Chapter Text
The night air is heavy with the scent of gasoline and rain-soaked concrete, the kind of Gotham atmosphere that clings to your lungs no matter how high above the street you sit. Perched on the ledge of a crumbling office building, All-Star blends into the shadows. His suit gleams faintly purple when the city’s neon bleeds across the rooftops — a subtle signal of who he is, and who he’s trying to be.
Across the avenue rises the Thorn Casino. The place looks almost out of place in Gotham, as if it was ripped from Las Vegas and dropped onto crime-stained streets. Its facade glitters in gold and sharp white lights, stretching skyward like it’s daring the city to pull it down. Sleek black cars and stretch limos are jammed into every space of the circular driveway, engines purring as chauffeurs hold umbrellas for their passengers. On the front steps, men in crisp tuxedos and women in shimmering gowns glide through the glass doors, laughter carrying over the hum of traffic.
From up here, Malachi can count at least a hundred guests entering every few minutes — Gotham’s elite rubbing elbows with business moguls from Metropolis, star reporters from Central City, even a senator or two from Washington. The Thorn is the kind of place where every handshake hides an agenda, and every smile masks the possibility of blood on the floor before the night is over.
Malachi’s eyes narrow. His mask’s lenses sharpen the scene in crisp digital overlay: movement scans, license plate IDs, the faint hum of wireless signals bouncing in and out of the building. It’s a perfect night for trouble.
Then his comm crackles in his ear, grounding him back to the moment. It's Nightwing’s voice: “How are things looking?”
Malachi shifts slightly on the ledge, his boots scraping faintly against the concrete as he scans the streets below. Outside the casino’s glowing entrance, the press of Gotham regulars is thick — half gawking tourists, half desperate citizens hoping for a scrap of attention from the men and women walking past them in thousand-dollar suits. Phones flash in the night, paparazzi calling out names, everyone trying to catch a moment of borrowed glamour.
He sweeps his gaze across the block, noting how it clogs with parked cars like arteries about to burst. The surrounding streets, though, are eerily barren — no traffic, no foot patrols, just silence. Too clean. Too planned.
“Crowd’s bigger than I was expecting,” Malachi mutters, adjusting the line launcher at his hip, like it’s just routine. “You didn’t tell me Gotham invited half the country.”
Nightwing’s voice hums back through the comm, dry but steady. “That’s because it isn’t just Gotham. You’ve got business sharks from Metropolis, media kings from Coast City, even a few senators pretending they don’t know whose casino they’re walking into. Everyone who wants to look powerful, or at least shake hands with someone who is.”
Malachi arches a brow beneath his mask, pulling a set of sleek binoculars from his belt. “And what are they actually here for?”
“Just a gala,” Nightwing replies, matter-of-fact. “Rich people showing off to rich people. Bruce would’ve been inside smiling through it if I didn’t need him running backup for you. Either way, it's a distraction to transport that package.”
Malachi smirks at that, unfolding the binoculars as he braces a zipline hook against the ledge. “So… cocktail party on top, secret mission down below. Got it.”
The binoculars flicker alive in his hands, his thumb nudging through settings — night vision, heat scan, wall-penetration. He tunes through the tiers until the glittering facade of the Thorn melts away, layers of steel and concrete peeling back until the basement level sharpens into view.
His eyes narrow. Dozens of heat signatures pop into focus — armed men pacing in tight rotations, rifles slung across their chests. At the center of it all sits what they're after, the package: a single white van. Its sides are marked with a rough, unmistakable emblem: a jagged Joker’s grin painted in dripping violet.
Malachi’s jaw tightens. “You figure out what’s inside yet?”
Nightwing doesn’t hesitate. “No. But whatever it is, that van’s set to roll out in thirty minutes, give or take. That’s your guy's clock.”
Malachi exhales through his nose, the sound half a sigh, half a muttered complaint. “Does she really have to come with?”
On the other end, Nightwing chuckles, a light sound, but one carrying that familiar edge of discipline Malachi can never quite shake off. “Relax. Jason insisted. She needs the exposure to doing things our way instead of the Red Hood way. And—” his tone dips into that infuriatingly patient mentor voice, “—the two of you need to work on getting along.”
Malachi tilts his head back against the stone ledge, rolling his eyes even though his father can’t see him. “Please. The only reason she’s here is to make sure I don’t screw up again.”
There’s silence for half a beat before Nightwing answers, steady and sure. “You’re wrong. I’ve got no doubt you could stop that van without a single complication on your own. But Thawne’s been quiet for months. Too quiet. Whatever’s inside that truck, and whoever’s lurking in that gala, we can’t predict it. Not even Bruce would go at this one solo.”
Malachi finds himself smiling faintly in spite of the weight pressing down on his shoulders. His father’s faith isn’t something he takes lightly. “Nice vote of confidence, Dad. Still doesn’t mean I have to like her.”
“Consider it character development,” Nightwing says dryly.
Malachi huffs a short laugh, then angles his binoculars back toward the glowing casino windows. “What about Thawne himself? He in there? It’s his casino.”
“No,” Nightwing says immediately, then adds, “But scanners picked up his son.”
Malachi blinks, lowering the binoculars just slightly. “His son? Eobard has a son?”
“I’m sending the file to your HUD now. Don’t get distracted—”
A soft click of heels lands behind him on the rooftop, followed by the faint scrape of leather shifting against leather. Malachi doesn’t need to look. He knows. He groans under his breath. “She’s here.”
When he finally glances back, she’s stepping out of the shadows with the ease of someone born to them. Her outfit is unmistakably Jason’s legacy—armored plating over a tactical bodysuit, slim and efficient, shaded in black with crimson accents cutting across the chest and forearms. Two pistols ride comfortably at her hips, gleaming faintly under the rooftop lights. A red mask curves over the lower half of her face, molded tight and sharp, leaving only her sharp eyes visible above it. The hood itself is drawn up, shrouding her features, though strands of jet-black hair spill down in uneven waves past her jawline.
