THE DEATH KNELL

The Batcave was vast, a cavernous labyrinth of shadows and secrets. The only sound that filled the air was Victor's voice, her excited shouts reverberating through the stone walls like an echoing anthem of triumph. She stood before the camera, her energy unwavering, determined to immortalize today's date as a turning point—a lucky number she would remember forever.

She had survived Deathstroke, an encounter that should have spelled certain doom. But more than that, she had unearthed truths darker than she had ever imagined, secrets lurking in the depths of Gotham like monsters beneath the surface of a frozen lake. Today's revelations rivaled those of the past year, cementing her conviction to pursue journalism with an even stronger resolve.

But for Barbara Gordon, this was no victory.

She had always believed in Batgirl. A hero. A symbol of justice. A beacon of hope for Gotham in its darkest hours.

But now? Now, she wasn't sure anymore.

There was something unsettling about Batgirl—an intensity, a detachment. A darkness that ran deeper than the shadows she lurked in. She didn't trust anyone. Her entire existence was a fortress of secrecy.

And then there was the surveillance system.

Barbara stood before the towering array of screens, displaying live feeds of Gotham's streets, rooftops, alleys—every corner of the city laid bare under Batgirl's watchful eye. The sight sent a hollow feeling through her chest, a gnawing unease that clawed at her perception of the hero she once admired.

It felt like watching an idol crumble.

From across the room, Slade Wilson studied her. He was observant—always reading people, dissecting them like a battlefield strategist calculating his next move. He noticed the way she hesitated, the way her fingers hovered over the keyboard instead of typing.

He waved a hand in front of her face.

"Hey. I said, if you're planning to honor your girl's hunch, shouldn't you check the license plate first? Gordon's still waiting for us to rescue him."

Barbara blinked, shaking off the fog in her mind.

"Uh, right. Give me a second."

She inhaled, steadying herself, and entered the engraved plate number from Gordon's glasses into the system.

Whatever Batgirl was, she was just another person in a mask and a costume. And yet, Barbara had once believed in her. She had been so naive.

Regardless of where Batgirl stood on the moral spectrum, one thing was undeniable—her surveillance system was unparalleled. The moment Barbara finished inputting the data, the vehicle's registration details lit up the massive central screen.

The name attached to the car meant little; it was likely an alias, a disposable identity. The real value lay in its movement patterns.

Even if the system pulled no useful information from today, it could analyze past routes. Where the car had been parked. Where it had refueled. Where it had appeared repeatedly. Every journey left a footprint, and with two Deathstrokes on the case, they would find something.

No one could evade Gotham's hidden eyes forever.

The system processed the data, cross-referencing it with a network of traffic cameras, gas station logs, and parking records. The massive screen split into dozens of smaller windows, each one playing high-speed surveillance footage. The software would filter out irrelevant information, isolating details that mattered.

Slade Wilson watched, arms crossed. His worst fears hadn't come true—yet. But when the final location appeared on the map, his stomach dropped.

No. Not there.

He exhaled, shaking his head.

In a city filled with countless places to hide, why did it have to be there?

Barbara frowned, noticing his reaction. "What? What's wrong with this location?"

She turned her attention to the map, zooming in on the marked area. The name flashed across the screen:

Indian Hill.

At first glance, it was nothing more than a scrapyard near Gotham's East River Terminal. But history had a different story to tell.

Before Gotham had risen from the earth, the land belonged to the Indigenous tribes who once called it home. As the city expanded, the land was taken, its sacred grounds exchanged for a string of numbers on a check. Some said their descendants moved to Las Vegas, built casinos, and became rich. Others claimed their ghosts still roamed beneath the city, whispering in the wind.

No one remembered who had purchased the land after that. No one cared.

What remained now was a graveyard of metal—a final resting place for Gotham's abandoned vehicles.

Towering stacks of rusted cars formed metallic hills, waiting to be crushed into cubes and melted down for scrap. Gotham's forgotten souls found shelter here, huddled inside hollowed-out husks, shielding themselves from the cold. Fires burned in old oil drums, flickering in the night like dying stars.

To the city's gangs, Indian Hill was worthless. There was nothing to steal, nothing to exploit. Even Gotham's most desperate thieves wouldn't waste their time. What could they possibly take from the homeless? Fleas? Bedbugs?

Barbara couldn't understand Slade's reaction.

He and Cindy had mentioned Arkham Asylum and Blackgate Prison before without flinching. Those were places of nightmares.

But a junkyard?

Even Cindy looked confused. "Seriously, Slade? You're telling me this place bothers you?"

Slade didn't answer immediately. He adjusted the armor plate on his elbow, a rare show of unease.

He wasn't from this world.

But he knew what lay beneath Indian Hill.

In the main DC universe, Indian Hill had been a covert research facility—a relic from the aftermath of World War II. The government had built it for one reason:

Weapons.

Biochemical. Genetic. Unnatural.

And this wasn't just Gotham.

This was the Dark Multiverse.

That meant whatever Indian Hill had once been, it was worse now.

If the facility was still active...

Then beneath those rusting cars, experiments were continuing in secret.

Genetic monstrosities. Mutated abominations. Viruses with the potential to wipe out entire populations.

Slade and Cindy could handle themselves. But Gotham's 8 million people?

They were walking on a razor's edge.

If the city fell, it wouldn't matter who was behind it.

Briss Wayne—Earth-11's Batman—would fall with it.

Atlantis had drowned Gotham before. She had become The Drowned.

If the city was consumed by a biochemical plague, she would become The Poisoned.

And if Indian Hill held something worse? Something unstoppable?

She would become something else entirely.

Slade's thoughts snapped back to the present.

Falcone had set the League of Assassins on a collision course with Indian Hill.

If Slade and Cindy moved first, they risked waking a nightmare.

If they waited, Gordon might not survive.

A delicate balance.

Barbara and Cindy exchanged glances, sensing Slade's hesitation. They didn't press him—not yet.

Finally, Slade sighed. He kept his explanation brief.

"In my world, Indian Hill was a lab. A place where things were created that shouldn't exist."

Cindy tensed. "What do you mean by 'not good'?"

Slade's expression darkened. "In this reality, magic is also part of military experiments. If someone fused technology with sorcery, we don't know what's waiting down there. Could be magical zombies. A cursed virus. Something worse."

Barbara paled. Cindy exhaled sharply.

Gotham's criminals had never been the real monsters.

The true horrors were the ones hidden beneath the surface.

And now, they were walking straight into it.

Slade smirked, trying to lighten the mood. "If you want good news, I've got some."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

He pulled out his flask. "I brought whiskey."

Barbara rolled her eyes. "You're the worst."

Cindy sighed. "We're really doing this, huh?"

Slade nodded.

And with that, they stared at the map, knowing Gotham's fate rested on their next move.