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The air in the private, sunken office of the Iceberg Lounge was still, quieted by the thick glass of the penguin tank. Nick—or Nolan Kross, as the paperwork insisted—stood before Oswald Cobblepot, feeling the strange, suffocating pressure of his new, fabricated identity. The black suit felt less like a uniform and more like a set of handcuffs.
Cobblepot was not alone. Flanking his desk were the two individuals Specs had referred to as "advisors," and they presented a bizarre dichotomy.
On the left was a man of cold, corporate elegance: Silas Thorne. He wore a suit that likely cost more than Nick's cash envelope, and his hair was slicked back, giving him the severe, predatory look of a financier. He held a tablet, his eyes constantly scanning, seemingly incapable of focusing on the present moment.
On the right was a woman who was the physical antithesis of Thorne. Dr. Lyra Dubois was in her late forties, dressed in a practical, unadorned black turtleneck and khakis. Her spectacles were perched low on her nose, and her hair was tied back in a messy bun. She possessed the quiet, intense stare of a scholar who saw the world not as it was, but as a series of encrypted puzzles.
"Nolan," Cobblepot began, his voice dry and precise. "You have proven yourself physically capable. Now, let us test your intellectual mettle. Meet my assets."
He gestured to the accountant. "Silas Thorne is my corporate acquisitions consultant. He launders the blood money, turns my stolen tech into clean revenue, and understands the supply chains of this city better than the mayor. He deals in modern power—money, influence, and the anonymity of the stock market."
Thorne offered Nick a brief, condescending nod. "Efficiency is merely a matter of minimizing ethical overhead, Mr. Kross. We are two of a kind."
Nick felt an instinctive, cold repulsion toward Thorne. This man was the embodiment of the exploiting class—the one who dressed the oppression in a necktie.
"And this," Cobblepot continued, gesturing with his umbrella toward the woman, "is Dr. Lyra Dubois. She is a cryptographer, a historian, and a specialist in forgotten histories. She finds the secrets others leave behind—data breaches, lost assets, and the past lives of people I need to control."
Dubois looked at Nick with genuine, piercing curiosity, unlike Thorne's disdain. "A pleasure, Nolan. I understand you have a unique problem concerning your early memories."
Cobblepot settled back, enjoying the triangulation. "The reason you are here, Nolan, is not just to take your next orders. It is to give Dr. Dubois the parameters she needs to begin your investigation. She is expensive, but she is thorough."
Nick felt a surge of hope. This woman was the key to the Warsaw Ghetto image, to the barbed wire and the German commands.
"My investigation requires discretion, Professor," Nick said, his voice dropping. "I need you to confirm certain, historical facts without attracting unnecessary attention."
"History is rarely interested in modern politics, Nolan," Dubois countered, adjusting her glasses. "What specific threads are you pulling on?"
Nick hesitated, glancing at Cobblepot. He couldn't reveal the full, terrifying truth of the magnetic power or the identity of Erik Lehnsherr. But he could offer the clues from his ghost-memories.
"I have fragments," Nick stated, keeping his gaze steady. "Languages: German, Polish, Yiddish. Themes: World War Two, concentration camps, and post-war displacement. I believe my earliest, most foundational identity is rooted in that specific history."
Dr. Dubois's professional interest sharpened. "A remarkable cognitive echo. It suggests a profound, life-altering trauma at an extremely early developmental stage. Are you looking for a family? Or a paper trail?"
"I am looking for a name," Nick said simply. "A life that matches those conditions. A child, perhaps, who survived those years and disappeared."
Cobblepot leaned in, his enthusiasm piqued. "You see, Doctor? A puzzle! Find him the name, Doctor. I want to know who my asset was so I can better control who he is."
Dr. Dubois gave a slow, deliberate nod. "It will be complex. The records from that period are intentionally obscured, scattered across hostile nations, and often fabricated. But it is possible. I will need the full context of your dreams, Nolan, when we meet next. Every detail of the barbed wire, the voices, the faces."
With the investigation underway, the meeting shifted to the next mission.
Silas Thorne took center stage, tapping his tablet. "This is where Nolan earns his upkeep. We have a problem with Sionis Industries—specifically, their subsidiary, Janus Technologies. They are developing a security sensor system that relies on micro-vibrational detection—in essence, it tracks the most minute kinetic interference in a closed environment."
Thorne's lip curled in disgust. "It's brilliant, and if implemented, it will make all clandestine operations in Gotham obsolete. Our current shipment routes would be immediately compromised."