Nightwing’s voice returns in Malachi’s ear, warm with a trace of amusement. “Good luck with the mission.”
Malachi pushes up from his crouch, shaking his head with a reluctant grin. “Thanks, Dad.”
Malachi’s eyes narrow as he studies her. The rooftop light catches on the crimson mask covering her mouth, and for a moment he thinks she’s smirking even before she actually does.
“Xochitl,” he says flatly.
“Malachi,” she returns, stepping up beside him with casual confidence. Her boots make no sound against the gravel of the rooftop, and when she turns, her gaze immediately lands on the zipline harness cinched tight around his waist.
“You have a harness for me?” Her voice is dry, already knowing the answer.
“Nope.” Malachi doesn’t even look at her as he finishes knotting the rope to his grappling gun, giving it a sharp tug for security. “I wasn’t expecting this to be a duo mission.”
Xochitl tilts her head, that half-hidden grin tugging again at the corners of her eyes. “What? The Great All-Star wasn’t expecting help on a mission like this?”
Malachi exhales sharply, a sound close to a laugh but not quite. He rolls his eyes, straightening as he slots the line into place. “I don’t need help. Dad just thinks I do. And your dad doesn’t trust you to go on your own missions.”
Her smirk falters, the crease of a frown slipping into her expression. “Funny,” she says, arms folding over her chest, “because we’ll be on two totally separate tasks.”
That makes Malachi pause. He lifts an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder at her. “What?”
Xochitl shifts her weight to one hip, her hood dipping low over her eyes. “I’m here under orders. My dad wants me to capture Thawne’s kid. You’re going after the package.” She holds his gaze for a beat, sharp and unblinking. “Speaking of… you’ve got the file, don’t you?”
Malachi’s jaw tightens. His frown deepens, a mixture of irritation and grudging relief twisting through him. Irritated that he wasn’t told she’d be working a parallel angle. Relieved that his part of the mission would stay clean. Solo.
Wordlessly, he lifts his grappling gun, aims, and fires. The hook sails across the gap with a metallic thunk, burying itself into the casino roofline. The rope goes taut as he secures it to his belt clip.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, a hidden compartment pops open. A small flash drive glints under the dim rooftop glow. He plucks it free and flips it underhand toward her.
“Here.”
Xochitl catches it without effort, tucking it into her utility belt.
“Just stay out of my way,” Malachi adds, gripping the line and giving it one final test pull. His boots grind into the ledge as he steps up, then—without waiting for her response—he pushes off and slides down the zipline in a clean arc toward the casino roof.
The wind snaps past his ears, the city blurring below, the sound of the gala’s music drifting faintly upward as he closes in on his target.
~~~~~
Xochitl exhales a long, pointed sigh, her breath fogging faintly in the night air. “Boys,” she mutters under her breath, the word carrying both annoyance and amusement. She slips the flash drive into the slot in her wrist compartment.
With a soft whirr, the device hums to life. A pale-blue hologram flickers into existence above her arm, light washing over her mask. Instantly, a series of video clips swirl into frame, orbiting in a slow carousel around her.
At the center, the image of a blonde, curly-haired boy about her age appears. His grin is wide, camera-ready, the kind of smile rehearsed from countless posts.
Her father’s voice crackles through the projection, steady and precise.
“Son of Eobard Thawne, Walker Thawne-Scobell. Age eighteen. Spawn of the Reverse Flash.”
The hologram shifts: a press conference clip fills the air, Eobard Thawne himself at a podium, cameras flashing wildly. Behind him, a younger Walker stands stiffly, waving awkwardly at the crowd.
“He was revealed to the Justice League—along with the rest of the world—a few months after Eobard declared his retirement to focus on his business, the Thorn Casino.”
The projection rotates. Now it’s Walker again, this time in grainy clips from social media: a phone screen scrolls past TikTok videos. Walker dances, lip-syncs, and mugs for the camera. Comments scroll in real-time: ‘Thatboywalker 🔥🔥’ … ‘marry me omg’ … ‘Reverse Flash’s kid looks fine as hell’.
“Walker has grown popularity online under the persona Thatboywalker,” the voiceover continues, “where he first went viral on TikTok before spreading to other platforms. Now he’s become a staple in modern media.”
The hologram flickers again. A screenshot of Thorn Casino’s website floats beside clips of Walker hyping it up to millions of fans. His logo appears—stylized lightning bolts in gold and black.
“While he is the son of the Reverse Flash, he has not been directly linked to any crimes. Speculation online suggests he manipulates his fans into supporting Thorn Casino, but nothing has stuck.”
The image shifts to security footage: the Thorn Casino lit up tonight, Walker greeting guests on a crimson carpet, shaking hands with Gotham’s elite. His easy charm practically radiates through the grainy image.
“Now, as the host of this party, he may prove to be an ally of the Joker. If true, it would confirm that Eobard has never truly left villainy—only hidden behind business ventures.”
The hologram rewinds through archived footage of the Justice League council room. Files stamped PROJECT: LEGACY flash across the projection, filled with headshots of various offspring of known villains. Walker’s file lingers the longest, a red “CLOSED” stamped diagonally across it.
“He was the main offspring that kickstarted the Justice League’s Legacy Protocol. But he was released when no evidence could tie him to a crime.”
The voice drops lower, deliberate.
“Now, with probable cause, he is to be captured and brought to the League for interrogation.”
Static trembles across the hologram, and new text scrolls across the top in bright crimson: WARNING.
Clips of yellow lightning arcs across the projection—Reverse Flash at full speed, blurred and deadly.
