Chapter Text
Malachi Grayson-Barton stands rigid in the dimly lit hallway of Gotham Central, arms crossed tight against his chest, eyes fixed through the one-way mirror. On the other side of the glass, the room is all steel, shadow, and a single hanging light. Batman circles Walker Scobell like a wolf closing in on prey, his cape dragging softly across the floor, boots punctuating the silence with deliberate steps.
To Malachi’s left, Nightwing leans slightly forward, arms folded in a way that mirrors his son, his expression caught between focus and frustration. On the other side of Malachi, Commissioner Jim Gordon chews on a toothpick, trench coat hanging heavy on his shoulders, his weathered face set in a tired scowl. None of them say a word. The only sound is Batman’s voice and Walker’s panicked replies filtering through the hidden speaker.
“What was in the package?” Batman growls, leaning across the table, his fists slamming down against the metal surface with a sharp clang.
Walker flinches, his hands cuffed, his voice cracking as he stammers, “I told you, man, I don’t know! It wasn’t my business.”
Malachi exhales slowly, his thoughts swirling.
It could’ve ended differently. Should’ve ended differently.
The memory of tonight’s mission replays in his head like a film he can’t turn off. The van was right there—right in front of him. He could’ve stopped it, opened the doors, saved the boy trapped inside. All it would’ve taken was a moment of precision. Instead, Xochitl had tipped Walker off to their presence, throwing everything into chaos. And when things spiraled, she didn’t hesitate—she pulled the trigger on the disruptor, sending an entire helicopter into the Thorn Casino.
Six people dead. Six.
And now she’s sitting in some room with her father, acting like she’s grieving. Yeah, bullshit.
Malachi clenches his jaw, heat rising in his chest. Xochitl has killed before—dozens, maybe more. This isn’t going to scar her. The only difference this time is that she’d been six months clean from a kill. And tonight, she made up for every month she’d skipped with six bodies buried under twisted steel and fire.
But why should he feel bad about it? If it weren’t for her, the mission would’ve been a complete success.
“Then why was the package under your casino?” Batman’s voice cuts through the haze of Malachi’s thoughts, hard and unrelenting.
Walker slams his palms against the table, the chains on his cuffs rattling. “I didn’t know shit!” His voice cracks again, raw with fear and exhaustion.
Malachi doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. His mind stays on the boy.
The boy in the van.
The one he could’ve pulled out if things had gone right.
At least there’s one thing Walker and Xo don’t know. In the split-second chaos before everything collapsed, Malachi had gotten a tracker on the van. A small win in a night full of losses. He hadn’t told anyone yet—not Xo, not Nightwing, not even Batman. He’s planning to keep it that way until the time is right.
Later, he’ll tell Nightwing, and he’ll explain why he lied earlier about failing to tag the van. The truth is simple: he didn’t want to work with Xo again. He won’t. Not if he can help it.
And when he finds the chance, he’ll tell his father about the package too. About how it wasn’t a shipment of drugs or weapons, but a boy. A living, breathing boy hidden inside the back of a van. Malachi hasn’t had the chance yet, but the weight of it sits on his shoulders, heavier than his own shadow.
Another thud brings him back.
“What was in the package?” Batman repeats, his voice colder now, each word a knife pressed against Walker’s throat.
“I said I don’t know!” Walker’s voice is hoarse, breaking under the pressure. Sweat drips down his temple as he squirms in his chair.
Batman’s voice, usually gravelly but controlled, is now a storm. He grabs Walker by the collar of his orange GCPD jumpsuit, ripping him up out of the chair with ease, and slams him against the cold concrete wall hard enough that the mirror rattles.
“Was Thawne working with you!” he bellows, inches from Walker’s face.
Walker groans in pain, one hand clutching his ribs, his feet dangling slightly. “I told you, man, I don’t know! I wasn’t working with nobody!” His words come out desperate, broken by gasps for air.
Malachi flinches. He wasn’t expecting the old man to lose it like that. His stomach twists as he looks away, jaw clenched tight. His grandfather has always been terrifying in the cowl, but this? This feels different. Personal.
