In DC universe as Batman

The call was from the Ventriloquist. And it brought bad news.

Deadshot wanted out. He wanted to leave Gotham, disappear — return to Star City, where his daughter Zoe lived with her adoptive family.

Bruce just sat there, eyes half-lidded behind the cowl. Tired.

The situation is getting worse by the hour.

Sigh.

Reality wasn't a video game. You didn't "recruit mercenaries" and then magically unlock a loyalty meter. The people Bruce brought into this war were unstable, broken, weird — and every single one came with their own mess.

Gordon, noticing that Batman hadn't walked away to take the call like usual, gave him a knowing glance, then stepped aside without a word.

Bruce told the Ventriloquist to hand the phone to Deadshot.

Then, he took a breath, recalibrated, and — with surgical precision — spoke in Deadshot's own voice:

"OK. You want out. I get it. You've got a daughter. You want to live. I respect that. I really do. But I still have something to say."

"Are you satisfied with this?"

Deadshot, on the other end, went silent for a beat. Hearing his own voice talk back to him — perfectly mimicked — was unsettling.

Bruce continued:

"Listen, Lawton. I've looked into your situation. Your daughter's adoptive parents… they're just a regular couple. They don't have the money or influence to get her into a decent school."

"Zoe's still in elementary. Soon she'll enter the worst public junior high in that area — a school overrun with dropouts, addicts, gangbangers, and every kind of lowlife with a colored mohawk and a switchblade."

"After that? High school will be worse. You think she's going to escape all of that clean?"

"Maybe she ends up pregnant by some gang punk. Maybe by a convict who escaped Arkham or Blackwater prison. Maybe she becomes a single mother, working at a rundown supermarket, skin sagging, eyes hollow — just another burnout from the slums."

"Is that what you want for her?"

"Shut up! You bastard!"

Deadshot's voice cracked with fury. Normally, he kept things cool — detached. But bring up his daughter, and the mask dropped fast.

Bruce pressed on, voice quiet, cold, relentless:

"Yes. That's right. Her father is the infamous Deadshot. Wanted in over ten countries. The only difference between Zoe and other slum girls is that her awesome daddy will shoot through the brain of all the bad guys who approach her. And what does that buy her? Nothing. Because the one thing separating Zoe from the rest of the gutter kids — your name — only adds weight to her chains."

"Let's say she does get your money. Let's say I transfer the full $200 million I promised you. You try to launder it — half of it's gone. You try to use it — every red flag goes up. Private schools won't touch her."

"Even if you buy a new identity, where are you going to go? The Sahara Desert? The Grand Canyon? Or is it some war driven country in Africa?"

"You don't want that life for her. I know it. You're not that far gone."

There was silence again. Then came the sound of Deadshot breathing — short, stifled — like he was clenching his jaw to stop the sound of his heart from leaking into the phone.

Bruce gave him the bait.

"I can get you a letter of recommendation. From Bruce Wayne. Or Jim Gordon. Zoe would get into Gotham's best private academies, no questions asked."

"I can move your payment legally. Through trusts, holding companies — turn it into tax-free assets in Zoe's name. All clean."

"I can plan her life for you. The one you want for her."

More silence.

Finally, Deadshot exhaled. A slow, defeated sigh.

He knew what this was. A negotiation. A buyout. Not of money, but of loyalty.

He didn't ask Bruce to clean up his criminal record. He wasn't stupid — he knew that wasn't part of the deal. Bruce wasn't offering salvation. He was offering control.

A mercenary who didn't want to fight wasn't worth anything.

"…Alright," Deadshot finally said. "I get it. I'll help."

Bruce's voice cut in.

"What did you call me?"

Deadshot paused, then muttered:

"Boss."

---

Deal done.

Facts. Leverage. Cold reasoning. This was how Bruce controlled people now.

And honestly? He didn't care if Deadshot had planned to walk just to raise his price. It didn't matter.

Once Bane was dealt with, Bruce would terminate every one of these alliances. Settle payments. Fulfill promises. Then send them all away — back to their pathetic little lives.

Until then, Deadshot was locked in.

And now that the U.S. military had moved in, maybe Bruce didn't even need to fight.

Maybe Bane would get crushed in the gears of the system he defied.

Bruce hung up, turned to talk to Gordon — and stopped.

Gordon was on his own phone, pacing, sweat glistening on his brow, his grey-streaked hair disheveled. His face was pale. Something was wrong.

He looked up.

"Batman," he said gravely. "Come with me."

He vanished into the stairwell. Minutes later, he returned with a file folder, handed it over, and said:

"Three days ago, S.T.A.R. Labs was hit. One man was taken. Harold Goldblum — lead chemist at GothCorp, top-tier expert in biochemistry, botany, toxicology, and weapons research."

He showed Bruce a photo — a old man with sharp eyes and grey hair. Looking Brainy. Dangerous.

Bruce felt his stomach drop.

"This should've been a red-alert," Gordon continued, "but at the time, Firefly was torching Elmer's Pier…"

Bruce nodded, finishing the thought:

'And Firefly was… climaxing while watching it burn, right?'

Bruce was stuck for a moment, then suddenly realized that in the original timeline, Batman had gone to the scene immediately, and Firefly to a pulp after which he fled in embracement.

But at that time I was busy… trying to activate the Alfred Protocol using toilet paper."

So instead, the police responded. And they got more than Firefly.

"...Also ran into Amygdala, Ogre, Almond Head, Two-Face..."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Almond Head?"

"Sorry — typo. I think the document meant Calendar Man."

Gordon exhaled. "Bane let too many Arkham freaks loose. Everything's been chaos. And Poison Ivy's movements got buried."

"But ten minutes ago, the forensics team recovered partial security footage from the STAR Labs attack."

He handed over another photo.

It showed Poison Ivy, standing beside a grotesque humanoid tree-creature — bark-skinned, towering, with vines wrapped around its limbs.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

"I know him. Jason Woodrue. He calls himself the Floronic Man.He tried to replicate the Swamp monster Alec Hollend but turned himself into a mutated avatar of plant life."

He stared at the image. "He's a minor emissary of The Green."

Gordon blinked. "The what now?"

Bruce explained:

"The Green is the elemental force of all plant life. Alongside The Red — which represents animals — and The Black, also called The Rot, which represents death and decay. They're ancient primal energies. Foundational forces of nature."

Gordon rubbed his temple.

"So this went from a city crime problem to a magic-fueled eco-terrorist attack?"

Bruce gave a small nod.

"Yes. And it's only going to get worse."