“Though Walker has not been seen publicly using speed abilities, it is highly probable he inherited them. Extreme precautions are advised.”
The image zooms in on a League-issued Control Collar, sleek and black, a faint blue light pulsing at its center. A schematic expands beside it, labeling power-suppression emitters.
“The Control Collar is to be clipped around his neck immediately upon contact to suppress potential metahuman abilities. This mission must be handled in stealth. Detection risks catastrophic exposure.”
The projection flickers one last time, the voiceover replaced by a line of text scrolling across the bottom, almost casual compared to the debriefing tone:
P.S. — Good luck, Xo. And be careful. This guy’s a flirt.
A laugh escapes her before she can stop it, muffled under the mask. The corner of her mouth tugs upward, a faint smile breaking her otherwise steady demeanor.
She flicks her wrist, collapsing the hologram into nothing but dark sky again. Her fingers flex once, then curl into a fist as she rolls her shoulders and tilts her head side to side, the joints in her neck cracking sharply in the quiet.
The city sprawls beneath her, Thorn Casino gleaming gold like a beacon, her target somewhere inside.
She breathes in deep, steadying. Game face on.
Xochitl tightens the crimson-marked harness around her waist, double-checking the clips with quick, practiced tugs. The name Crimson etched along the strap glints faintly against the rooftop floodlights below, a reminder of the identity she’s still trying to carve out for herself, separate from her father’s shadow. With one last glance down at the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns clustering outside the Thorn Casino, she exhales and clicks the tether into place.
The descent begins in a rush. The steel cable hums under the pressure of her weight, a vibrating song of tension and speed. Wind claws at her hood and pulls her black hair loose, strands whipping across her mask as gravity takes hold. The city lights blur beneath her in streaks of gold and white, and for a moment, she feels like she’s flying—free, reckless, unstoppable. It lasts only seconds, but her stomach flips with the thrill.
Then comes the landing. At the last instant, Xochitl bends her knees, tucks into a roll, and hits the rooftop with a thud softened by precision. The momentum carries her once, twice across the gravel before she comes up steady on her boots. No stumble, no flinch. She smirks behind the mask. Hours of drilling on rooftops with Jason pay off.
It’s then she spots it: a black duffel bag propped neatly against the rusted side of an air vent, a yellow sticky note slapped across the top. Her eyes narrow at the scribbled words—For Crimson. Nightwing’s neat handwriting, all business, all foresight.
She crouches, unzipping the bag. Inside lies a perfectly pressed business suit, sleek and fitted, paired with a shimmering gold masquerade mask whose ornate swirls catch the moonlight. Xochitl sighs, a dry laugh catching in her throat. “Stealth,” she mutters, the word more sarcastic than reverent. Still, she peels out of her vigilante attire, folding each piece of armor and cloth with care before sliding into the disguise. The fabric is cool against her skin, and the mask, once slipped over her face, erases any trace of the girl beneath. From Crimson the vigilante, she becomes Leah Luthor, another face in a sea of Gotham’s elite.
Standing now as someone else entirely, she takes a long breath through her nose, steels herself, then drops smoothly off the roof’s edge. She lands in the alley with a muffled thump and straightens her jacket, adjusting her cuffs before stepping into the glow of the casino’s floodlit front.
The crowd outside is thick and buzzing, but her stride is sharp, confident. In the tailored suit, with her gold mask gleaming, no one questions her. The flashes of cameras burst around her like fireworks, capturing her in pixels she knows will end up on social media feeds within the hour. Random photographers shout out, trying to guess her identity, but she only tilts her chin up, letting them wonder. And though she won’t admit it out loud, the attention feels good—better than crouching in shadows, better than being unseen.
At the entrance, though, her momentum stalls. A burly guard steps forward, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the night. He lifts a clipboard, posture all suspicion.
“Name?” he asks, voice clipped.
Xochitl presses her lips together for a half second, then parts them into a confident smirk. “Leah Luthor,” she replies smoothly, just as Nightwing had instructed. She makes it sound natural, practiced—like she’s always belonged here.
The guard studies her for a beat too long, but then, with a curt nod, he steps aside. “Welcome, Ms. Luthor.”
And just like that, she’s in.
The moment Xochitl steps inside, the noise hits her like a wave. The Thorn Casino glows with gold, every surface polished until it gleams. Chandeliers drip crystal light from the vaulted ceiling, spilling a warm shimmer across the vast hall. Water fountains shoot arcs of glittering spray into the air, their rhythmic splashes competing with the hum of a live string quartet tucked into one corner. Roulette wheels spin, dice clatter across felt tables, and dealers call out bets with crisp, confident voices. The crowd is a dense sea of tuxedos, gowns, and gilded masks, moving in fluid currents between the bar, the gaming tables, and the twin staircases that sweep upward in elegant curves to the second floor.
Xochitl scans the room, eyes sharp behind her mask. No sign of Walker yet—not that she expected otherwise. People like him always made an entrance when they felt like it, when the room was most ready to notice. Fine. She’s patient. She can wait.
For now, blending in is the safer play. She threads her way through the throng with practiced ease, heels clicking softly against the marble, until she reaches the bar stretched along the back wall. The counter gleams under soft lighting, lined with crystal bottles stacked in perfect symmetry. She slips onto a stool and orders something light, just to look the part.
Her gaze drifts as she sips, her lip curling faintly. The whole place feels suffocating. The laughter is too loud, every chuckle sharpened by greed. The clink of coins, the shuffle of cards, the casual throwing away of thousands of dollars on a single hand—disgusting. These people revel in excess, in the illusion of control, when really, half of them are just walking targets. Hosting a gala like this in Gotham is practically an open invitation to chaos. She can already imagine it—gunfire, screaming, the chandeliers crashing down in a shower of broken glass. Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if it happened. The only thing that makes sense for pulling something like this off in Gotham is distraction. A cover. Something worth hiding. Like smuggling a package for the Joker right under the noses of the city’s elite.