“You aren’t going to stop him?” Malachi mutters under his breath to Jim Gordon, who stands beside him with a paper cup of coffee in hand. The detective doesn’t even flinch.
“When have I ever been able to stop the Bat?” Gordon replies calmly, almost bitterly, before taking a slow sip.
Inside, Walker cries out as Batman shoves him back into the chair and hammers him with more questions. “Then why was the package under your casino?”
“I didn’t know shit! I swear!” Walker’s voice cracks, pleading.
The session ends abruptly when Batman grips the chair and hurls it back against the table with Walker still in it. He points a finger down at the wheezing crime boss. “You don’t move until you talk. No food, no water. Nothing.”
He storms toward the door and exits, the air in the observation room growing heavier as his shadow crosses through. Jim frowns, clearly wanting to object, and calls after him, “That’s against code, Bruce—” but the door is slammed shut in his face before he can finish. Gordon curses under his breath and follows after him down the hallway.
That leaves Malachi standing there beside Nightwing. His father’s shoulders sag as he rubs at his temples with both hands. The weight of the night presses down on all of them.
“What’s he so upset about?” Malachi asks, voice sharp with defensiveness.
Nightwing lowers his hands, staring at his son with a look equal parts exhaustion and frustration. “He’s pissed about your guys’ performance tonight.”
Malachi scoffs, his voice rising. “Both of us? I didn’t do shit! If Xochitl hadn’t gotten her cover blown like an idiot, I’d have stopped that van and saved—”
“You can’t put this on her!” Nightwing snaps, his voice suddenly a whipcrack in the room. His glare cuts deep, silencing Malachi for a half-beat. “We all make mistakes. Missions go south sometimes—completely south. Whether we like it or not. But you—” he stabs a finger at his son “—you let her kill six people.”
“Me?” Malachi barks, stepping forward. His pulse is pounding, his face red. “She’s the one who pulled out the disruptor gun—”
“—and it was your job to stop her!” Nightwing cuts him off with a shout. His voice is so sharp that Malachi almost recoils. “When someone like her reacts on instinct, when she does something she’ll regret for the rest of her life, you’re supposed to be the one who pulls her back. You were supposed to save her from this.”
Malachi shakes his head violently. “If I leapt for her, Walker would’ve gotten away.”
There’s silence for a moment. And then, in a voice far quieter but even harsher, Nightwing asks, “What was your mission tonight?”
Malachi freezes. His throat dries, his gaze drops to the floor. He knows the answer, but the words won’t come.
So his father answers for him. “To stop the van. And to protect your cousin.” His jaw clenches. “And you failed at both.”
The shame burns Malachi’s face hotter than his anger. He can’t bring himself to look up, can’t stand the weight of his father’s eyes. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
“You’re done,” Nightwing says finally, his voice flat and final. “You’re off this case.”
And with that, he turns and leaves, his cape brushing the frame as he disappears into the hall. The door swings shut behind him, leaving Malachi standing alone in the suffocating silence of the observation room.
~~~~~
Malachi sits in the bathtub of his room at Wayne Manor, the soft hiss of the hot water filling the tiled space. Steam clings to the mirror, curling through the air like smoke as the bubbles rise around him, covering everything below his waist. His bare chest is mottled with bruises, thin cuts striping across his ribs and arms, each sting dulled by the heat seeping into his muscles. He leans back against the porcelain, his jaw tight, a cigarette pinched between his fingers.
He takes another long drag, the tip glowing red in the dim light. Smoke drifts lazily from his lips as he stares at nothing. His father’s words keep circling in his head like a wound that won’t close. It’s not my job to make sure Xo doesn’t do something absolutely stupid. He benched me for that? His teeth grit, the anger sinking deeper with every exhale.
The door opens with a soft creak. A man enters, tall and composed, dressed in a tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and tie, polished shoes clicking against the floor. His face is calm, thoughtful, but half of it gleams with a robotic sheen—sleek metal plating where skin should be, a glowing eye pulsing faintly. Dreadlocks fall neatly past his shoulders, contrasting against the steel of his cybernetics.
He wheels in a small silver table, its surface laid out with gauze, ointments, syringes, and rolls of bandages. He moves without rush, every motion deliberate.
