Batman crashed through the facility's eastern entrance first, Nightwing and Batgirl flanking him as they moved through corridors that resembled a slaughterhouse more than a military installation. Blood painted concrete walls in grotesque patterns. Bodies lay strewn like discarded toys, many with injuries so precise they could only have been inflicted by someone with intimate knowledge of human anatomy.
"My God," Nightwing whispered, his voice tight with horror.
Batman remained silent, cataloging details with clinical precision despite the carnage. Each corpse told a story, each wound revealed technique. This wasn't random violence or the chaos typical of the Joker's work.
This was horrifyingly surgical.
Batgirl pushed ahead, her movements frantic despite her training. "Matt!" she called, abandoning protocol in her desperation. "Matt, can you hear me?"
They reached a small holding cell first. The metallic scent of old blood hit them before the visual horror registered. Two bodies lay inside, mutilated beyond easy recognition. The larger one, male, had been dismembered, his head placed carefully against the far wall. The female victim had suffered even more horrific injuries, her skull crushed with such force that facial features had ceased to exist.
Batgirl approached cautiously, her breath coming in short gasps behind her mask.
"Barbara," Batman warned, using her real name despite operational security. "You don't need to—"
"I have to know," she interrupted, kneeling beside the female victim. Her gloved hands shook as she checked for identification. The graduation dress, once white, now existed as blood-soaked tatters, but a small purse remained attached to the victim's wrist.
Barbara extracted a student ID card, its plastic surface smeared crimson. Her shoulders sagged with momentary relief. "Eliza Reed," she said quietly. "Matt's friend." She looked up, sudden hope in her voice. "He's not here. Maybe he escaped."
"Or was moved," Batman cautioned. "This facility is extensive. Nightwing, coordinate with the GCPD units outside. We need medical teams in here immediately."
Dick nodded, tapping his communicator as he backtracked toward the entrance. Batman continued examining the crime scene, his white lenses hiding eyes that missed nothing.
"These restraints were broken from the inside," he observed, lifting a length of chain with fractured links. "Whoever was held here escaped their bonds through physical force."
Barbara scanned the room again, desperate for any sign of her brother. "There's a blood trail," she said suddenly, pointing to faint spatters leading from the broken chains to the door. "Not enough for a fatal injury."
"Follow it," Batman ordered. "I'll examine the other rooms on this level."
Barbara didn't need to be told twice. She followed the blood trail through winding corridors, stepping over bodies of what appeared to be highly trained mercenaries and assassins. Many wore the distinctive garb of Ra's al Ghul's League of Shadows, while others sported tactical gear consistent with Deathstroke's operations.
The trail ended at massive steel doors, partially dented inward as if struck by enormous force. Beyond lay a scene from a nightmare.
The chamber stretched nearly a hundred yards across, its concrete floor obscured by bodies. The dead lay in concentric circles, like ripples from a stone thrown in water, growing denser near the center. Many wore expressions of surprise or terror frozen in death. Few showed defensive wounds. Whatever had happened here had been too fast for even trained killers to counter.
"Bruce..." Barbara called, forgetting code names in her shock. "You need to see this."
Batman appeared beside her moments later, his cape settling around him like wings. His silence spoke volumes as he surveyed the slaughter.
"Central point of conflict appears to be the raised platform," he finally said, gesturing toward a dais at the chamber's far end. "Most lethal injuries radiating outward from there."
They moved through the carnage, careful not to disturb potential evidence. Barbara's training kept her functional despite the horror, her eyes constantly searching for any sign of Matt among the dead. The relief when she found none was tempered by the growing dread of what might have happened to him.
On the central platform, they found bodies that distinguished themselves from the anonymous dead scattered throughout the chamber.
"Joker," Batman confirmed, kneeling beside the broken corpse. The clown's face remained locked in his signature grin, though the skull beneath had been shattered by what appeared to be repeated blunt force trauma. "Dead. Multiple injuries consistent with bare-handed combat."
Batman moved to the next body. "Ra's al Ghul. Also dead. Neck broken with significant force, possibly enhanced strength involved."
"Enhanced?" Barbara questioned, her analytical mind momentarily overriding her emotional turmoil.
"The angle and damage pattern suggest the killer twisted Ra's' neck approximately 180 degrees with a single motion. Beyond normal human capability."
A wet cough drew their attention to the platform's edge, where Deathstroke lay pinned to the floor by his own sword. Blood bubbled from behind his mask with each labored breath.
"Wilson," Batman acknowledged, approaching the dying mercenary. "What happened here?"
Deathstroke's single eye focused on Batman with difficulty. "The kid," he managed, blood spraying with each word. "Gordon's son. He... wasn't what we thought."
Barbara pushed forward, seizing the mercenary's armor. "Where is he? Where's Matt?"