Her train of thought is interrupted when movement catches her eye. Another girl—same age, same mask, same name—glides into the room. Xochitl’s stomach drops, though outwardly she keeps her expression cool. The real Leah Luthor. Daughter of Lex himself, with long black braids cascading down her back and a sleek, shimmering dress that probably cost more than Xochitl’s entire wardrobe combined. She wears her golden mask like a crown, her posture dripping entitlement.
Leah spots her almost immediately and crosses the floor with a curious smile. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, voice smooth but edged with an intrigue that borders on suspicion. “I’m Leah.”
For a moment, Xochitl considers lying—but what good would it do? The name’s already blown. So she lifts her glass and answers simply, “Xochitl Gomez.” A half-truth, but close enough. No need to drag Todd into this.
Leah tilts her head, lips curving. “Pretty name. Enjoy the night, Xochitl.” She lingers just long enough to make the moment feel sharp, like she’s filing it away, then turns with a flutter of her dress and disappears into the crowd.
Xochitl exhales, resisting the urge to rub her temples. Close call. Too close. She shifts in her seat, scanning the upper levels again—and there he is. Walker. Sitting casually at a balcony table, flanked by two older men in suits, laughing as though the whole room belongs to him.
Bingo.
~~~~~
Malachi presses his cheek against the cold steel of the vent, eyes narrowing behind the binoculars as he drinks in every detail below. The basement of the Thorn Casino stretches wide like a hangar, industrial and ugly compared to the glittering world upstairs. The space is carved up by suspended steel walkways crisscrossing the chamber, their grated floors clanging faintly under the boots of the patrolling guards.
And there are dozens of them. Armed, armored, stationed with military precision around the perimeter. Their rifles glint under the fluorescent overhead lights, their movements clipped and methodical. This isn’t some ragtag group of casino security—this is an operation.
At the center of it all, the van. Matte black, its paint chipped and streaked with purple, green, and sloppy red spray paint—Joker symbols scrawled across every panel. A grim smiley face stretches across the hood, its paint dripping like fresh blood. The van just sits there on the polished concrete floor, headlights dark, engine silent, a black heart beating in the middle of the room. Four men flank it, each one still and tense, their clown masks staring out with painted grins.
Malachi lowers the binoculars and exhales slowly through his nose. There it is—proof. The Clown Prince’s fingerprints all over this thing. The question is how to stop it without a firefight that’ll bring half the casino crashing down. The guards, the van, those garage doors behind it—if they roll open, the package is gone. Gotham bleeds.
His gaze drifts, scanning for weaknesses. And then he spots it: a control room bolted to the upper wall on the far side. A glass-fronted box, like a parasite clinging to the ceiling. Three guards inside, their silhouettes pacing lazily. Consoles glow green and red in the dim light, switches and monitors painting their bodies in faint electronic haze. That’s the key. Control the room, control the garage doors.
Malachi takes one last breath to steady himself. Then he shifts, pressing his boots against the vent walls, and kicks the grate loose. He snatches it out of the air before it can clang against the floor. Silence. The low hum of the basement swallows him back up.
He drops, sliding down the wall with fluid precision, and lands in a crouch on one of the grated bridges. The steel vibrates faintly under his weight, but no one notices. He freezes anyway, scanning the nearest guards. Their heads stay fixed forward. Good.
He moves low, almost on all fours, hugging the shadows between stacks of crates. Every breath is measured, every step intentional. The smell down here is sharp—oil, gunpowder, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Somewhere above, laughter and champagne glasses echo through the ceiling, muffled but surreal against the silence of the basement.
Then—movement. A guard rounds the corner of a crate, not twenty feet away. He’s bored, shifting the rifle across his chest, whistling a tune off-key through his mask. Malachi presses flat against the side of the crate, counting the seconds as the footsteps grow louder. When the man passes, Malachi strikes.
One arm snakes around the guard’s throat, pulling him into a chokehold before the man can gasp. His boots scrape against the grate, a muffled clatter, but Malachi tightens the hold and drags him down into the shadows. The guard thrashes for a heartbeat, two, before going limp. Malachi eases him to the ground, rolling the body behind the crates, hidden.
He doesn’t linger. Adrenaline sharpens his senses. Every sound is magnified now—the shuffle of boots, the distant murmur of radio chatter, the low hum of the van’s engine ticking faintly as though waiting to roar to life.
He edges forward, weaving between shadows, keeping his body tight and his presence invisible. Each time he crosses open ground, his heart hammers, but the shadows and noise above conceal him. He’s close now—the far wall looming nearer, the control room’s glass glowing faintly above.
Finally, he reaches another vent, this one set into the wall just below the control room. Malachi attaches his grappling hook with practiced speed, the cable whispering as it reels out. He fires it upward—thunk—and it bites deep into the steel above. He tests the line once, then ascends, boots finding purchase against the wall as he climbs with efficient, silent strength.
In moments, he slips back into the vent, body folding neatly into the narrow shaft. Positives of training with the world's greatest acrobat. Darkness swallows him again, but now he’s close. So close he can almost hear the muffled conversation of the guards inside the control room.
He presses forward, inch by inch, toward the thin slats of the vent grille that overlook the glowing consoles.
Malachi presses his face to the vent grille, narrowing his eyes at the control room below. The space is compact—barely more than a glass-walled booth suspended over the floor. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, illuminating the three guards inside. Two lean lazily against the consoles, rifles hanging loose at their sides. The third paces, his boots echoing faintly on the steel, eyes flicking occasionally toward the garage doors.