“Good evening, sir,” the man says in a smooth, steady tone. His name is Mekonnen Knife—Mk for short. Son of Cyborg caretaker, and friend.
Malachi exhales another cloud of smoke, watching it rise toward the ceiling. “I don’t need help, Mk,” he mutters, voice low, worn out. His eyes flick to the man’s calm face before darting away. “And please—we’ve talked about this. Don’t call me sir. You’re not a servant.”
Mk crouches down beside the tub, the faint mechanical whir of his cybernetics barely audible as he lowers himself. His hands move with a gentleness that belies their strength as he takes a jar from the table, dips his fingers into an ointment, and begins to dab it across the bruises on Malachi’s chest. The cool balm spreads under his touch, sinking into battered flesh.
“Sorry, Kai,” Mk says softly, using the nickname only he dares. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “But Dick insisted I talk to you.”
Malachi sighs, leaning his head back against the edge of the tub. The smoke curls upward. He doesn’t look at Mk, but he doesn’t push him away either. In truth, Mk's hands feel good against his chest. It's a wonder that he ever fell into the fortune of having a butler like him. Sure, Mk used to work at the Watch Tower alongside his father, but when Cyborg laid him off, telling him he worked too hard and needed a break, he took to Wayne Manor. As a cyborg programmed for productivity, it's hard for him to just sit around and do nothing. And, since they had been friends long before, Malachi had no problem taking Mk as his butler.
Mk’s fingers glide with precision and care across Malachi’s chest, spreading the cool ointment over the dark bruises blooming beneath the steam. His touch is firm where it needs to be, but delicate, almost reverent, as though he knows just how much pressure each sore spot can bear. Malachi exhales slowly, trying to hide how good it feels—the way the sting eases with each careful dab, the way Mk’s calloused-yet-gentle hands move with a quiet steadiness that makes him want to close his eyes.
“So,” Mk says at last, his voice breaking through the hum of the running water. His glowing cybernetic eye flickers faintly as it studies Malachi’s face. “What happened?”
Malachi takes another drag of his cigarette, smoke rolling from his lips as if the explanation leaves a bad taste in his mouth before it even begins. “We were put on a mission,” he mutters, bitterness threading through every word, “me and Xo. A gala at the Thorn Casino—Eobard Thawne’s kid was hosting it. Package was supposed to go to Joker. We were there to intercept it.” He shakes his head, his wet hair clinging to his temples. “But Xochitl fucked up. Package got away.”
Mk dabs gently at a cut along Malachi’s collarbone, his dark brow furrowed, but his face calm. He’s always calm. Always listening. “What’d she do?”
Malachi shifts slightly in the tub, water sloshing against porcelain as he glares at the bubbles rather than Mk. “She exposed herself to the kid’s presence. Alarm tripped. Everything went to hell. The package slipped through our fingers.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the tub’s edge, cigarette dangling between his fingers. A ghost of pride sneaks into his tone. “But I managed to stick a tracker to it.”
Mk nods once, wiping away excess ointment with a clean strip of gauze before reaching for more. “So what’s the problem?”
Malachi lets out a humorless laugh, rolling his eyes. His voice drops with a tinge of embarrassment. “Well… Xochitl accidentally caused an accident. And naturally, as she does, she got all the attention when we got to the GCPD. Meanwhile, I didn’t even get a chance to explain that I got a tracker on the van, or that the package is a live human boy.” His words sharpen, mocking. “‘And Dad yelled at me for letting Xo hurt herself mentally.’” He sneers the word, tapping ash into the tray balanced on the tub’s edge. “Then he kicked me off the case before I could tell him anything.”
Mk arches an eyebrow as he smooths another layer of ointment along Malachi’s ribs, his fingers tracing gently between bruises. “So now you haven’t told anyone about the tracker or the package because… what? You want to be spiteful?”
Malachi groans, tipping his head back against the tiled wall. “Okay,” he admits reluctantly, smoke curling from his lips, “yeah, I hear how bitchy that sounds.” He narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “What would you do?”
