Cars screeched through intersections, bullets chewing through their frames as rival crews fought for inches of pavement and pride.
On the corner of Burnside and Rydell, a sedan flipped over after taking a rocket hit to the chassis. The explosion shook the block. Three men spilled out of the alley opposite, assault rifles slung across their chests, screaming in Spanish as they sprayed toward the wreck.
They didn't see the shadow darting across the rooftops above them.
A sudden snap—a flash of blue light—and a rope of glowing energy coiled around one man's chest, yanking him off his feet and into the air. Another turned to fire, only for his weapon to freeze solid in a flash of white mist before shattering to pieces. A third looked up just in time to catch a kick to the jaw that sent him spinning into the wall.
The fight was over before the smoke even cleared.
Kid Flash skidded to a stop beside the wreck, yellow lightning dissipating around his boots, "Okay," he said, glancing at the three unconscious cartel soldiers, "that's the fourth shootout in an hour. Are these guys just multiplying down here?"
"Focus, Kid Flash." Aqualad landed lightly behind him, water dripping from his arm-blades as they retracted. His tone was even, but his eyes tracked the chaos around them—sirens, smoke, frightened faces in tenement windows. "Our orders were to contain the spillover before civilians get caught in it."
"Yeah," Wally muttered, "tell that to the five gangs that think Gotham's one giant free-for-all."
Aqualad touched a hand to his ear, activating the comm.
"Team, report."
"North quadrant's quiet," Miss Martian's voice replied, faint static riding the edges. "At least for now. I sense more aggression building near Chinatown though. It's spreading faster than before."
"Superboy and I handled a warehouse full of armed men," Artemis cut in. "Looked like one cartel ambushing another. They weren't holding back."
"Same on my end," Robin's voice came through next—calm but clipped. Gunfire cracked faintly in the background. "Two blocks east of the Narrows bridge. Whisperers are trying to retake one of their old smuggling tunnels. I just dropped smoke and got five of them and some from the underpass."
Aqualad exhaled slowly, scanning the horizon. "This city is devouring itself."
"Welcome to Gotham," Robin said dryly. "Population: bad decisions."
There was a pause, then Aqualad's voice softened slightly. "Robin… you know this city better than any of us. How do we proceed?"
Static filled the line for a moment. When Robin spoke again, his voice carried the faint authority that made even Kid Flash glance up.
"Containment's not enough. The police are overwhelmed, Batman's running solo ops, and the gangs are multiplying faster than we can track. If we hit them one by one, we'll just chase gunfire all night. We need to cut off the supply lines—guns, cash, drugs. Hit them where they will feel it."
Aqualad nodded once. "Then we defer to you for strategy."
Robin hesitated, then said, "Fine. Start sweeping toward the docks. That's where half the shipments enter the city, legal and not. I'll coordinate with the cave for tracking data."
"Understood," Aqualad replied, raising his arm-blades again. "Team, converge on the southern perimeter. Nonlethal force only. Move."
As the comms cut out, Kid Flash smirked.
"You sure about this, fearless leader? Sounds like we're signing up to ruin half of Gotham's nightlife."
Aqualad's expression didn't change. "If Gotham's nightlife involves this much bloodshed, it deserves to be ruined."
They moved together, shadows vanishing into the smoke as the rain began again.
***
The city's glow bled through the wide panes of the penthouse yellow light pooling across Nolan's desk, glinting off scattered papers and the edge of his coffee mug gone cold hours ago. One monitor streamed live feeds of the rails grainy black-and-white images of movement between freight containers—while another flickered with coded comms and police band chatter. He sat forward, elbows on the desk, exhaustion shadowing his eyes.
The comm line crackled.
"Boss," Naima's voice came through, clipped and steady as always but underscored by tension. "We just had another skirmish with the Whispers same group that hit us three nights ago. But it got interrupted."
Nolan's brow furrowed. "Interrupted how?"
"Robin," she said flatly. "The kid in red. Dropped out of nowhere, took out half the Whispers' forward unit before they could finish us off. We pulled back to cover before he could get a clear ID on us, but it's not just him. Reports are coming in of other sidekicks showing up across the city—looks like Batman called in backup. Probably the same people that helped during the Arkham escape."
Nolan leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly as he exhaled. The weight of too many fires pressed on his shoulders. "That complicates things," he muttered. "I'm working on a plan to deal with Odessa and the Whispers, but if those sidekicks are active here, we're going to need to move quietly."
He rubbed his temples, already thinking two, three moves ahead. "Keep your people in cover, Naima. No engagements tonight. I'll have something by morning."
"Understood," she said. "But they're watching the rails now. Whatever we do, they'll know soon enough."
The line clicked off.
Nolan's hand hovered over the keyboard, but before he could issue new orders, another channel flared to life Dre's voice, low and tense.
"Boss, we got movement down by the sewers," Dre said. "Looks like Falcone's men again—same trucks we tagged last week—but they're not alone this time."
Nolan straightened in his chair. "Who's with them?"
"Scarecrow's boys. Our spotters saw masks, tanks, hoses same setup they used during the East End gas run. They're heading straight for our tunnel access points. Trey's keeping eyes on them from the roofs."
For a heartbeat, Nolan said nothing. The silence between them carried the weight of recognition they both knew what was coming.
"How far out?" he finally asked.
"Ten minutes, maybe less. They're moving in tight formation. Looks like they mean business."
Nolan's mind snapped into motion. Fingers tapped the desk once, twice. "All right. Activate Operation Scarecrow. Gas masks on every man. I don't want a single lung exposed."