And there it is. The control panel. Big red and green switches gleaming under glass casings, the garage door controls practically glowing like a beacon. Malachi’s heart pounds. If he can get those locked, the van can’t escape. Problem is, three guns stand in the way.
He chews his lip, weighing it. Then he makes his move.
Malachi eases the vent grille loose, sets it down without a sound, and drops into the room like a shadow falling from the ceiling. His boots absorb the impact, barely a thud. The pacing guard frowns, head cocking—too late. Malachi surges forward, one arm wrapping around the man’s neck, the other clamping a gloved hand over his mouth. The man thrashes, knees buckling, but Malachi twists and drives him into the wall with a muffled thunk. The air rushes out of him in a wheeze, then silence.
The other two snap up, startled, rifles halfway raised. Malachi doesn’t give them time. He hurls the unconscious guard across the floor, his body clattering into the legs of the first gunman. The man stumbles, rifle scraping against the console as Malachi lunges low, sweeping his legs out from under him. The guard slams onto his back, air knocked from his lungs. Before he can recover, Malachi plants a knee on his chest and drives a sharp elbow into his temple. Out cold.
The last man levels his weapon, finger tightening on the trigger. Malachi reacts instantly. He snatches the fallen guard’s rifle, swings it like a bat, and cracks it against the final man’s wrist. The weapon clatters to the floor, discharging harmlessly into the ceiling with a deafening pop. Malachi grabs the man by the collar and hurls him headfirst into the glass wall. It splinters but doesn’t shatter; the man slumps down, groaning once before going limp.
Silence.
Malachi’s chest heaves. He scans quickly—three bodies, no movement, all weapons disarmed. No alarms. No gunfire to give him away. He did it clean.
He turns back to the console, relief washing through him. Fingers hover over the garage door controls. Unlocked. He just has to hit the switch and this whole setup collapses in on itself.
Then something catches his eye.
Another monitor. A grainy black-and-white feed. Inside of the van. Malachi leans closer, confusion giving way to dread.
There’s a boy inside.
Strapped to a steel chair, arms and legs bound tight with rope. No shirt. Just black boxers clinging to his pale skin. A gag tied around his mouth. His head is bowed at first, brown curls tangled and matted, but then he looks up—right at the camera. His eyes are wide, wet, brown pools silently pleading for someone, anyone, to get him out.
Malachi’s stomach twists. His throat closes. He almost pukes right there on the floor. The name blinking in the corner of the screen seals it:
Mason Thames.
The room seems to tilt. A kid his age. Not a faceless victim, not another body in Gotham’s cycle of cruelty. A boy. Helpless. Malachi’s fingers tremble as he grips the console.
No time. He jerks back to the garage door controls and slams the lever down, locking it into place. For a second, hope surges—
And then the sirens scream.
“Alert! Alert!” a booming mechanical voice bellows from the ceiling. “Trespasser detected in the vicinity. Release the cargo.”
Malachi’s head whips toward the massive garage doors. They groan, metal shrieking as the motors kick in. The floor shakes as they begin to roll upward, inch by inch, chains rattling loud enough to make his teeth hurt. The van’s headlights flicker to life, bathing the basement in a cold white glow.
“No,” Malachi breathes.
He lunges for the lever, both hands clutching it as he yanks it down with all his weight. The locking mechanism slams into place, gears grinding. The doors screech and freeze—but not all the way. They’re already up far enough. A gap gapes wide at the bottom. Wide enough for the van to slip through.
The basement erupts in noise. Guards shout, boots thunder across the catwalks. Dozens of heads snap upward at once, all rifles lifting. From below, it’s clear as day: the vigilante All-Star is standing in the control room, hands on the lever, framed in the glass like a target.
“There! In the booth!”
“It’s him!”
The mob howls in unison, weapons snapping to their shoulders, barrels glinting under the harsh lights.
Malachi’s heart spikes, his stomach dropping.
“...Shit.”
In just seconds, hundreds of bullets slam against the glass panels of the control room, rattling the edges and sending shards clattering across the floor. The sharp staccato of gunfire echoes through the basement like rolling thunder. Malachi’s instincts kick in instantly. He does an unnecessary back handspring, twisting midair, his body landing with the softest thud possible behind a stack of crates. Dust rises in the wake of his motion, glittering faintly in the dim light of the overhead lamps.
“Malachi! We have a problem upstairs!” Xochitl’s voice cuts through the chaos in his comm, sharp and panicked.
Malachi grits his teeth, barely keeping his head low as another bullet tears past, embedding itself in the metal wall just inches from his face. “Yeah, down here, too! What the hell did you do?!” he shouts, voice tight with urgency. The echo of his own words mixes with the roar of gunfire.
“There’s no time to explain!” Xochitl snaps. “Just get the hell up here!”
Malachi’s eyes flick to the garage doors below, partially open and letting in a sliver of dim light. His fingers twitch, the boy strapped inside the van burning in his mind. “This is my task! I’ve got the package!” His voice is urgent but controlled.
“Just tag the van!” Xochitl insists. “We’ll track it down later. If Walker gets away, there’s no promise we’ll find him again!”
Malachi pauses, the reality of her words cutting through the adrenaline haze. He knows she’s right—the van can be tracked. A speedster couldn't. He grits his jaw, feeling the weight of the mission settle on his shoulders.
He exhales sharply. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath, then speaks louder into the comm, voice firm. “I’ll be up there soon.”
He snaps off the comm and glances around the room. Bullet holes pepper the walls, dust hangs in the air like a cloud of static, and sparks from ricocheting shots scatter across the floor. Every reflex honed by years of training is on high alert. Malachi adjusts his gloves and steps lightly toward the ladder leading up from the vent.
His boots make almost no sound against the metal rungs as he begins his ascent, muscles coiled, senses razor-sharp. Every ricochet, every shout from the guards below is cataloged and accounted for. His focus is absolute: get out of the basement, tag the van, and make sure the boy stays alive. There’s no room for error.