Mk shrugs, his dreadlocks brushing against his shoulders as he reaches for a roll of gauze. He begins wrapping Malachi’s arm with practiced precision, the fabric snug but not too tight. “Well, I’m not nearly as stubborn as you. So, if it were me, I’d tell someone. Let them handle the package.”
Malachi stares up at the ceiling, glaring as though it holds the answer. The touch of Mk’s hands—strong yet impossibly gentle—makes him tense, though not with discomfort. He doesn’t want to admit how much he likes it, how much he notices the care in every movement. “I don’t want anyone else to handle the package,” he says firmly. “I want to handle it myself.”
Mk’s lips curve into the faintest smile. “To prove your worth to your father?”
The words cut sharper than intended. Malachi’s jaw tightens, offense flashing in his dark eyes as he finally turns his head toward Mk. He hates being so easy to read, but maybe that’s just Mk—half-cyborg, half-man, and entirely too empathetic.
Steam clings to the bathroom walls, curling upward like ghostly fingers while Malachi sinks lower into the water, cigarette balanced between his lips. He doesn’t answer Mk’s question right away, only exhales a thin plume of smoke toward the ceiling. Mk sighs, the sound softened by the calm weight in his voice.
“Why do you insist on believing your father is disappointed in you?”
Malachi’s jaw tightens. “Because I fail at every mission he puts me on,” he snaps—not harshly, just tired, raw.
Mk shakes his head, dipping the cloth into ointment again and dabbing carefully at the line of bruises along Malachi’s ribs. His touch is delicate despite the half-metal precision of his right hand. “If that were true, why is he still assigning you missions?”
The question hits harder than Malachi wants to admit. He leans back, closing his eyes for a second, letting the thought soak in along with the warmth of the bath. For the briefest moment, he feels weightless, and Mk’s words—like his hands—ease something knotted inside him.
Mk finishes his work across Malachi’s chest and shoulders, wiping away the last streak of ointment. His voice is casual but edged with care. “Are there any injuries under the waist I should be aware of?”
Malachi cracks one eye open, a grin tugging at his lips. “You wanna reach under the bubbles and find out?” He throws in a wink for good measure.
For once, the cool composure on Mk’s face falters. A subtle blush spreads across the organic half of his skin, warm against his dark complexion. The cyborg half stays expressionless, unblinking. “Very funny, sir,” Mk mutters, a dry laugh escaping as he stands and begins packing the medical kit back onto the silver table.
Malachi watches him go, smirking faintly, though his chest feels a little tighter than he expected at seeing Mk flustered.
As Mk turns to wheel the cart toward the door, Malachi calls out. “Mk, what was the Legacy Protocol?”
The question makes Mk freeze mid-step. His hand lingers on the cart handle before he slowly looks back. “The Legacy Protocol?”
“Yes,” Malachi says, leaning forward now, cigarette perched between two fingers. “I overheard Dad and Grandpa talking about it. Something about Walker being the first on the list.”
Mk exhales through his nose, weighing what to say. He shrugs, but his words come measured, careful. “It was a plan me and Dad designed. A rehabilitation program for children of the biggest villains in the world. You don’t really get to choose to be good or evil when you’re born into villainy. We thought we’d give them a choice.” His gaze drifts, almost as if he’s looking past Malachi, through the steam. “But… plans don’t always work out.”
Malachi nods slowly, the explanation sinking in. He flicks ash into the small dish by the tub, then meets Mk’s eyes again.
Mk clears his throat and straightens, slipping back into that blend of professionalism and quiet care. “You should really tell your dad about the tracker. I won’t do it for you.” He wheels the cart toward the door, then glances back once more, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh—and you should stop smoking before Alfred finds out.”
~~~~~
The chill of Gotham’s night still clings to Malachi’s suit as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the GCPD. The lobby smells faintly of burnt coffee and bleach, and the fluorescent lights overhead hum with their usual unwelcoming buzz. He keeps his head up and his stride confident—bagel in one hand, steaming cup of coffee in the other—as though he belongs here. In a way, he convinces himself, he does.
The All-Star suit gleams under the overhead lights, the dark plating and blue streaks catching against every angle. His boots click evenly against the tile floor as he threads through the late-night shuffle of tired cops and half-asleep desk workers. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He repeats that to himself.