A weak laugh escaped Deathstroke. "Gone. Smart move. After what he did to us..." The mercenary's body convulsed with a fresh wave of pain. "Never seen anything like it. Not even from you, Batman."
"Matt did this?" Barbara whispered, disbelief warring with the evidence before her eyes. "T-That's not possible. He's blind. He's just a normal teenager."
"Nothing normal about...that monster," Deathstroke countered, his voice fading. "One-eighty of my best men. League assassins. Joker's crew. He went through them like they were children." Another pained laugh. "Broke Talia. Killed Ra's with his bare hands. Then the Joker..."
His voice trailed off as consciousness began to slip away.
"Stay with me, Wilson," Batman demanded. "Who else was involved? Who took Gordon's son?"
"We did," came a weak female voice from behind a toppled equipment console. "Father... wanted to draw you out... but also to see... if the rumors were true."
Batman found Talia al Ghul propped against the wall, her arm bent at an unnatural angle, blood trickling from her ears and nose. Her normally immaculate appearance had been replaced by the haggard look of someone who'd faced death and barely escaped.
"Talia," Batman acknowledged, his tone betraying nothing of their complicated history. "Explain."
"The accident that blinded the boy," she managed, each word clearly painful. "Our intelligence suggested the chemicals contained trace elements from a Lazarus Pit. Father wanted to see if this had... enhanced the child somehow."
"So you worked with the Joker to kidnap him," Batman concluded. "And massacred innocents at his graduation."
"A necessary sacrifice," Talia replied without remorse. "We needed to test his potential. And we were right. He is... exceptional."
Barbara fought the urge to attack the injured woman. "S-She's lying. Why should we trust you, My brother is gone because of you!"
Talia's laugh turned into a cough that brought fresh blood to her lips. "Your 'brother' demolished the League's elite guard. Killed my father. Broke me with a single strike that felt like... nothing I have ever experienced." Her eyes found Batman's. "He's more dangerous than you, Beloved."
Before Batman could respond, Commissioner Gordon burst into the chamber, flanked by GCPD officers in tactical gear. His weathered face paled as he took in the scene.
"Dear God," he whispered. "What happened here?" His eyes searched frantically. "Where's Matt? Where's my son?"
Batman stepped forward. "Commissioner. Matt isn't among the casualties. Evidence suggests he escaped."
"Or he did this," Talia interjected weakly.
Gordon's expression hardened. "That's absurd. My son is blind. He's never hurt anyone in his life."
"Dad," Barbara said, "We need to talk. About Matt. About... everything."
......
.....
....
Outside the facility, chaos was spreading. News helicopters circled overhead, broadcasting the arrival of GCPD and emergency services at what reporters were already calling "The Massacre at North Point." Officers established a perimeter as medical teams rushed in, though it quickly became apparent that most victims were beyond help.
Among the journalists jockeying for position, Vicki Vale managed to secure an elevated vantage point on a nearby ridge. Her cameraman zoomed in on body bags being carried from the facility.
"This is Vicki Vale reporting live from what appears to be the site of Gotham's worst mass casualty event in decades," she announced, her voice steady despite the grim scene. "Sources within GCPD confirm that among the dead is none other than the Joker, Gotham's most notorious criminal."
The news spread through Gotham like wildfire, triggering responses that ranged from disbelief to jubilation. In the East End, spontaneous celebrations erupted as people poured into streets to mark the end of a reign of terror that had claimed countless lives. In the criminal underworld, the power vacuum created an immediate frenzy as various factions positioned themselves to claim territory and influence.
Back at the facility, Barbara finally gave in to the emotional tidal wave she'd been fighting since their arrival. In a private corner away from the growing crowd of investigators, she sank to her knees, hands covering her face as sobs wracked her body.
"He's still out there," she whispered, feeling her father's comforting hand on her shoulder. "But if what they're saying is true... if Matt really did this..."
"Then we find him and help him," Gordon finished firmly. "He's still my son. Still your brother."
Batman appeared silently beside them, his expression unreadable behind the cowl. "The forensic evidence supports Wilson and Talia's claims. Blood patterns, combat analysis, and injury profiles all point to a single combatant moving through the facility with extraordinary skill and strength."
"That doesn't mean it was Matt," Gordon insisted.
"The trail begins in the holding cell where we found the students," Batman continued, his tone carefully neutral. "Chain links broken from within, suggesting the prisoner freed himself. The only missing captive is Matthew Gordon."
Barbara looked up, her face tear-streaked but her mind still sharp. "But how? Matt's blind. He's never shown any fighting ability beyond basic boxing. It doesn't make sense."
"Unless he's been hiding his capabilities," Batman suggested. "My analysis of the combat techniques used here shows elements of multiple martial arts disciplines, some extremely rare. The killer moved with perfect spatial awareness despite the chaotic environment."
"Like someone who's learned to navigate without sight," Barbara whispered, the implications hitting her with terrible clarity.
