BLACKLIGHT OVER GOTHAM
A passionate Prototype fan dies arguing on the internet about why the second game was an irredeemable dumpster fire—and wakes up on a morgue slab in Gotham City as Alex Mercer himself, complete with the full power of the Blacklight virus and the character development from the first game (because the second game never happened and he will die on that hill, again, for the second time).
Armed with the ability to consume living beings, shapeshift, run up walls, glide across skylines, shrug off bullets like mild inconveniences, and reshape his limbs into an arsenal of biological nightmares, Alex takes one look at Gotham's criminal underworld, its revolving-door asylum, its gallery of costumed psychopaths who keep escaping to murder more people, and the one man in a bat costume whose "no killing" rule has turned the city into an endless tragedy on repeat—and decides that the entire system needs to come down. All of it.
Crime families? Consumed. Corrupt politicians? Replaced. Arkham's revolving door? Permanently welded shut—from the outside. The Joker? Well, the Blacklight virus doesn't believe in recidivism.
Batman is about to have the worst year of his career, not because Alex is a villain, but because Alex is doing what Bruce has always refused to do—and he's terrifyingly good at it. He doesn't monologue. He doesn't grandstand. He doesn't leave survivors to testify. He simply solves problems with the cold, efficient, absolute finality of a living pandemic that has decided to take municipal governance personally.
The Justice League is concerned. The Bat-Family is scrambling. Amanda Waller is having an aneurysm. And every single villain in Gotham is learning, one by one, that there is something far worse than the Dark Knight lurking in their city's shadows.
Something that doesn't have rules.
Something that doesn't have limits.
Something that doesn't have mercy.
Gotham City is about to be cured of its sickness, whether it wants to be or not—and the cure might be worse than the disease.
