Alex sat in his office, bathed in the greenish glow of Pamela's vines snaking across the walls like living sentinels. The monitors hummed, displaying *Parahumans* threads and Floravita Industries' base cameras. The tribunal subpoena lay on the desk, its Department of Defense seal like a knife in the back. Two days until the hearing, and he knew the Court of Owls was behind it—a web of shadows aiming to crush Pamela and everything they'd built. Selina's flash drive, retrieved before her departure from Gotham, and Batman's PDF were his cards in this game.
The flash drive wasn't just one file, as he'd expected, but several folders: "Zombies," "Penguin," "Mafia," "Batsy," and… "Jacuzzi 2024." The first four screamed blackmail—Penguin, the mob, even Batman. But "Jacuzzi 2024"? His curiosity tugged at it like a magnet. A trap? Why would Cat keep *that* with her dirt?
He opened the "Zombies" folder. Inside, a video file, named like Selina had ripped it straight from a camera: *VID_20200617_234512.mp4*. He hit play.
The footage was shaky. A flashlight's dim beam danced across old brick walls, the sewer alive—damp, claustrophobic, breathing. Heavy, controlled breathing, not from fear but focus. Batman's voice never sounded, but his every step, every move, was precise.
The first figure emerged from the shadows silently. Then a second, a third. Seven in black. They wore antique body armor, hand-stitched leather and metal. But their movement was what chilled—jerky, painless, unhesitating.
One took a blow to the chest—his body bent but snapped back. Another's thigh was pierced—he didn't fall, just shifted his weight. They didn't attack like the living. They advanced like a machine, a pre-programmed script.
At 02:47—a gunshot. One took a bullet to the forehead, flinched, and kept moving. Slowly, relentlessly.
Alex felt not fear but a tightening tension, as if something watched through those eyes, beyond flesh.
At 04:10, Batman sidestepped, deployed a smoke pellet, and vanished into a passage. The zombies froze. Then, almost instantly, they turned—not with rage or frustration, but indifference.
They didn't pursue because there was no order. No purpose. They were reluctant tools, awaiting the next signal.
But Cat—she followed. The camera shook, footsteps echoed. At 06:31, the footage degraded, signal faltering. The final frame: a tunnel in the wall. Disappearing silhouettes. Rains Mansion.
Alex leaned back. His power raised red flags. This wasn't a fight. It was an order. Someone summoned them, they acted, then retreated. Like animals in a pen, returning to their cage when done.
He opened Batman's PDF. The first page was neutral. Then—notes, snippets from ancient journals, fragments overheard or extracted from those who'd crossed the Court of Owls.
1. "The Owl judges not with wrath. The Owl sentences with silence."
2. "Gotham must be cleansed through chaos."
3. "A Talon is not human. It is the glove the City wears."
4. "They are not alive. They simply haven't stopped moving."
5. "If you see their eyes, you're already on the list."
6. "A Talon does not speak. It remembers."
7. "Strike the heart—you'll find silence. But not an end."
The lines wove a near-religious aura around these beings. Alex sensed: they weren't just reanimated corpses. They were a cult, fused with the city's bones. Their purpose—preserve power. Punish. Contain. One, a Talon, was singled out by Batman.
The dossier tracked its movements across eras. In 1922, it killed a mayor. In 1951, a senator vanished. In 1986, a witness's home burned.
Accounts spoke of "a silent man with sharp fingers who wouldn't die." Different places, different victims, but Alex's power saw: the patterns aligned. Same path, same shadow.
The Talon wasn't just a zombie. It was an archival weapon, preserved across generations. Maybe the same one. Or copies. Or an essence, transferred.
Beneath Rains Mansion—a passage. Not logic, not his head, but a weight in the air, a point where details converged. Rains vanished in 1974. The mansion stood empty. Schematics showed the basement linked to sewer channels. A system—not a lair. An altar. A hub. A hive.
Alex set the flash drive down. Its contents were a challenge, not an answer. Now he knew: they didn't hide. They lived within. Deeper than streets. Deeper than fear.
***
Alex stood in the Floravita Industries base's hall, surrounded by mercenaries, their faces hidden under masks and night-vision goggles. Armor creaked, weapons glinted in the dim light. Pamela's vines coiled in corners like living guards, their green glow reflecting in her eyes. The air was thick with tension.
He clapped, the sound echoing through the hall.
"Listen up. We're heading into the sewers, to a hidden passage. They'll fight us—hard. And they're not human. Headshots, limb shots won't stop them. I don't know how they do it, but it doesn't matter."
Alex pulled out a crate of ammo, slamming it onto the floor with a clang. The mercenaries exchanged glances, their breathing humming through respirators.
"These are binding rounds. Hit a zombie—they'll be wrapped in vines. If we can, we study them, find weak points. They're not just unkillable—they're trained ninjas, strong, using poison. The leader has claws. But they're animals, no minds. Keep them at mid-to-long range. If they close in, we lose. Full armor, no exposed skin. Keep respirators on."
