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"Even though a hedgehog may want to become close with another hedgehog. The closer they get, the more they injure each other with their spines. It's the same with some humans. The reason [Shinji] seems so withdrawn is because he's afraid of being hurt."
- Ritsuko Akagi (Neon Genesis Evangelion)
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<(Omniscient POV)>
"He's a monster. The Grim Knight doesn't stand a chance against him… does he?" Arnold Wesker muttered under his breath, glancing anxiously at the towering brute trying to intimidate Batman by his sheer size alone.
The truth was, Arnold Wesker had always been a timid man—a quiet, God-fearing citizen of Gotham who wanted nothing to do with the city's criminal underworld or its shady dealings. But even as a boy, he'd known that fate wasn't on his side. Life had dealt him blow after blow, even when he had tried his hardest to be a model citizen.
But the most drastic and chaotic change in his life came the day he was forced into the orbit of a villainous puppet named Scarface. It happened after he got locked up for accidentally killing a man in a bar fight—a fight that wasn't even really his fault. Regardless, from the first moment Scarface started talking to him, everything began to slowly fall apart. The wooden doll drove him to commit acts he never wanted to commit. It forced him to hurt people, to play his part in its cruel, criminal plans. And whenever Arnold tried to refuse, Scarface would threaten or manipulate him until he gave in to its schemes.
By now, Arnold Wesker had stopped hoping for freedom from Scarface. If he was honest with himself, he wanted that puppet behind bars, to pay for everything it had done—even if it meant he'd have to face punishment alongside it. He longed for quiet, for some glimpse of his old life, but deep down, he knew it probably wasn't in the cards for him anymore.
Because he understood that bringing Scarface in wasn't a job for an ordinary cop. And even if someone miraculously managed to do it, the doll would just pull some strings and be back on the street before anyone knew it. People always underestimated that little hunk of wood, just like they had underestimated Arnold his entire life. But the truth was unlike him, Scarface was clever… sharper and more charismatic than most would give it credit for. Honestly, the Dark Knight was the last hope Wesker had that Scarface might finally get what it deserved.
But right now, that hope seemed like a dying ember. Because Arnold knew what Sickle was truly capable of, especially after undergoing Dr. Hugo Strange's "Monster Man" enhancements and surgical augmentations. During previous experimentations, he'd seen Sickle crush steel beams in his hands, shrug off grenades without a scratch, and ignore acid as if it were cool rain. According to Hugo Strange himself, Sickle was his crowning achievement—the strongest biological weapon ever created with no equal... except for his brother, Mister Hammer, perhaps. Therefore, Arnold couldn't help but think Batman's odds of beating him were slim to none.
And true to Arnold's fears, no sooner had he finished wrestling with his thoughts than Sickle lunged forward, breaking the tense standstill as he swung his massive titanium scythe at the armored vigilante, moving so fast that Wesker barely registered the attack. The blade arced straight for Batman's neck, a strike meant to take his head clean off and end the fight in one vicious stroke.
But instead of the Dark Knight's head tumbling across the floor in a spray of blood—exactly the scene Wesker was bracing himself for—he watched Batman slip aside with effortless precision before a sleek cannon unfolded from the vigilante's shoulder and fired off half a dozen blazing red-hot shots at Sickle. Each blast burned so intensely that Wesker could actually feel the air sizzle even from dozens of feet away. And yet Sickle was able to take those shots on his bare chest with a rare smile on his face. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't about to go down without a fight.
***
<(Bruce Wayne POV)>
'He actually took those plasma shots head-on? These plasma rounds are designed to drop Xenomorphs in a single hit, and those things have solid polarized silicon for an exoskeleton.' I couldn't help but feel a jolt of mild surprise as I stared at Sickle's scorched chest, the sizzling flesh already beginning to knit itself back together.
The plasma hadn't even managed to burn all the way into his muscle tissue, let alone cause any fatal damage. At this rate, I'd probably have to pump fifty plasma shots into the same spot just to punch through and bring him down, which is saying something, considering my shoulder plasma cannon runs on compressed oxygen superheated by microwaves to generate plasma capable of cutting through mild steel.
