DC: I Became A Godfather

Edward Nygma—ever the showman—was just about to launch into another long-winded monologue on circuit theory and gas dispersal physics when a sharply dressed man stumbled forward, panic etched into his refined features.

"Sir! Please—you have to come! My wife… something's wrong with her!"

His voice cracked with desperation as he pointed toward one of the fallen victims near the defused toy doll. Her body was still. No visible wounds. But her face—oh, her face.

Twisted.

Contorted in a grotesque rictus of manic joy.

Her lips were stretched into a horrifying smile, cheek muscles locked in unnatural tension. Tears poured from her eyes, but her mouth refused to stop laughing.

A laugh that sounded more like a scream.

Nygma froze.

He had faced riddles wrapped in razor wire and stared down psychotic masterminds. But this?

This was medical.

And if there was one thing the so-called "Prince of Puzzles" wasn't good at, it was medicine.

"Uh… I…" Nygma stammered, visibly recoiling. In the comics, it was cancer that nearly killed him. Brilliant though he was, he'd found himself powerless against the mysteries of biology. That's what led him to orchestrate one of his most elaborate schemes—just to steal a dip in the Lazarus Pit and cure himself. If he had any grasp of medical science, he'd have gone full Freeze, cryogenically preserving loved ones while racing to develop a cure.

But he didn't.

And that made him dangerous in the realm of diagnostics.

Adam rushed forward, eyes locking onto the grinning, spasming woman. A single glance at the body language, the twisted mirth… and he knew.

His breath caught.

"No… no way... this is laughing gas!"

The man's voice rang through the chaos like a blade.

Nitrous oxide—N₂O—was originally synthesized in 1799 by British chemist Humphry Davy. It was supposed to be an anesthetic. Something to ease the pain of tooth extractions and surgeries. But instead of inducing numbness or sleep, the gas made people laugh uncontrollably.

Kept them awake.

Then came the Joker.

He found that overlooked chemical compound and, with his background at ACE Chemicals, transformed it. Weaponized it. Twisted it into a nightmare.

This wasn't the mild party drug that dentists once used.

This was Joker Toxin.

An unholy compound that triggered euphoria, madness, and, eventually, death. Victims would laugh until their lungs collapsed, until blood vessels burst, until they couldn't laugh anymore because they were dead.

Adam clenched his fists.

"Damn it… this isn't just gas. It needs a special antidote." He cursed under his breath. In The New Batman Adventures, Bruce Wayne had once fallen victim to the gas. It had taken weeks of research just to isolate the Joker's unique strain. They'd had to find an original sample, then reverse-engineer a serum.

Adam didn't have time for that now.

And the Joker was nowhere to be found.

He made a snap decision.

He stepped over to the convulsing woman and—WHAM—delivered a harsh blow to the side of her temple.

The woman slumped into unconsciousness.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't clean. But it stopped her laughter.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" the husband screamed, lunging at Adam and grabbing his collar. "You're hurting her—she's already sick and you're—"

"Look at her now," Adam snapped, shoving the man off and pointing at the woman. "She's not laughing anymore."

The man turned. The grotesque grin was gone. Her chest still rose and fell—she was breathing.

"The toxin's designed to kill through overstimulation," Adam said. "If we can knock them unconscious, we can pause the effects. Buy enough time to get them to a hospital."

It wasn't a solution. It was triage.

The woman's face was swollen. Her nose bled lightly from the blow. But she was stable—for now.

Adam exhaled shakily.

He'd bought her time.

That's all he could do.

Behind him, another voice spoke—low, gruff, controlled.

"Let me handle the next one."

Adam turned to see Floyd Lawton, a.k.a. Deadshot, approaching with calm focus. He knelt beside another victim—this one a man twitching in spasms of manic laughter—and pressed two fingers to the side of his neck.

A quick shift of pressure.

Thunk.

The man slumped, unconscious.

Adam blinked.

"Pressure point?"

"Military trick," Deadshot muttered. "Army field training. Better than your knockout punch."

Adam scratched the back of his head.

"Well, excuse me for not being a walking combat manual…"

In truth, he was relieved. Deadshot's method was cleaner. More effective. Less… brutal.

And frankly, safer. Adam had barely pulled his punch enough to avoid a skull fracture. One inch further and he might've killed someone trying to save them.

Still, it worked.

Sometimes unconsciousness was the body's only defense mechanism. Pain too great to endure. Trauma too overwhelming. The mind shut down, sparing the body further damage.

In this case, it was their only hope.

One Hour Later…

The crisis had passed.

The police finally arrived—late, as always—cordoning off the rooftop and beginning official protocol: securing evidence, taking witness statements, locking down access points.

Nygma—still fuming—watched them fan out and barked:

"Well, look who decided to show up. Took you long enough. Napoleon lost Waterloo in less time than this. Grouchy hesitated for fifteen minutes and cost him an empire, and you clowns took an hour to respond to a rooftop bombing?"

Adam winced and quickly dragged the ranting Riddler aside before he got himself arrested—or shot.

"Ed, chill. Let it go. Please."

"Let it go?! I'm an official consultant for the GCPD! This level of incompetence is—"

"Welcome to Gotham," Adam muttered, scanning for eavesdroppers before leaning closer. "Listen. In this city? Doing more gets you in trouble. Doing less still gets you blamed. Doing nothing? Weirdly, that's the safest move."

Nygma blinked.

Adam continued, lowering his voice:

"That bomb? It's already being handed off to 'higher jurisdiction'—maybe Homeland, maybe the National Guard. Local cops don't want their hands on something this messy. They're not stupid. They're survivors."

Nygma stared at him like he'd just glimpsed a new angle of an old riddle.

Adam smirked.

"This isn't a matter of courage. It's bureaucracy. You get too close to the fire, you burn with it. Only suckers step in voluntarily."

He didn't say it aloud, but both men were thinking it:

Gordon had stepped in.

All those years ago—when Thomas and Martha Wayne were gunned down in Crime Alley—most officers ignored the call. Some faked sick. Others looked the other way.

Only one rookie cop showed up.

James Gordon.

He found the trembling boy alone in the alley, rain pouring down, his parents' blood still wet on the concrete. He took off his coat, knelt down, and wrapped it around Bruce's shoulders.

That moment defined them both.