The mercenaries geared up: body armor, gloves, helmets with visors, respirators snug against faces. Some checked bolts, others tightened straps. Pamela stepped closer, her steps soft, but her eyes held worry.
"Didn't expect you to go," she said quietly.
"No choice," Alex replied, sweat cooling his temples under the mask. "I can spot traps, and we're out of time. Let's hope we don't run into Croc."
She nodded, fingers clenching, holding back tension. He scanned the team—twenty strong, faces hidden, eyes burning with resolve. Selina's video from the "Zombies (Court of Owls)" folder gave them tactics, but the sewers were *their* turf.
***
Gotham's sewers greeted them with dampness and stench. Old brick walls glistened with moisture, puddles sloshed under heavy boots, reflecting flashlight beams. The smell of mold and rotting waste hit hard, but respirators held. The tunnel was narrow, walls pressing in, footsteps echoing like a pulse. The mercenaries moved silently, tension crackling.
Alex led, his power scanning—every rustle, every glint on the walls. Pamela, mid-column, carried a backpack of vine seeds, swaying with her steps. Ross, the mercenary leader, brought up the rear, shotgun ready, his heavy tread reverberating. They reached a hidden passage marked with an owl engraving. Alex raised a hand, heart pounding, voice steady.
"From here, maximum focus. Once we open this, they'll know we're here."
Mercenaries nodded, green glows of night-vision goggles flickering in the dark. Pistols ready, armor checked, binding rounds loaded. Ross slammed a magazine in with a crunch. Alex signaled, and they opened the hatch. Metal screeched like a cry in the night, the darkness below stirring.
Halfway to the basement, three Talons lunged from the shadows. Their eyes—blank white voids—moved jerkily, like marionettes. Leather-and-metal armor gleamed in flashlight beams. Alex fired three binding rounds. Vines erupted from capsules with a crack, ensnaring the zombies. They thrashed like beasts in nets, claws scraping brick, but Pamela's vines held tight. One slammed against the wall, still moving, then collapsed, bound. Alex grabbed his standard pistol, fired at a head—blood sprayed, but the zombie kept twitching. Two more shots—on the fourth, it slowed, but didn't stop. A mercenary, face pale under his visor, whispered,
"Jesus, you gotta unload a mag into their heads to even slow 'em."
They pushed to the basement door. Alex nodded to the second-in-line, who rigged C4—not on the tunnel, to avoid collapse. A few traps—tripwires, pressure plates—but too few. These old bastards think a couple zombies and tricks can stop anyone? The blast shredded the door, brick dust stinging faces, heat searing skin through armor. They tossed smoke grenades, the tunnel filling with acrid fog. Respirators filtered it, but visibility dropped. Mercenaries took corners, holding formation. Forty zombies emerged from the haze, drawn to sound. Claws gleamed, movements mechanical, mindless. Binding rounds flew, vines snapping bodies into submission. One zombie grabbed a wall chunk and hurled it—Alex dodged, sweat dripping under his armor.
"Keep distance!" he shouted, voice muffled by the respirator. Pamela raised her hands, eyes glowing, vines bursting from the floor, binding two more. Mercenaries fired, bullets whistling, but the zombies thrashed in their restraints, unrelenting.
Then he appeared—the Talon. Double-ringed mask, movements like lightning. He tore through three mercenaries, claws slicing armor like paper. Blood sprayed, poison hissed in wounds. His target—Pamela. She stepped back, face steely with resolve. Plan B. The earlier smoke was Pamela's spores, inert until activated. Alex yelled,
"Pamela, now!"
She clenched her fists, and the spores surged faster than he expected. Vines sprouted from the Talon's armor, wrapping him like webbing. He thrashed, claws slashing air, but the vines held, slowing him. Zombies ignored internal interference, but the plants restrained him. Mercenaries unloaded, bullets hammering mask, armor, legs. The Talon dropped to his knees, eyes burning with emptiness. Ross finished him with a shotgun blast to the head, the mask cracking as he collapsed.
Alex rushed to the wounded mercenaries. One wheezed, face gray under his visor, poison coursing through veins.
"Pamela, help!"
She knelt, hands glowing green. Vines slithered into the wound, drawing out poison like living threads. The mercenary's breathing steadied, but he was out. Alex nodded to two others:
"Stay with them."
They pushed into the master's chamber. Empty, at first glance. But Alex's power caught on the disheveled bed—sheets crumpled, like someone just stood. Someone was here, hiding. He scanned, heart hammering. The fireplace. A dust-free tile stood out like a beacon. Click. The fireplace groaned open, revealing the mastermind.
Alex laughed, voice hoarse with adrenaline.
"Well, well. Howard Kane. CEO of Arkham Infrastructure. Overseeing old building restorations."
Kane's face paled, eyes darting like a cornered animal's. He knew the game was up.