At the far end of the hall, the front desk of the interrogation block glows faintly from a lamp. Aaron Cash, his heavy frame slouched in the chair, is scribbling something into a logbook when Malachi approaches. Cash glances up, and the look in his eye says he isn’t buying anything without a fight.
“Pretty late for a visitor,” Cash mutters.
“I’m scheduled to interrogate Walker,” Malachi answers smoothly, flashing the kind of grin that looks rehearsed but natural. “Figured I’d do everyone a favor and keep him talking.”
Cash raises a skeptical brow, his good hand resting against the desk while his hook clinks lightly against the wood. “Scheduled, huh? Strange I didn’t see that notice.” His gaze drops to the coffee and bagel. “And Gordon said no food or drinks in the same room as the prisoner.”
Malachi doesn’t miss a beat. “Special orders from Gordon,” he lies without hesitation, leaning on the desk like he’s in on some inside joke. “You know how he is—always playing his cards close.”
Cash narrows his eyes, weighing the words. “I’ll comm Gordon for confirmation,” he says slowly, “but for now, go on. Don’t make me regret it.”
Malachi forces a nod of thanks, though he feels the clock ticking faster in his head now. Every second is borrowed time.
He pushes through the heavy door, the air instantly different—colder, tighter, tinged with the sterile sting of disinfectant and something darker beneath it. His boots echo against the concrete as he follows the narrow hall until he reaches the door marked for Walker.
The hinges groan as Malachi steps inside. Darkness swallows most of the room, the only light coming from the solitary lamp hanging low above the metal table. Its cone of light pools onto Walker, who slouches in the chair with his wrists shackled to the steel. His blonde curls are a tangled mess, strands sticking in places with dried sweat. Blue eyes that once burned with defiance now look drained, dim, almost hollow. His nose is crusted with dried blood, the faint trickle having streaked across his upper lip.
“I told you,” Walker mutters hoarsely, not even bothering to raise his head, “I don’t know anything.”
Malachi freezes mid-step, lips parting at the sight. “Jesus,” he says under his breath, a sharp reaction to the bruises scattered across Walker’s face and the way his body looks half-broken under the lamp. Batman’s handiwork, no doubt.
That single word is enough to draw Walker’s eyes up at last. The change is almost instant—tired submission snapping into something else entirely. His posture straightens just slightly, and despite the pain that flickers in his face, his expression shifts into that fabricated charm.
“Oh shit,” Walker rasps, his lips curling into a bloody grin. “Well if it isn’t Nightwing’s boy wonder.” His teeth are streaked red when he laughs, though the sound cracks into a groan of pain.
His gaze shifts, catching sight of the bagel and steaming coffee Malachi still holds. “What’s this? You come to torture me by dangling food in front of my face?” He laughs again, weaker this time, and the sound crumbles into another groan.
Malachi bites his lip, his mind racing. Without answering, he drags out the metal chair opposite Walker and lowers himself into it, the coffee and bagel landing softly on the table between them.
Malachi slides the coffee and bagel across the cold metal table, the paper crinkling under the fluorescent light. Walker eyes the offering with suspicion, his cuffed wrists lifting just enough to hook the bagel clumsily.
“I figured you were hungry,” Malachi says, leaning back in the chair, arms folded as he waits.
Walker turns the bagel in his hands like it’s some kind of puzzle. His lips curl into a smirk, though his voice is hoarse. “What is this? Poison? Truth serum? Venom?”
Malachi only shrugs, his tone even. “It’s Thomas’ Plain Bagels.”
Walker frowns at that, but hunger wins out. He tears into the bagel, chewing slowly at first, then devouring the rest like he hasn’t eaten in days. He gulps down the steaming drink next, not even bothering to check inside before taking a sip.
“Is this coffee?” he asks, lifting his brows in disbelief. “At midnight?”
Malachi shrugs again. “I need you awake.”
Walker drains the cup until it’s empty, then stares into it with the disappointed look of a man denied seconds. When his gaze returns to Malachi, the swagger returns. He kicks his feet up onto the desk, slouching into the chair like the bruises across his face don’t exist.
