing a path to those truly responsible for Eliza's murder.
From his elevated position, Ra's al Ghul watched with growing fascination. "One hundred and twenty-seven," he noted quietly. "That's how many he's killed to reach us."
Deathstroke, witnessing his forces decimated, made his decision. "Enough," he growled, stepping forward as the last of his mercenaries fell. "I'll handle this myself."
He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, sword gleaming under the harsh industrial lights. Matt sensed his approach, turning slightly to face this new threat. Blood soaked his clothing, yet his breathing remained controlled, his stance perfect despite the carnage he'd inflicted and endured.
"Impressive work, kid," Deathstroke acknowledged, circling warily. "But playtime's over."
Matt didn't respond. His head tilted slightly, tracking Deathstroke's movements with inhuman precision.
The clash when it came was spectacular. Deathstroke's sword cut through the air with blinding speed, only to meet empty space as Matt twisted away. His counter-strike targeted the assassin's right side, where their previous rooftop encounter had revealed a slight weakness.
Deathstroke blocked, but the impact drove him back a step. "You've improved," he noted, recovering instantly. "But so have I."
The battle intensified, sword against bare hands, enhanced soldier against blind teenager. Deathstroke's blade became a silver blur, seeking any opening in Matt's defense. Matt moved with impossible speed, evading cuts that would have bisected normal humans, countering with strikes that would have shattered ordinary bones.
They were evenly matched for precisely thirty-seven seconds.
Then Matt changed. His movements accelerated beyond human capability. His strikes gained power that shouldn't have been possible from his lean frame. Something ancient and terrible flowed through him, enhancing every attribute beyond mortal limitations.
Deathstroke sensed the shift too late. Matt slipped past his guard, delivering a precise strike to nerve clusters that temporarily paralyzed his sword arm. The blade clattered to the floor. Before Deathstroke could recover, Matt's hands found purchase on his armor, grip inhumanly strong.
With a single, fluid motion, Matt lifted the mercenary bodily and slammed him against the concrete floor with enough force to crack the reinforced material. Deathstroke's armor absorbed some impact, but the sound of breaking bones was unmistakable.
"Enough!" Deathstroke growled, reaching for a secondary weapon with his functioning arm.
Matt's response was merciless. He seized Deathstroke's fallen sword and, with perfect precision, drove it through a gap in the armor between neck and shoulder. The blade severed arteries, punctured a lung, and emerged from the opposite side, pinning Deathstroke to the concrete floor.
Blood bubbled from behind the mercenary's mask as he stared up in disbelief. "Impossiasufadgh," he whispered gurgling with blood.
Matt leaned close, his first words since entering the chamber barely audible: "For Eliza."
He twisted the blade, ensuring the wound would be fatal, then straightened, turning toward his remaining targets.
Good...
From the sidelines, Rose Wilson watched in horror as her father's life ebbed away on the concrete floor. Her heart raced with conflicting emotions, loyalty warring with the undeniable truth of what she'd witnessed.
"Father," she whispered, taking an involuntary step forward before restraining herself. Deathstroke had brought her here to watch and learn. She'd learned, all right, but not the lesson he'd intended.
Ra's al Ghul's expression darkened as he witnessed Deathstroke's defeat. "Talia," he commanded. "Test him."
Talia stepped forward, drawing twin blades from sheaths at her back. "With pleasure, Father."
She approached Matt with cautious respect, having witnessed his capabilities firsthand. Unlike Deathstroke, she made no attempt at conversation, no taunts or acknowledgments. She simply attacked with the perfect form of someone trained since childhood by the world's deadliest assassins.
Matt met her assault with equal skill, his movements mirroring hers as if they'd rehearsed this dance for years. Where Deathstroke had relied on enhanced strength and durability, Talia fought with precision and unpredictability, changing styles mid-combat to keep Matt off-balance.
For nearly a minute, neither gained advantage. Talia's blades traced deadly patterns in the air, occasionally drawing thin lines of blood across Matt's already battered form. Matt's counters forced her into increasingly defensive positions, his strikes targeting vital points that would end the fight instantly if they connected.
Then Talia made a critical error. Believing she'd spotted an opening in Matt's guard, she committed to an attack that left her momentarily vulnerable. Matt seized the opportunity with terrifying speed, catching her wrist and applying precise pressure that forced her to drop one blade.
Before she could recover, his palm struck her chest with impossible force. The impact lifted her from her feet, sending her flying backward to crash against a concrete pillar. Something dark and unnatural flowed through the strike, an energy that didn't belong in the physical world.
Talia crumpled to the floor, unmoving but still breathing. Her right arm bent at an unnatural angle, broken in multiple places. Blood trickled from her ears and nose, indicating internal injuries far beyond what a normal blow should inflict.
Ra's al Ghul's composure finally cracked, rage transforming his aristocratic features. "You've gone too far, boy," he snarled, drawing his own sword as he descended from the platform. "Whatever potential I saw in you ends here."