Now perched atop the control booth, Malachi’s chest is pounding, every nerve screaming in adrenaline. He pulls his Zipline gun from his tool belt, the metallic weight familiar in his hands. With careful precision, he aims toward the other side of the room, adjusting the tension on the cable before firing. The steel line rockets through the air, slicing past crates and gunfire alike, landing securely on the far edge of the room.
He doesn’t have time to strap himself in. Instead, he grips the cable with both hands, feet tucked, and lets gravity and momentum take over. The wind whips past his face as he glides, metal and sparks blurring beneath him. His eyes scan the basement floor, tracking the van and the dozens of Joker-clad guards surrounding it, guns raised, chaos erupting in every corner.
Suddenly—a sharp snap! A bullet ricochets off the wall, striking the cable mid-glide. The Zipline twangs violently, sending Malachi off balance. He flails, twisting in midair, but physics isn’t on his side this time. With a hard thud, he lands flat on his back atop the van, the impact rattling every bone in his body. Pain shoots through his ribs and a sharp sting bursts in his lip, blood trickling down.
Before he can catch his breath, dozens of clown-masked soldiers swivel their guns toward him, fingers tightening on triggers. Malachi rolls onto his side, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His grip tightens around the handles of his Escrima sticks, leather straps biting into his palms.
He rises to his feet, knees bent, muscles coiled like a spring. The fluorescent light reflects off his purple All-Star suit, giving him a sharp, almost predatory silhouette. His eyes dart from soldier to soldier, calculating angles, distances, and the timing of their next shots.
“Alright,” he mutters through gritted teeth, the taste of blood bitter on his tongue. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, ready. “I can tussle.”
~~~~~
Xochitl presses her back against the upturned table, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air. Screams echo around the casino floor as guards dive for cover and glass shatters under stray bullets. Her chest rises and falls sharply, each breath coming out in ragged bursts. Crimson suit stretched tight over her frame, the red Hood drawn low over her brow, she props herself up just long enough to line up a shot.
“Where is he?!” she mutters under her breath, voice barely audible over the chaos. Her finger squeezes the trigger, and the sound of the bullet snapping through the air cuts through the mayhem. A guard stumbles, but only from the sting—rubber rounds. She curses under her breath, teeth gritted. Damn it. Dad insisted on these. Real bullets would’ve made this easier.
The confrontation with Walker hadn’t gone very well. Xochitl had slipped away from the chaos at the bar below and made her way toward the dual staircases, moving with the practiced confidence of someone who had spent years mastering her stealth. The name she was using—Leah Luthor—opened doors, figuratively and literally, as she ascended, weaving between elegantly dressed guests who had no reason to question her presence.
By the time she reached the top floor, Walker was perched at the VIP bar, relaxed, a couple of his friends leaning against him, laughing quietly. His curls caught the low light from the golden chandeliers above, and his eyes lit up when he noticed her, mask shading only his eyes, not his smile.
“Well, hey there, beautiful. Got lost?” he asked, voice easy and playful, just enough charm to draw attention without seeming overbearing.
Xochitl shrugged lightly, keeping her tone casual. “Needed a break from the ruckus downstairs.”
Walker shooed away his friends with a wave and motioned for her to sit beside him. She obliged, sliding onto the barstool with a practiced elegance that made her seem completely at ease.
“So, who are you?” he asked, leaning slightly toward her, as if he expected her to reveal some elaborate, mysterious identity.
“Wouldn’t it be more fun for you to guess?” she replied smoothly, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Walker grinned and rattled off names with a mock flourish: “Uh… Vanessa Vale? Tiffany Monroe? Wait—maybe Charlotte Sterling?”
“No. None of them,” Xochitl said, shaking her head, lips curved into a polite, teasing smile.
Finally, she said, “Leah Luthor.”
“Shit,” Walker breathed, eyes widening just enough to betray his surprise. “Daughter of Lex Luthor at my gala? I’m honored.” He gestured toward the bartender to order her a drink before she could protest.
Xochitl forced a smile and a soft laugh, blending in with the crowd. It was a practiced mask; she had been trained to make her presence believable without revealing her true purpose.
“Enjoying the party?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Xochitl shrugged, keeping her response casual. “It’s been… nice. I’ve enjoyed the company.”
Walker leaned back slightly, playful but not imposing, and asked, “So… what does a guy have to do to get a dance with a girl this pretty?” His tone was teasing, lighthearted, his grin inviting.
A flirtatious back-and-forth began, the kind that felt effortless and natural, a dance of words and smiles. He leaned in, joked, she parried with clever remarks. Xochitl’s eyes flicked subtly toward her pocket, where she kept a League-issued Control Collar. The metal glinted faintly under the ambient light, a silent promise of the task she had to accomplish.
She slid the collar out discreetly, readying herself to wrap it around his throat if necessary, when Walker’s hand landed over hers, warm and unexpectedly gentle.
“Oh, babe,” he said, his voice a mix of charm and ease, “we won’t be needing that.”
Xochitl froze for a heartbeat, her mind calculating options, weighing risk versus reward. The corners of his mouth lifted in that easy, teasing grin of his—innocent, flirtatious, disarming. And for a moment, all the tactical training and mission planning had to compete with the simple fact that Walker Thawne, charismatic and unassuming, was entirely unaware of the danger he was in.
Xochitl made the swift decision to come to a stand, her movements fluid, trained, deliberate. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled a small, compact gun from the inside of her coat and fired it straight up into the air. The sharp ping of rubber-on-metal ricocheted off the walls of the VIP balcony, a loud, commanding signal that immediately scattered the crowd. Guests shrieked and dove for cover, cocktail glasses shattering, chairs scraping against marble. The chandeliers above swayed slightly, casting fractured light across panicked faces.