"This is a strategic threat to my entire operation," Cobblepot emphasized. "I need you, Nolan, to retrieve the master calibration chip from the Janus R&D facility. Without it, the system is useless."
Nick listened, his mind already running the calculations. "Where is the facility? What are the defensive measures?"
"It's on the outskirts of the Financial District—a new, high-tech structure," Thorne replied, pulling up a schematic on the screen behind the desk. "The defenses are formidable. Laser grid, pressure plates, sonic sensors... and this new vibrational detection is the problem. It can detect a change in air pressure caused by a sudden step. Even the Batman hasn't cracked it."
Thorne paused, a faint challenge in his voice. "We can't send anyone with a heavy footprint. Any use of force—explosives, heavy tools, or even a sudden magnetic fluctuation—will trigger a high-level corporate security response, followed by the GCPD and, inevitably, him."
Nick understood the implicit instruction. The mission was tailor-made for his skills, but it presented a new, terrifying constraint: absolute silence and control. Any magnetic flare, any display of the raw, violent power he had just discovered, would fail the mission and expose his true nature to the world.
He had to be silent, weightless, and surgically precise—the perfect 'Nolan Kross.'
"The facility layout and security codes," Nick demanded, cutting straight to the operational requirements.
Thorne smirked, appreciating the professionalism. "They will be sent to your secure apartment. You have until midnight tomorrow. The chip needs to be in my hands before the Sionis board meeting."
Nick returned to his apartment, the mission parameters already mapped out in his mind. The conflict was no longer merely ethical; it was existential. He was being paid to safeguard the criminal ecosystem, and he had to use his power without using it—a terrifying test of control.
He retired to the steel room, the only place he felt truly safe, and began to practice. He placed a feather on the steel stool, his newest, most delicate test subject.
He did not lift it. He did not pull it.
He willed the subtle, infinitesimal shift in the room's magnetic field to create a column of upward pressure directly beneath the feather, allowing it to gently float in the air, suspended by an invisible current. This required control so refined it was practically spiritual.
He succeeded. The feather hovered, stationary and perfect. He moved it, an inch left, an inch right, slowly, silently.
Absolute control. Absolute discretion.
He then increased the challenge. He commanded the steel pipe on the floor to roll toward him. Instead of jerking it with a raw surge of power, he gently tugged it, the metal scraping softly against the floor. He manipulated the friction between the metal and the concrete, reducing it to almost zero, allowing the weight of the steel to be moved with minimal effort and sound.
For hours, he worked, the focus absolute, the exhaustion building, until he could move metal with the silence of thought. The ghost of Erik Lehnsherr might command armies of steel, but Nolan Kross commanded the silence of the field.
Later that night, the inevitable happened.
He was pouring over the schematics of the Janus facility, memorizing the security grid patterns, when he felt a sudden, profound shift in the energy of the city.
He went to the window, drawn by the distant, familiar sound of wailing sirens and the flicker of a powerful searchlight.
Far in the distance, high above the gleaming towers of the Financial District, a massive, swirling column of smoke and debris was rising from a confrontation on a rooftop.
And then, he saw him.
A massive, black silhouette, the profile instantly recognizable from the Gotham Gazette and the casual gossip of the streets: The Batman.
The Dark Knight was engaged in a brutal, chaotic skirmish against what appeared to be a squad of masked, high-tech mercenaries. The fight was violent, loud, and spectacular—the antithesis of everything Nick was trying to be. The Batman moved with punishing, direct force, relying on heavy armor, gadgets, and sheer, indomitable will.
Nick watched the destruction—the exploding glass, the crumbling concrete, the screaming sirens—and the dichotomy of his existence crystallized.
Cobblepot: The Oppressor, offering control and knowledge.Batman: The Vigilante, imposing justice, but with reckless, attention-grabbing destruction.
The noise of the fight faded as the Batman subdued his foes, melting back into the shadows. Nick returned to his desk, the silence of his apartment heavy with the memory of the chaos.
He had to be better than both of them. He had to be the quiet force. He had to use his power to enforce justice, not chaos, and certainly not to empower the criminals. But first, he had to survive.
He looked at the feather, still suspended above the steel stool, held up by his perfect, invisible will.
He had a mission for Cobblepot that would save his life. He had a mission for Dr. Dubois that would save his soul. And he had a purpose that was being shaped by the silent, powerful memories of Erik Lehnsherr.
The stage was set. Tomorrow, Nolan Kross would attempt the impossible retrieval.