“Look, if you think feeding me rations is gonna get me to tell you anything, I’m sorry to disappoint,” Walker says. “I don’t know shit. I told that to your friend in black, but apparently he has hearing issues.”
Malachi leans forward, voice steady. “I believe you.”
That earns him a raised eyebrow. “You do?”
“Of course I do,” Malachi replies with a nod. “I mean, what reason do you have to lie? What could Joker blackmail you with that would scare you? You’re a celebrity, rich, greedy, untouchable. You don’t care about anyone else. Unless he was threatening you personally—which I doubt, considering your superspeed—you’ve got no reason to lie.”
Walker frowns at the jab, his jaw tightening, but he eventually nods. “Right. So you believe I’m innocent. Why not let me go?”
“Oh, I will,” Malachi says calmly. “Soon. But I do find it hard to believe you didn’t know Joker’s goons were operating in your dad’s casino basement. So tell me—why’d you let them stay?”
Walker’s expression hardens, his voice sharp. “Look, man. I told you I don’t know nothing—”
“I promise this isn’t being recorded,” Malachi interrupts. “This conversation is just between me and you. Scout’s honor. I just need to know why you let them stay. Was it your dad’s plan?”
Walker lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Eobard? That deadbeat? No. He was serious about giving up the villain shit. The guy wanted to focus on his business, his casino. Poor bastard though—it’s not working. He’s bleeding money.”
He exhales, the weight of it sinking into the air before he continues. “Look, the gala itself was my idea. It was gonna happen with or without Joker’s goons. I needed a way to drag in some extra cash to keep the casino alive, so I thought, why not host a party for the wealthiest people in the country and let them pour their money into my pockets?”
Walker pauses, his eyes narrowing as if testing Malachi’s patience. “The Joker thing… I really did know nothing. All he told me was that he needed the basement. So I let him, because he slid me some more money. I had no clue what his plan was, but I figured one of you heroes would show up eventually. I had an escape plan ready. Y’know—before I ended up in a situation like this.”
The lamp above sways faintly, the shadows across Walker’s face deepening as the room settles into silence.
Malachi studies Walker for a long moment, noting the bruises on his face, the dried blood on his lips, and the faint tremor in his hands as he fidgets with the cuffs. He keeps his tone calm but firm. “This package we’ve been trying to pry out of you—it’s a van. A van for the Joker, we assume. We found out that inside of it is a guy. He’s about my age. Mason Thames—rings a bell?”
Walker blinks, clearly confused, then shakes his head. “No. But trafficking… that’s pretty fucked up, even for my standards.”
Malachi narrows his eyes, disappointed but not surprised. He had hoped that Walker had some knowledge of the situation. He presses on. “I placed a tracker on the van before it got away. When I checked it an hour ago, they were parked at Ace Chemicals. Any idea what they could be doing there?”
Walker shrugs, the hint of fear in his expression. “I don’t know. Really. I swear, I have no clue. You’ve got me—locked up in this hellhole and playing mind games with a kid like me?”
Malachi exhales, the tension in his shoulders tightening as he leans back in the chair and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Great. Thanks for your service, but I should get going before Cash notices I’m not actually permitted to be here.”
Walker’s eyes widen in panic, and he jerks forward on the seat, his voice desperate. “Wait! Please! You said you thought I was innocent. Get me out of here before that Bat comes back!”
Malachi hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin as a new idea sparks in his mind. He looks down at Walker, assessing how much he can push without tipping off the officers outside. “Hmm…” he mutters under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the table. He leans in slightly, tone lowering, conspiratorial. “Maybe… we can work something out. But you’re gonna have to listen carefully, and you’re gonna have to trust me a little more than usual.”
~~~~~
A road trip with Scobell is borderline torture, even if only for two hours. Malachi sits in the driver’s seat of a battered ’94 Chevy Impala, the kind of half-dead sedan you could find parked and forgotten on any corner in Gotham, its cracked vinyl seats groaning with every bump in the road. Walker, legs kicked up on the dashboard, is slouched in the passenger seat with a taco in each hand, grease and sauce dripping carelessly down his chin and onto the already-stained prison jumpsuit. The smell of beef, cheese, and hot sauce lingers heavy in the stale air of the car, mixing unpleasantly with the faint odor of oil and cigarette smoke that seems baked into the fabric.