Walker’s personal guards, however, remained immovable, rifles trained on her in an instant. Their stance was perfect, bodies tense, eyes calculating. Walker himself raised a hand calmly, his tone casual but authoritative: “Leave us,” he said, leaning back in his chair as though the chaos around him were inconsequential.
Xochitl’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at his composure, but she didn’t let up, her voice hard and steady: “I don’t know, you might need them,” she countered, finger lightly grazing the trigger.
Walker chuckled softly, a low, amused sound that carried no hint of panic. “What? You plan on shooting a speedster?” he asked, glancing at his guards. “Leave us.”
There was a tense pause. The guards exchanged wary glances, the silence thick with unspoken tension. Finally, with obvious reluctance, they backed away, rifles still poised but no longer aimed directly at her.
Now, alone with Walker, Xochitl shifted her stance, gun trained precisely at his forehead. Her left hand gripped the edge of the League-issued Control Collar, holding it down at her side, ready to snap it around his neck at a moment’s notice.
“Well,” Walker said, voice calm and amused, “this was bold of you. Walking into my own casino and training a gun at my forehead.” He didn’t flinch, didn’t betray fear.
Xochitl’s eyes narrowed. “Your father’s casino,” she corrected sharply, her tone clipped.
He shrugged, lazily, as if it were an irrelevant detail. “Either way, the gun’s unnecessary.”
“Well,” she shot back, “it’s either the collar or the gun.”
Walker laughed, a sound light, teasing, confident. “You know I’m not putting that collar on. You might as well pull the trigger,” he said with a grin that somehow felt more daring than reckless.
Xochitl’s grip on the gun tightened, her knuckles whitening.
“You and I both know those bullets are rubber,” Walker continued, tilting his head as though analyzing her. “I recognize those guns anywhere. You’re the Red Hood’s protégé, right? Crimson? I take it you’re not really Leah Luthor, then.”
Xochitl’s jaw tensed. “Collar. Now,” she said, voice firm, unwavering.
Walker’s grin widened slightly, a spark of challenge in his eyes, but he stayed seated, hands raised just enough to remain nonthreatening.
Then, suddenly, red alarm lights began to flash across the room, bathing the walls and gold accents in an urgent, pulsating crimson glow. The high-pitched sirens pierced the air, cutting through the quiet tension like a knife. Guests shrieked anew from elsewhere in the casino, security rushing toward the source of the alarm, and the soft hum of electronics escalated into a blaring cacophony.
Walker moved like a bolt of lightning, a streak of golden light zipping across the VIP balcony. In a blink, he was in front of Xochitl, hand snatching hers mid-grip, disarming her before she could react. The gun clattered to the floor, bouncing lightly against the marble. In one fluid motion, he pinned her against the wall, his speed undeniable, leaving only a whisper of air as he came to a stop.
“Well,” he said, voice low and teasing, leaning just enough to press the edge of his palm against the golden mask concealing her identity, “it was nice meeting you, Ms. Protégée.” He didn’t attempt to lift the mask—just a small prod, a playful jab.
“But that’s my cue to leave,” he added with a grin. Before she could process, he zipped away again, leaving nothing but a gust of wind and the faint shimmer of residual speed. Xochitl’s heart raced as adrenaline surged through her veins. She pressed her palms to the wall, catching herself, and in that brief moment, realized fully what she had suspected: Walker had indeed inherited his father’s superspeed.
The blaring alarms around the casino were relentless, but Xochitl had already calculated her next move. With a series of agile flips and silent steps, she made her way to the twin staircases. Each movement precise, every sound muted against the high-pile carpet. She emerged onto the roof, quickly stripping off the heavy, gilded business suit that had allowed her to blend in moments ago. Her Crimson suit waited beneath, tight-fitting, functional, and ready for combat. She slipped back into it with practiced speed, the red hood snapping up over her head, guns securely holstered at her hips.
From the roof, she scanned the casino below. Guards were mobilizing, guests were screaming and diving for cover, and the alarm lights painted the building in a frantic, pulsing red. Xochitl gritted her teeth, taking a moment to center herself. Then she dropped down into the alleyways, using shadows and overturned carts to mask her approach. Every step was calculated. Every breath measured.
Before long, she had worked her way back into the heart of the casino, slipping through service doors and side halls, back into the maelstrom of blaring sirens and gunfire. Now, in the present tense, she crouched behind a table that had been turned onto its side for cover, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as bullets rained around her. The acrid scent of gunpowder and the echo of terrified screams filled her senses.
The crash of glass echoes across the Casino as Malachi smashes through the roof-top window, landing in a roll that sends shards scattering across the floor. Sparks from the broken lights flicker, casting chaotic shadows over the scene. He pops up immediately, kicking a stray guard back into a wall with a swift roundhouse kick before swinging his Escrima sticks into another guard’s side, sending him sprawling into a set of crates.
Xochitl hears the distinct whing of bird-a-rangs spinning through the air, striking the rifles of guards who were raising them toward Malachi. She springs up from behind the overturned table, pistols drawn, flipping sideways to land a precise shot that knocks the weapon from a guard’s hands. Rubber bullets ricochet harmlessly off steel columns, but the timing is perfect.
“Malachi!” she shouts over the din of alarm bells and screaming.
“Joker setup,” Malachi shouts back, ducking a swing from a thug wielding a baton. He counters with a sharp jab to the stomach, using the momentum to sweep the man’s legs from under him. “The package got away, security’s ridiculous—and I couldn't get the tag on it!”
“Shit!” Xochitl says, firing a second shot that clips a guard’s kneecap, dropping him instantly. “Walker got away, too!”