Sure, I could've easily upgraded them to use nitrogen, argon, or even hydrogen for fuel, which would push plasma temps close to supernova levels. But I'd ruled that out long ago because of the sheer lethality and instability of such arms. I needed weapons I could use against criminals, not something that would turn living tissue to ash with a single shot.
"You look so strong... No, you're not strong. I'll kill you with my sickle!" Sickle snarled, flashing a hungry grin as he hefted his scythe again, drool glistening at the corners of his mouth like he genuinely wanted to eat me.
As the oversized sickle—which honestly looked more like a bizarre scythe—came swinging down toward me, I brought up my hand, activating the Holtzman shield from Dune around my entire body to intercept the strike. I also could've just evaded the blow, too, since speed was the one thing this so-called monster clearly wasn't naturally gifted with. But I knew ducking his attacks over and over without inflicting any real damage would be pointless, especially because I was running out of time thanks to the remote-controlled chemical bomb that was also set on a countdown for some reason.
As the swing of his scythe smashed into my shield with blinding speed and brutal strength, the Holtzman field around my arms flared into a visible and vibrating pale-blue light for a few seconds under the sheer force of the impact. Meanwhile, the floor beneath my metal boots split open, spiderweb cracks spreading through the tiles, proof of how much power Sickle had put behind that strike. 'Thank god nobody told him that the slow blade cuts the shield.' I thought to myself.
"I'll be confiscating that scythe now," I said in a level voice from behind my helmet, as I unleashed a repulsor blast from my palms aimed precisely at the section of his grip on the scythe. The raw concussive force of the energy strike ripped the weapon out of his hands, sending it clattering to the ground. But before he could even think of reclaiming it, I swept it away with a smooth kick, sending it skidding out of his reach.
Sickle, dim-witted or not, caught on to my tactic fast enough and lunged to punch me square in the face with an angry, betrayed look on his face. His bony fist crashed into the side of my helmet with everything he had, reminding me that Holtzman shields, just like slow-moving blades, didn't fare well with physical blows either, especially unarmed ones delivered with enough raw power.
'As effective as these shields are against most melee and ranged attacks in the middle of a fight, maybe it's time I started looking into stronger alternatives like kinetic barriers or even void shields.' I logged the thought away as I commanded my nanotech suit to form small, thick needles around the knuckles of my armor's gauntlet before driving my fist into Sickle's chest, targeting the exact same spot where his skin was already scorched because of my plasma bullets.
I even made sure to drop the Holtzman shield and channeled a solid surge of my Hamon-infused chi into the punch, knowing it would wreak havoc inside his body. And just as I predicted, within a second of impact, Sickle coughed up a mouthful of blood, with crimson liquid running from his nose too. My chi-sense confirmed it as well—that single strike of mine had just shredded a significant portion of his internal organs.
'That's the usual flaw with artificially enhanced or augmented beings. Most of these so-called mad scientists obsess over reinforcing muscles, bones, and skin… but nobody ever remembers to fortify the far more delicate internal organs.' I let out a quiet sigh and slammed my forehead into the giant's face, once again channeling a solid burst of Hamon-infused chi. It wasn't enough to inflict fatal damage on his brain, which was buried deep, well-shielded inside his augmented skull—but it should be more than enough to...
"ARGH!" Sickle howled, his voice cracking with raw agony, eyes flooding with tears as a searing, mind-shattering pain tore through his skull on top of the damage already ravaging his body. A few seconds later, the scream cut off, his eyes glazing over as his massive frame slumped, finally collapsing into unconsciousness.
Now that I'd finally dealt with the oversized grunt, I could shift my focus back to why I was here in the first place: disarming the bomb and making sure all these criminals ended up back in police custody where they belonged. My patience was wearing thin. It had been obvious for a while that this whole spectacle was nothing but a carefully crafted distraction meant to keep me tied up. My NZT-fueled mind could already piece together a pretty accurate picture of who was orchestrating all of this—and exactly what they hoped to achieve with the prison break and the assault on my conclave. So, currently, all I wanted was to find whoever was behind all of this and put my fist through their jaw just to vent my frustration.