Walker had refused to budge until he got food. Stubborn to the core, he’d practically sat down on the sidewalk and declared he wasn’t going anywhere until he ate. Malachi, annoyed but unwilling to waste time arguing, had reluctantly driven them to Taco de la Noche, a dingy taco stand tucked beneath the flickering neon of a pawn shop sign. To his surprise, the joint was open at one in the morning, manned by a half-asleep cook with a tired face but a cheerful attitude. The guy hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t cared that Walker was still wearing his bright-orange jumpsuit with the collar dangling around his neck. Just made the food, slid the greasy paper bags across the counter, and told them to have a good night like it wasn’t Gotham City at all.
Now, with the tacos half-devoured and Walker’s lap covered in sauce, Malachi keeps his eyes fixed on the road, knuckles pale against the steering wheel. Walker laughs through a mouthful, oblivious to the mess, wiping his face with the back of his hand like a child.
Getting to this situation had been a nightmare in the first place.
It hadn’t been a plan, not really—more of a “hope this works” kind of move. Malachi had known there was no walking Walker out of GCPD without a miracle. So he’d made a gamble. Inside that interrogation room, with the clock ticking down on his time, he unclipped the Control Collar that kept Walker’s speed in check. He had paused for a long moment before doing it, catching the feral grin stretching across Walker’s face, that gleam in his eyes that promised chaos. But Malachi swallowed the doubt and released the lock.
The next instant was a blur. Walker had scooped him up, and the world exploded into motion. They shot through the corridors of GCPD in a streak of blinding light, papers flying, desks rattling, officers shouting after them as their voices warped and muffled under the roar of velocity. The fluorescent lights above melted into smeared lines. By the time Malachi could process the movement, they were bursting through the front doors and streaking down blocks of Gotham in seconds.
When they finally skidded to a halt, Malachi stumbled away from Walker and hurled into the nearest bush, bile burning his throat. Walker, meanwhile, rolled his shoulders and winced, the toll of his injuries catching up with him now that the adrenaline had eased. He cracked his neck to the side, muttering, “God, it hurts to run like this.”
And then—he vanished. Malachi blinked, chest tightening, panic rising in him. He thought he’d screwed up, that in freeing Walker he’d just unleashed another nightmare back into Gotham. His gut sank at the thought of Batman learning he had helped.
But just seconds later, Walker was back, materializing in another burst of light, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. “You’ll just send the Bat after me if I run away,” he muttered, almost annoyed at himself. And with that, he stood still long enough for Malachi to snap the collar back onto him.
From there, things got slightly easier. They found the Impala parked two blocks down, its door lock no match for Malachi’s nimble hands. The engine coughed to life like it hadn’t been touched in months, but it worked well enough. They pulled away under the cover of Gotham’s grimy night, made their detour for tacos, and now rolled steadily through the city streets, heading straight for Ace Chemicals.
A road sign streaks past the windshield, lit orange by the faint glow of Gotham’s dying streetlamps. Malachi’s hands tighten against the steering wheel as the car hums down the cracked asphalt of Amusement Mile. In the distance, the skeletal silhouette of the abandoned Ferris wheel looms against the cloudy night sky, a ghostly reminder of better days that never were. The city feels alive, always watching—graffiti-coated brick walls rising up on either side of them, a half-burned billboard advertising Iceberg Lounge specials, the faint thunder of sirens chasing somewhere far behind. The whole place reeks of oil, rain, and faintly of chemical discharge from the Narrows, and the dashboard’s green glow flickers across Malachi’s clenched jaw.
He lets his mind drift, though he shouldn’t. A live boy stuffed inside a van. Ace Chemicals. What in God’s name could the Joker want there? His stomach knots. Were they planning to alter him? Pump him full of Venom, like Bane’s army had years ago? Or worse—turn him into a weapon Joker could mold, break, and rebuild as a laughing corpse? Torture crossed his mind too, because that was always Joker’s specialty. But why Mason Thames? Who was he to warrant this? Just some random kid caught in the crossfire—or something more? The questions pile on each other, heavy and without answer, until Malachi’s temples ache.
