Howard Kane, CEO of Arkham Infrastructure, sat before Alex on a crudely built stool, bound by Pamela's tough synthetic vines. He was sweaty, bloated, his ruddy skin glistening, gasping after feeble attempts to resist being dragged from the fireplace nook. He was the stereotype of a corrupt politician brought to life: panting after a few struggles, eyes darting like a cornered boar's, brimming with primal fear and rage.
After hauling him from the dusty hideout, Alex nodded to Pamela, his voice calm but his eyes burning with the cold fire of recent combat adrenaline:
"Give him the 'kiss of truth.' Time to find out who's the real owl in this nest."
Pamela's face twisted in pure, unfiltered disgust. Her green eyes flashed:
"What? No! I'm not touching that… that pig with my lips!"
Alex let out a short, dry chuckle:
"Fine, just breathe on him, Pamela. I don't care about the method. Just make this lump spill the truth, not his pathetic threats."
Kane, restrained by a mercenary, thrashed in his bonds. Sweat rolled down his cheeks, mixing with soot. His face purpled with impotent fury.
"You… you're all done for!" he spat, his voice hoarse, breaking into a squeal. "Hear me? I'll never talk! The Court of Owls will crush you like roaches! You'll be ground to dust!"
Classic cornered-rat cliché. Alex rolled his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his mask. Pamela, jaw clenched so tight her cheekbones stood out, focused. Her index finger glowed faintly with a venomous green hue. She brought it to Kane's lips, ignoring his attempt to recoil. Alex and the mercenary pinned his head firmly. Kane moaned, wheezed, trying to twist away, but exhaustion and fear broke his weak resistance. Pamela's fingertip brushed his damp, trembling lips. The toxin sank in instantly. Kane's eyes rolled back, turning glassy, vacant, stripped of will. He was a puppet on the strings of her poison now.
Alex tested the depth of control, a smirk tugging at his lips:
"Dance the Kalinka-Malinka."
Kane didn't move, but a flicker of wild, suppressed hatred sparked in his glassy eyes. Pamela, looking like someone forced to dig through filth, repeated the command, her voice icy and uncompromising:
"Dance the Kalinka-Malinka."
Kane groaned. His bulky frame wobbled, legs in soiled designer pants stumbling awkwardly. He huffed, grunted, sweat pouring as his pathetic attempt at a dance resembled a wounded hippo's convulsions. Seconds later, he collapsed, gasping for air. Muffled snickers rippled among the mercenaries; one hissed, "GREENGOTEM in action." Alex waved a hand:
"Alright, enough. Stop before you keel over early."
Time to get to work. His internal radar, a honed sense for patterns and lies, tuned in, catching every tremor in Kane's voice, every twitch of an eyelid. He started with the big one:
"Are you a member of the Court of Owls?"
Pamela echoed the question, her finger still aimed at Kane, maintaining the link:
"Are you a member of the Court of Owls?"
Kane's voice was flat, emotionless, like a bad speech synthesizer:
"Yes."
"What is the Court of Owls?" Alex's next question cracked like a whip.
Pamela repeated. Kane spoke, his words flowing evenly, chilling in their clarity:
"The Court of Owls is a secret society. It rules Gotham from the shadows. For centuries. They control the city through chaos. Through fear. Their goal—purge Gotham of weakness. Break the old, rotten order. Build a new one. Strong. Pure. They believe… the city must be forged in the fire of suffering. To become stronger. Only the strongest survive."
Alex nodded to himself, recalling lines from Batman's PDF: "Gotham must be cleansed through chaos." It checked out. He pressed on, diving into the grim heart of it:
"Who are these… Talons? How do you make them? This claw-wielding dead meat."
Pamela repeated. Kane's eyes remained empty, but his voice carried an echo of ancient horror:
"Talons… not zombies. Soldiers of the Court. Created… through ancient alchemy. Mixed with chemistry. An elixir. Base—rare minerals… herbs from the depths. Rewires bodies. Removes pain. Grants regeneration. Near… immortality. Selected from the elite. Trained as ninjas… for years. But the mind… suppressed. Erased. Only obedience remains."
"How many in the Court? Names. Surnames. Positions. Everyone you know." Alex's voice turned to steel, the room growing colder.
Pamela repeated. Kane shifted in his bonds, sweat dripping from his chin. The toxin squeezed out his secrets:
"The Court of Owls… a circle of twelve. The main ones. Names… hidden. Even from me. I know… three. Senator Arnold Wilson… lobbies their interests in Washington. Major General Elizabeth Roark… oversees military projects. 'Arkham-South'… her domain. Me… Howard Kane. CEO of Arkham Infrastructure. I mask… tunnels. Reconstruction… a cover. The rest… shadows. Grandmasters. Only titles."
"Proof?" Alex's gaze bored into him, his power catching any hint of deceit, but Kane's tremble was from exhaustion, not lies. "Where's the hard evidence for your fairy tale?"