"Understood."
"And listen carefully," Nolan continued, voice hardening. "Before they reach those tunnels, I want chaos. Fire, explosions, alarms—make it sound like hell broke loose down there. Use as few people as possible and make sure every one of them has an exit route."
Dre hesitated. "What? Boss that would expose us."
"No," Nolan said. "Trust me I don't care if you are shooting at the fucking air, just make some noise and set some fires then escape back to the tunnels."
A pause. Then Dre's voice came back, grim and certain. "Copy that but can I ask why?"
Nolan exhaled, leaning back, eyes fixed on the monitors where the city shimmered like a dying ember he added, quieter now, "the cavalry's here. Let's make use of them."
***
The tunnels stank of mildew, iron, and fear. Dre Matthews crouched just inside the sewer mouth, flashlight trembling against the slick concrete. Above him, the city thundered distant engines, echoing gunfire and his earpiece hissed with shouts from the men topside.
"Boss says mask up! Now!" Dre barked, voice reverberating through the tunnels. His own mask was already strapped on, the thick rubber pressing against his jaw. "Gas incoming, move it, move it!"
He climbed up the rungs toward the surface hatch and pushed it open a crack. Outside, a handful of his crew scrambled in the half-lit street, faces half-covered, nerves raw. They were young, most of them former street rats turned soldiers, and every one of them looked to him for direction.
"Yo, Dre!" someone called out from behind a burned-out sedan. "What the hell are we doing? Why're we blowing shit up before they even get here?"
Dre's jaw tightened. "Because the boss said so. You heard me — noise, fire, chaos. Make it loud enough for God to hear."
There was a moment of uncertainty, the kind that could shatter discipline, but Dre's glare shut it down. The first molotov arced through the air, smashing into an abandoned storefront. Fire roared to life, spreading fast. Another followed, then another the night erupting into chaos.
"Light 'em up!" Dre shouted. "Make it look like a goddamn war zone!"
Automatic gunfire cracked through the streets. Muzzle flashes stuttered against the walls as Dre's crew fired wildly toward the approaching convoy black sedans and matte vans barreling down the narrow street. The lead truck screeched, bullets pinging off its hood.
Then came the answering fire.
Falcone's men wore trench coats and carried submachine guns, moving with military precision stayed close to the armored car and opened up, cutting through the chaos. But what made Dre's blood run cold were the shapes behind them: figures in ragged masks and tanks on their backs, foggy canisters clutched like trophies. Scarecrow's freaks.
"Shit," Dre hissed. "Here they come! Back it up, back it up!"
The street was a blur of fire and motion. A man beside him went down with a scream, his mask shattered. Another tripped, scrambling to get back to cover. Dre fired blind, then waved his arm in a frantic circle.
"Fall back! Everyone back to the tunnels! Now!"
The crew began retreating in bursts — running, turning, shooting — smoke and debris choking the air. The first canister from Scarecrow's men hit pavement with a clink, spinning once before releasing a hissing plume of greenish vapor.
Within seconds, the gas began to spread.
"Move your asses!" Dre yelled, coughing into his mask. "Don't breathe it in!"
Then a sound cut through everything a whine, like steel ripping through the wind — followed by a crash.
A shadow fell from above.
The first of Scarecrow's men didn't even have time to scream before he was yanked upward into the smoke. A second went down with a crunch, his mask shattered, his weapon skittering across the asphalt.
Dre froze halfway down the ladder, staring up. Through the haze, he caught a glimpse — the unmistakable silhouette: cape flaring, armor glinting in the firelight.
"Holy shit," Dre whispered. "Boss… you clever son of a bitch."
He finally understood. Nolan hadn't told them to make noise because he wanted chaos. He wanted bait.
Batman's arrival was no accident the explosions, the chaos, the false retreat — it had all been a signal.
Aboveground, the Dark Knight moved like a phantom — silent, brutal, surgical. He struck from shadow to shadow, disarming one gunman, slamming another into a van's side, crushing the door inward. Gas canisters shattered under his gauntlets, venting harmlessly into the night air as he kicked them away.
Falcone's men panicked. Scarecrow's foot soldiers fired through the fog, hitting their own allies more often than not.
Dre crouched low, peering from the tunnel entrance, breath trembling behind his mask. The street was a blur of motion — Batman tearing through gangsters like they were nothing but paper silhouettes.
Boom! A van exploded, flames licking the walls.
One of Dre's men stumbled beside him, wide-eyed. "What the hell do we do?"
"Nothing," Dre said hoarsely, gripping his rifle tight. "We don't do a damn thing. Let him work. Slowly move back to the sewers we need to be gone before he can move on us."
Another body hit the ground with a thud. Screams echoed. Batman moved faster than any man Dre had ever seen, his cape trailing smoke as he dismantled the last of Scarecrow's crew.
By the time it was done, the street was littered with unconscious bodies, broken weapons, and firelight dancing off shattered glass.
Dre was silent as a mouse as he led his people into their escape routes. He heard the commotion stopped and sweat began pouring down his back, hoping and praying Batman wouldn't search for them.
For a heartbeat, Dre thought Batman might come for them next.
Then an explosion sounded two blocks away and Batman disappeared.
Dre exhaled shakily, sweat dripping under his mask. "Boss," he muttered, almost laughing in disbelief, "you're insane… but it worked."
He looked back into the tunnels where his men waited, pale and shaking.
"Alright," he rasped, voice hoarse. "Back underground. Move. Before he comes back."