Gordon shook his head in denial. "This is insane. You're talking about my son like he's some kind of... of..."
"Weapon," Batman finished. "One potentially created by exposure to chemicals from a Lazarus Pit."
Before they could continue the discussion, Nightwing appeared, his expression grim. "Perimeter sweep complete. No sign of Matt, but a security camera half a mile down the road caught someone matching his general description leaving on foot approximately two hours ago. Heading south toward Gotham."
Batman nodded. "Alert Alfred. Have him run facial recognition through all transportation hubs. If Matt is trying to leave Gotham, I want to know where he's going."
As Batman issued instructions, Barbara found herself staring at the carnage surrounding them. The idea that her gentle, blind brother could have caused this devastation seemed impossible. Yet the evidence was mounting, and a small voice in her mind whispered uncomfortable questions about coincidences she'd dismissed over the years.
The way he always seemed to know who was in a room before anyone spoke. The brass knuckles she'd found hidden in his room after the Iceberg Lounge incident.
Little things that suddenly formed a pattern too significant to ignore.
______________________________________
Miles away, a lone figure walked along the shoulder of Highway 61, thumb extended occasionally when headlights approached. Matthew Gordon had discarded his blood-soaked graduation clothes in favor of items taken from a locker room at the facility. A guard's jacket, work pants, and boots served his immediate needs, while a baseball cap pulled low concealed his face from casual observation.
The tenth vehicle slowed, an old pickup truck with mismatched panels and a driver who looked old enough to remember Gotham before Batman. The truck pulled onto the shoulder, its engine coughing asthmatically.
"Where you headed, son?" the elderly driver called through the passenger window.
"Which route are you taking?" Matt replied, keeping his tone mild and unthreatening despite the storm raging inside him. "If it's not too much trouble to ask."
"Hop in. I'm going right past the airport. Can drop you there if that helps."
Matt climbed into the passenger seat, settling the small backpack he'd appropriated between his feet. Inside was a wallet containing several thousand dollars in cash, identification papers, and passport belonging to a League assassin who no longer needed them.
"Appreciate it," Matt said quietly as the truck merged back onto the highway.
"Bad night to be hitchhiking," the old man observed. "Radio says there's been some kind of mass shooting or terrorist attack up north. Police all over the place."
"I heard something about that," Matt agreed neutrally.
They drove in silence for several miles, the old man occasionally glancing at his passenger with grandfatherly concern. "You in some kind of trouble, son? No offense, but you look like you've been through the wringer."
Matt considered his response carefully. The elderly driver posed no threat, his heartbeat steady and his body chemistry betraying no deception. Just genuine human concern, something Matt had nearly forgotten existed after three days with the Joker.
"Had some business to take care of," he finally said. "Didn't go quite as planned."
The old man nodded sagely. "Life rarely does. Where you headed after Gotham?"
Matt reached into his pocket, fingers finding the pamphlet he'd taken from a display in the facility's administration office. "Manchuria, maybe. Somewhere quiet."
"Manchuria?" The driver whistled. "That's about as far from Gotham as you can get. Running from something or running to something?"
A smile touched Matt's lips, devoid of humor or warmth. "Maybe both."
They lapsed into silence again, the truck's ancient radio broadcasting news updates about the "North Point Incident." The death toll estimates grew with each bulletin. The Joker's confirmed demise sparked debate between commentators about the identity of whoever had managed to accomplish what Batman never had.
Matt tuned it out, focusing instead on the immediate future. Archie Goodwin International Airport would be crawling with security, but not impossible to navigate with his abilities. From there, a series of connections would take him far from Gotham before anyone could piece together what had happened at North Point.
He had money. He had documentation. Most importantly, he had purpose again.
Matt Murdock had died in Hell's Kitchen only to be reborn as Matthew Gordon in Gotham. Now that identity too had served its purpose and would be discarded. What emerged next would be something new, something forged in the crucible of loss and betrayal.
Something the world wasn't ready for.
The lights of Gotham appeared on the horizon, the city's distinctive skyline a jagged silhouette against the night sky. Somewhere in that urban maze, Batman was undoubtedly piecing together the truth. Barbara and his father were searching for a son and brother who no longer existed.
Matt closed his sightless eyes, feeling no regret for the bodies left in his wake. Only a cold certainty that he had finally become what he was always meant to be.
"Here we are," the old driver announced as they approached the airport access road. "Archie Goodwin International. Wherever you're headed, I hope you find what you're looking for."
Matt gathered his meager belongings, offering a final nod to the driver. "Thank you for the ride."
"No problem, son. Take care of yourself out there."
As Matt walked toward the terminal, the weight of a pamphlet advertising Manchurian Buddhist monasteries in his pocket, he allowed himself a final thought of the family he was leaving behind.
He would be back, but first, it was time to build something truly special. And then return to his home, Gotham, once more but as the figure it needed the most.
Daredevil.