'Now… where's that ventriloquist? I'm going to pry that detonator out of his puppet's cold, lifeless wooden hands… and maybe even break both his real ones so he can never so much as touch another puppet again for the rest of his miserable life. Multiple personality disorder or not, I have half a mind to leave him permanently, mentally disabled for life.' I muttered the thought silently after scanning the room and realizing Arnold Wesker was no longer in the warden's quarters. That little rat had quietly slipped away the very first chance he'd gotten.
***
<(Omniscient POV)>
"Run, ya blockhead, run! That sawbones turned out even dumber than I pegged 'im for. We gotta scram outta here an' put some real distance 'tween us an' this loony bin before we pop dat bomb an' finish the last piece o' the plan. 'Cause if we don't… he's gonna ice us both, see? I dunno 'bout yer sorry excuse fer a life, dummy, but I ain't lookin' ta wind up the punchline in that psycho's next joke—not even in my worst freakin' nightmares!" Scarface hollered, his wooden jaw rattling as he snapped at Wesker to hustle. "The Bat might pound us six ways from Sunday if he collars us, but lemme tell ya somethin'… he's capable o' dishin' out a whole lot worse. Ohhh, so much worse…"
The puppet swallowed hard, a sharp, nervous gulp echoing in the hall.
Arnold Wesker rarely agreed with Scarface on anything—at least, not deep down. But this was one of those rare moments where he couldn't help but be on the same page. He wanted no part of whatever punishment that lunatic would dish out if they failed to finish the mission. The mere thought of what might be waiting for them both was enough to make his skin crawl. So, really, he had only one option for now: to follow Scarface's orders and trigger the bomb once he was at a safe distance. But just as the ventriloquist and his puppet partner managed to put some distance behind them, the asylum's heavy electronic doors at the end of the corridor suddenly slammed shut out of nowhere.
"Aw, nuts! No! What da hell just happened? How…? O' course! It's that damn Warden's gizmo, dat's what! We were saps not ta think o' it! Them eggheads told us that machine's got somethin' they call 'admin rights' — anybody usin' it can run the whole joint like a freakin' speakeasy! The Bat's gotta be the one jammin' up the doors wit' it! We shoulda scrapped dat thing 'fore we blew this popsicle stand. Real boneheaded move, dummy… real boneheaded…" Scarface huffed, flicking his wooden hair aside in frustration. "C'mon, ya blockhead! Help me cook up another way outta here. Whaddaya expect, huh — that I do all the thinkin' around here?"
"Too late for that… He's already found us." Arnold Wesker sighed in defeat, glancing over his shoulder to spot a shadow moving steadily closer—a figure shaped unmistakably like a bat in human form. "We lost."
"No! We can't get pinched! I ain't goin' back ta no stinkin' cell, see? And I sure as hell ain't lettin' myself end up in some psycho's screwy games—or strapped ta some quack doc's butcher table! No freakin' way. He ain't takin' me alive, ya hear me? Dummy, quit fumblin' around an' fish that detonator outta yer useless pockets an' press it! Blow this whole joint sky-high, capisce? I'll take my chances!
Maybe da Bat's been messin' wit' the Warden's gizmo, but he sure as spit ain't crackin' this remote! Them lab-coat mugs said it's damn near unhackable wit' its rollin'-code RF-whatever-the-hell-tech. Aw, screw dis—why'm I wastin' my breath explainin' techie mumbo-jumbo ta a block o' wood like you? Just press da damn button! NOW! Ain't nobody takin' me alive ever again—ack!"
The puppet let out a crazed shriek, then went slack all of a sudden, crashing to the floor along with Wesker, whose whole frame went limp beside the puppet as well.
"Ugh! These two was yappin' so loud, they was makin' my freakin' ears bleed… I swear, I got a migraine the size'a Gotham!" purred a certain bleach-skinned dame from behind the now-unconscious ventriloquist before casually snatching the wireless detonator from his floppy, limp hand. "Oooh! Whatcha got here? Looks all fancy 'n important…" Harley chirped, eyes glittering as she waved the detonator toward the armored figure now standing directly in front of her. "This yours… Puddin'?" She flashed a grin big enough to split her face, looking like some lovesick schoolgirl offering her crush a box of chocolates on Valentine's Day.
[{(Image from Discord)}]
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(A/N:An extra big juicy chapter for my dear readers. Hope you enjoy it!)
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