The two move in sync, fluid, almost instinctual. Malachi spins low, sweeping two guards off their feet with precise footwork, and simultaneously slides his Escrima stick between another guard’s wrist and weapon, disarming him in one motion. Xochitl spins around a steel column, firing rapid shots at two more approaching enemies. She vaults onto a raised platform, using the height to pull a third guard toward her, tripping him into the railing.
“Cover me!” Malachi shouts, ducking a knife swing. Xochitl fires a rubber slug into the attacker’s chest, knocking him back, and Malachi rolls forward to land a spinning kick that sends a second guard into the wall with a heavy thud.
“Are you okay?” Xochitl asks mid-action. She has noticed the dozens of cuts and bruises all over his face, no doubt from the trouble she caused him down in the basement. She vaults over a crate and sends a quick stun blast from the butt of her gun into a guard attempting a sneak attack.
“Yeah! Just—this is nuts,” Malachi shouts, ducking under a swinging pipe and countering with a precise elbow strike that sends another man crashing into a stack of crates. He spins, sticks poised, blocking another guard’s knife thrust.
Xochitl reloads on the fly, sending another guard sprawling with a precise shot to the chest. She ducks a wild swing, letting the attacker crash into a wall, then rolls behind Malachi. “I didn't see where he went.” she shouts over the chaos.
Mason ducks a wild swing, then swipes a stunned guard away with a well-aimed kick. “I did,” he shouts, voice tense but controlled, spinning to face another attacker. He pivots, blocking a baton with the side of his arm and knocking the guard off balance, sending him sprawling into a pile of crates. “He's on the roof where we ziplined in. They’re taking a chopper—there’s no way we can follow from the ground!”
Xochitl nods, processing the information. Her mind clicks into place. The escape is imminent, and they need to intercept before the helicopter gets too far. She spins on her heel, lining up a few guards who are closing in from the side, and fires rapid shots that ping off steel columns, knocking weapons aside. She flips sideways, letting a guard run into another before kicking him cleanly into a wall, clearing a path.
Malachi darts into the middle of the room, crouching under the shattered window from which he had crashed moments earlier. He props his grapple gun, adjusting the tension and checking the line. Sparks and broken glass litter the floor, the smell of smoke and gunpowder thick in the air. He glances at Xochitl; she nods, guns raised and ready, taking precise shots to hold the remaining guards at bay.
“Now!” he shouts, motioning with his hand.
Without hesitation, Xochitl barrels forward, running straight into his outstretched grasp. He tightens his grip as he fires the grapple upward. The cable whistles through the air, catching firmly onto the edge of the building’s roof. With a swift tug, the momentum lifts them both upward. Bullets whip past them, shattering glass and ricocheting off steel, but they rise out of reach, the world spinning beneath them as the grapple line hums under tension.
They land hard on the golden rooftop, rolling to absorb the impact. Sparks from the broken window still drift behind them. Their eyes immediately lock onto the source of the bright spotlight: a helicopter hovering above the tall apartment complex they had met up on. The beam sweeps across the rooftop, highlighting three figures moving with precision—one unmistakably Walker, his posture calm but alert, scanning the chaos below.
Malachi wastes no time. He grabs Xochitl again, checking his grip on her. Without a word, he fires another grapple toward the side of the building, aiming for the edge near the helicopter’s line of sight. The line shoots outward, whistling through the air as Xochitl braces herself, her fingers tightening on her weapons.
The grapple snaps taut, sending Malachi and Xochitl shooting up the side of the apartment complex at a speed that makes the city lights blur beneath them. Their momentum carries them high above the ground, and when the grapple releases, they crash down onto Walker's two guards with precise force. Both guards go down instantly, bodies slamming against the concrete ledge with muffled thuds.
Walker grimaces, muttering under his breath, “Oh shit,” before reacting with lightning reflexes. He leaps toward the helicopter his men had dropped, intent on escaping, but Malachi moves faster. With a low growl, he tackles Walker mid-jump, pinning him against the side of the building as the helicopter’s gunners train their rifles on them from above.
Bullets streak past, pinging off walls and ricocheting dangerously close, but Xochitl freezes for just a moment too long. Her hand dips to her tool belt and she pulls out the disruptor. “No!” Malachi shouts, eyes wide, but she pulls the trigger anyway.
The disruptor round streaks upward in a silver arc, slamming into the helicopter with a crackling explosion of sparks and fire. The craft wails violently as its rotors fail, spinning out of control. Malachi tries to shield Walker and Xochitl from debris, but the chaos is immediate. The helicopter tilts, plummeting toward the Thorn Casino.
The impact is catastrophic. The massive, golden roof of the casino shatters under the weight, collapsing in on itself with a deafening roar. Flames and smoke erupt from the top, engulfing shattered steel and glass. Water from decorative fountains boils into steam as the explosion rocks the surrounding streets. The sound of sirens slices through the thick haze of smoke, mingling with distant screams and the occasional collapse of weakened structures.
Xochitl stumbles back, pressed against a fractured wall, breathing hard. Her hands shake uncontrollably as she surveys the destruction. The rooftop is gone, replaced by a burning crater. Sparks rain down like fireflies, and chunks of the casino tumble to the streets below.
Her heart drops. What have I done? The thought hits her like a physical weight. The mission was supposed to be clean, precise. But now—chaos. Destruction. People could be hurt, lives ruined. People killed. She swallows hard, the acrid smoke stinging her throat, and glances at Malachi, who still has Walker pinned to the floor. He looks at her with sympathy before he shakes his head and pulls a Control Collar from his tool belt. He swiftly wraps it around Walker's neck as he shouts obscenities at him, but he's quickly silenced as a mouth gag is wrapped around his mouth.
Malachi ties Walker's hands and legs together before propping him up against the stairwell door. "i'll call Batman. Notify him that the mission was a failure."