Pamela repeated. Kane gave the key, monotone:
"Documents… in my office. Corner suite. Encrypted files… on Arkham servers. Access code… BatmanSUCKid69!@." Alex smirked internally, anticipating the password's idiocy. "There… tunnel schematics. Elixir contracts… shipments. Transfers… through OwlEye Solutions. Ritual recordings… in the catacombs… under Rains. In a safe… behind the fireplace."
"Is the Court behind the military tribunal against Ivy?" Alex zeroed in on their immediate threat.
Pamela echoed, her voice vibrating with barely contained rage, eyes flashing:
"Is it your hand reaching to break me?"
Kane nodded, his toxin-laced voice trembling, as if even the serum couldn't hide the scale of their treachery:
"Yes."
"Why?" Alex poured the weight of impending reckoning into the word.
Pamela repeated, fists clenched so tight her knuckles whitened. The vines on the office walls tensed, rustling, as if ready to impale the guest.
"Why do you want to destroy me?!"
Kane spoke, and his monotone carried a trace of fear toward her:
"Because you… are a threat. Your bioterrorism… your pheromones… your Floravita… disrupt control. You use plants… to impose your order. A green order. We need… chaos. Pure chaos. The tribunal… a way to remove you. 'Legally.' So the FBI… the press… don't dig deeper. Don't find them."
Pamela exhaled sharply, her face a mask of cold, pure anger. Alex held her back with a gesture, his voice icy steel:
"What would happen if Ivy showed up at the tribunal?"
Pamela repeated, her voice quaking with fury.
Kane's answer was grim:
"You'd be subdued, forced to serve the Court, or killed in an 'accident.' The tribunal is a trap to break or destroy you."
"How's your bird parliament funded? Money sources? Dirty streams?"
Pamela repeated. Kane spilled the last secrets:
"Shell companies… OwlEye Solutions. The main one. Money… from Gotham's old families. Trusts… inheritances… shadow funds. Corruption… in city hall. Military contracts… Arkham-South… a laundering channel."
"How do you stop the Talons?" Alex recalled the leaden weight of the sewer fight, bullets useless against the undead. "Their weaknesses? Any Achilles' heel for these walking corpses?"
Pamela repeated. Kane's answer was bleak:
"Slow them… possible. Destroy the brain… the heart… But kill… difficult. The elixir… near immortality."
Alex exhaled, heart pounding against his ribs. Each answer unraveled the Court's web but wove new threads of danger and conspiracy. Pamela stared at him, her gaze a storm of rage and iron resolve. The mercenaries at the door shifted, their visored eyes demanding action, retribution, forward momentum. Alex nodded to Pamela:
"Keep him here. Under control. We're not done with him. Ross! With me!"
The secret room behind Kane's bedroom fireplace was cramped, dusty, reeking of old paper and fear. A small, sturdy safe was embedded in the wall. Ross, wasting no time, cracked it open. The code—BatmanSUCKid69!@—worked. The safe clicked open. Inside, no gold, but a stack of neatly bound documents. OwlEye Solutions contracts with seals and signatures. Detailed Rains catacomb schematics, far more complete than Batman's. Ritual logs with dates and cryptic symbols. Bank transfer printouts to Arkham-South. Everything needed to turn Kane's fevered confessions into undeniable, deadly dirt on the Court. Alex flipped through the papers, feeling the cold metal of the safe under his fingers and the heat of victory in his chest. This wasn't just evidence—it was dynamite under the Court's web of lies.
Back at Floravita Industries, the base buzzed like an anthill post-attack. Wounded mercenaries, pale and grimacing, were rushed to the medbay. There, a strange symbiosis reigned: white-coated doctors worked alongside Pamela's plants. Slender vines, guided by her will, wove into wounds, siphoning Talon poison like living pumps while medics battled blood loss and injected antidotes. Alex heard muffled groans, the clink of tools, the hiss of equipment, but didn't stop. He marched to his office, carrying the heavy folder of spoils. Pamela's vines on the walls seemed to pulse calming green light, but the monitors' hum, ticking down time, screamed: less than a day and a half until the tribunal. The clock was louder than any explosion.
Alex fired up the terminal. His fingers flew over the keyboard, opening a chat with WhatmanPaper. Batman's handle glowed dimly in the contact list. Without preamble, Alex uploaded raw helmet-cam footage: tunnel combat chaos, grotesque Talons, Pamela's vines binding them, Kane's toxin-fueled confessions, and clear shots of the safe's documents. The video was locked with multilayered military encryption—no intercepts. He typed, short and sharp as an order:
GreenMistress ✅: Video package. Cipher NIGHTFALL-7. You've got 6 hours' head start. Then—public release.
The message sent. Alex closed the chat. He held no illusions about the Dark Knight's mercy. Batman knew what to do, but Alex didn't expect handouts. He opened a professional video editor. Work boiled. Mercenaries' faces—pixelated out. Voices—distorted. Focus on the eerie Talons, Kane trembling under toxin, and crystal-clear document shots—contracts, schematics, transfers. He added sharp, clipped subtitles, highlighting Kane's key phrases about the Court, the tribunal trap, and "cleansing through chaos." The video's title was blunt and provocative: Raid on the Fuckwits. It'd resonate with everyone—from Parahumans regulars to darknet randos. Final render launched. Now, they waited.