Jack Kadere draped his arm around Harley Quinn's shoulder, watching Barbara's eyes blaze with fury and the unmistakable urge to tear into him. He laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"You take advantage of someone, then claim it has nothing to do with you. You're a scoundrel. A degenerate. A complete ass."
Barbara's voice cracked with rage—clearly Jack's dismissal had struck a nerve.
"Scoundrel, degenerate, complete ass—sure, I'll accept all of that." Jack tilted his head, smile sharpening. "But what does any of it have to do with you?"
He let the question hang before continuing.
"You want to know why I'm laughing? Because right now, you don't look like someone defending her. You look like a woman I fucked and threw away, seething because I never called back." He shrugged. "I genuinely can't remember sleeping with you, though I admit it's exactly the kind of thing I'd do."
"I would never have anything to do with a man like you."
"So," Jack said, unmoved, "are you here to ask for my help saving Gotham, or just to yell at me?"
Barbara's jaw tightened. After a beat, she forced out: "Don't flatter yourself. It's not like we can't do this without you. I can save Gotham just fine on my own."
"No. You can't."
Jack pointed at her, voice flat with certainty.
"Last time, you used that clumsy little scheme to track me down because you wanted my help—either to deal with Bane or to find your crippled Batman. It didn't go well. By the way, skip the smoke bomb exit this time. It's wasteful and you look ridiculous doing it."
Beneath the cowl, Barbara's expression shifted—humiliation bleeding into shock.
Batman was crippled? How did he know?
"You could have walked in through the front door," Jack continued, "but instead you skulked onto a rooftop to brood in the shadows. That's Batman's habit. Now it's yours. So after all these days, you've come back—exposing yourself, letting Gotham know there's a Batgirl. Why? Either you're so confident you don't care if your enemies prepare for you... or you've hit a dead end."
He paused.
"Given that Batman's injury still hasn't healed and you're standing in front of me again, I'm going with option two. You, your friends, your whole little network—none of you believe you can save Gotham without me. That's why you're here."
Jack spread his hands. "So shouldn't you be on your knees, speaking sweetly, begging for my help? Who gave you the nerve to curse me out the moment you arrived?"
Barbara said nothing. She hadn't expected him to lay it out so precisely.
After their last encounter, she hadn't mentioned Jack to her father—it felt too embarrassing to explain. But as days passed and the situation in Gotham deteriorated, Gordon made the decision to rally every available asset. Barbara had no choice but to tell him about Jack Kadere.
Gordon knew the name. The man with perfect aim who drew hard lines and didn't flinch. He also knew his daughter's abilities—years of training under Batman himself. If Jack was even more capable than Barbara, Gordon wanted him involved. More people meant better odds. More experts meant Gotham had a chance.
That was why she was here now.
Before leaving, Barbara had warned herself repeatedly: don't lose your temper. Endure it. For the city. For the people.
She'd broken the moment she saw his face.
"Whew..."
Barbara exhaled slowly and met Jack's gaze.
"If you help us save Gotham, I'll apologize."
Jack clapped, slow and mocking. "That noble, self-sacrificing performance—really, it's shameless. So if I refuse, you won't apologize? Cursing me out was just free?"
Barbara opened her mouth to argue, but Jack cut her off with a wave.
"Don't bother explaining. Your apology means nothing to me. You want my help? Fine. Answer one question."
"Ask."
Jack's lips curled into something between a smirk and a grin.
"My little brother suddenly developed a high fever that wouldn't break. His body went stiff. I didn't know what to do, so I shook him hard, thinking, Brother, you have to hold on. Then he started convulsing and vomiting. After I wiped the vomit away, he went limp—listless, curled up in a ball. What illness is this?"
Barbara blinked.
A medical question?
She had prepared for tricks, traps, and impossible demands. Not this. High fever, stiff body, vomiting, then listlessness... A cold? Heatstroke? Was there a catch she was missing?
She turned the question over in her mind, searching for hidden meanings, but found none.
"If I answer correctly," she said carefully, "you'll help us save Gotham?"
"Yes."
"And if I'm wrong?"
"You get another question."
Barbara considered for a moment. "Is it a cold?"
"Congratulations—"
Jack's smile widened, bright and warm.
She got it? Just like that? Barbara's shoulders relaxed. She'd been bracing for some elaborate trap, but—
"—you're wrong."
Her eyes went wide. "What?"
If not a cold, then what?
She ran through the symptoms again. Nothing clicked.
"What's the answer?" she finally asked.