Matt turned to face the Demon's Head, his bloodied face expressionless. This was the architect of his suffering, the man who had collaborated with the Joker to destroy his life. No words were necessary. Only retribution.
Their clash elevated combat to an art form. Ra's al Ghul attacked with the skill of centuries, his blade a lethal extension of his will. Matt defended with inhuman awareness, each movement perfectly calculated to counter, redirect, or avoid. They flowed around the chamber, leaving destruction in their wake as support pillars cracked and equipment shattered beneath the force of their engagement.
Ra's drew first blood, his blade slicing across Matt's chest in a diagonal line that would have disemboweled a normal opponent. Matt continued fighting as if the wound didn't exist, delivering a counter-strike that cracked three of Ra's' ribs despite being partially blocked.
"What are you?" Ra's demanded, genuine curiosity breaking through his rage. "No chemical accident created this. No training alone explains your abilities."
Matt didn't answer except with violence, his attack patterns shifting to exploit weaknesses in Ra's' defense. The ancient assassin adapted quickly, centuries of experience allowing him to recognize and counter the new approach almost immediately.
Almost, but not quite.
Matt's fist connected with Ra's' sternum, driving the breath from his lungs. A follow-up strike targeted nerve clusters in his sword arm, causing momentary numbness that loosened his grip on his weapon. Matt seized the opening, delivering a series of blows that would have killed any normal human instantly.
Ra's was far from normal, however. He weathered the assault, his body conditioned by centuries of training and periodic rejuvenation in the Lazarus Pit. He countered with techniques so ancient they had been forgotten by all but a handful of living beings, targeting pressure points that should have incapacitated any opponent.
Matt evaded with impossible awareness, his blindness irrelevant against a perception that transcended ordinary senses. His counter-attack drove Ra's back step by step, the Demon's Head finding himself on the defensive for the first time in decades.
The end came suddenly. Ra's attempted a desperate thrust, committing fully to an attack that would have impaled Matt through the heart. Matt sidestepped with millimeters to spare, caught Ra's' sword arm, and applied leverage that dislocated the shoulder with an audible pop.
Before Ra's could recover, Matt seized him by the throat with one hand, by the jaw with the other, and twisted with inhuman strength.
The crack echoed through the chamber like a gunshot. Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head, leader of the League of Assassins for centuries, collapsed to the floor with his neck twisted completely backward, eyes staring lifelessly at his own spine.
Silence fell upon the chamber, broken only by the distant sounds of approaching vehicles and helicopters. The GCPD had finally located them.
Matt stood amid the carnage he'd created, blood dripping from countless wounds that should have debilitated him long ago. His head turned slowly, tracking the one heartbeat that mattered now.
The Joker remained on the elevated platform, his grin impossibly wide despite the death of his partners. "Bravo!" he called, applauding enthusiastically. "Absolutely magnificent! I knew you had it in you, Matty-boy!"
Matt began walking toward him, each step deliberate and unhurried. The Joker backed up slightly, but made no real attempt to flee.
"You know what the best part is?" Joker continued conversationally. "You proved my point. One bad day. That's all it takes to transform an ordinary person into something extraordinary." He spread his arms wide. "Look at you! From blind schoolboy to avenging angel in just three days. I'd call that a successful graduation ceremony, wouldn't you?"
Matt reached the platform, climbing the steps with mechanical precision. The Joker awaited him, still grinning despite his imminent demise.
"Any last words for your valedictorian speech?" Joker asked cheerfully.
Matt's response was simple and direct. His fist connected with the Joker's face with enough force to shatter cheekbone and jaw simultaneously. The madman flew backward, crashing into equipment behind him, but his laughter continued despite the blood pouring from his ruined mouth.
"That's it!" he gurgled through broken teeth. "Let it all out! Become what you were always meant to be!"
Matt followed, delivering another blow that dropped the Joker to his knees. Then another that collapsed his ribcage. Another that pulverized his left shoulder. Each strike calculated to cause maximum pain while prolonging consciousness.
Throughout the beating, the Joker's laughter never stopped. Even as his body broke under Matt's relentless assault, his mad glee seemed to grow.
"Perfect," he wheezed as Matt lifted him by his purple lapels. "Simply... perfect."
Matt's final strike crushed the Joker's skull against the concrete floor, silencing his laughter forever. The clown died with a smile frozen on his ruined face, perhaps the only truly authentic expression he'd ever worn.
In the sudden silence that followed, Matt became aware of movement at the chamber's entrance. New heartbeats. Familiar ones. His father. Barbara. Batman and Robin.
They were too late. Far too late.
Matt slipped away through a maintenance tunnel before they could reach the central chamber, leaving behind only destruction and death. One hundred and eighty bodies lay in his wake, from anonymous mercenaries to legendary assassins.
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen had returned to earth, baptized in blood and fully... born again.