He’s cut short by the wet, revolting sound of Walker’s chewing.
“Do you always eat so obnoxiously?” Malachi mutters, jaw twitching as his eyes stay glued to the road.
Walker rolls his eyes dramatically, his mouth still half full. “Well, sorry if my eating isn’t up to the superhero code. Speedsters get hungry easily. You try being locked in a room without food or water for a day, beaten until you can’t breathe, and then tell me how you like it,” he growls.
Malachi exhales slowly, forcing down the spike of irritation. He’s right. He hates that Walker’s right, but the truth bites. Batman had been unusually harsh this time. Almost cruel. Nightwing had chalked it up to Batman being angry with him and Xochitl for screwing up the Casino mission, but even then… Bruce’s eyes had burned hotter than usual. Something else was simmering beneath the surface.
“I haven’t gotten the chance to apologize for that,” Malachi admits, swallowing his pride. “He can… get that way sometimes. I assure you it was nothing personal.”
Walker slouches in the passenger seat, licking grease off his fingers before rolling his eyes again. “It sure felt personal.”
The car hums past the glowing neon sign of Monarch Theater, its letters half-burnt out. Shadows cling to Crime Alley like smoke, and Malachi’s gaze flickers for just a second toward the alley’s mouth. A place soaked in too much history. He shakes it off. He doesn’t like being anywhere near here.
“He was having a bad day,” Malachi says, forcing himself to stay steady. “Things weren’t… going according to plan. He doesn’t like that.”
Walker studies him, smirking through a mouth still full of food. A piece of lettuce slides down his chin. “It’s about that Red Hood chick, right? Boy, she was a hottie. But I assume the big ol’ bat wasn’t too happy with you two causing so much chaos. How many people died, anyway? I haven’t gotten to find out because, well, y’know.”
Malachi’s grip on the wheel hardens until his knuckles pale. He doesn’t want to answer, but the silence feels worse. “Six,” he grits out.
Walker lets out a whoop of surprise, leaning back and nearly spilling half a taco on the seat. “Six?! Hell, I was expecting more. You probably hurt my father more than those families, putting a helicopter through the middle of his most famous Casino in Gotham. Hell, it might even bring the bastard out of retirement.” His grin spreads wide, a shark baring teeth. “Imagine that. Reverse Flash back on the streets, with sidekick: me! What’ll I call myself? Speedy? No, that’s the Arrow’s freak protégé. Oh, how about Rush? That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
Malachi exhales, long and tired. The thought of Eobard Thawne stepping foot back in Gotham makes his blood run cold. Surely not. Surely the man would stay buried in his so-called retirement, away from the chaos. And Walker? No chance. No matter how much he jokes about it, he won’t be walking free again.
“Slow down, Rush,” Malachi mocks, the name sharp on his tongue. “When this is over, you’re going straight back to GCPD to live out your sentence for harboring a fugitive.”
Walker frowns, his bravado slipping for just a heartbeat. “You wouldn’t really put me back there, would you, Kai?”
"Sure I will. All prisoner's deserve to live out their sentence, whether they help a hero or--" Malachi freezes.
“What did you just call me?” Malachi asks, his voice low, almost a growl beneath his breath.
Walker raises an eyebrow, chewing the last bite of his taco. “Kai? Like, short for Malachi?”
Malachi suddenly slams on the brakes. The car screeches across the cracked asphalt, the tires leaving long black streaks behind them. Walker lurches forward in his seat, catching himself against the dashboard with a curse. Malachi doesn’t hesitate—he yanks an Escrima Stick from his tool belt, flicks his thumb across the control, and the weapon hums alive with electric current. He holds it just inches from Walker’s throat, the blue glow casting sharp shadows across his face.
“How the hell do you know my name?” Malachi snaps.
Walker freezes up, his bravado vanishing as he pulls back against the seat. “Jesus, dude! Put that shit away!”
“How do you know my name,” Malachi repeats, slower this time, his glare cutting through the darkness like a blade.
“Chill!” Walker shouts, throwing up his hands. “Look, I heard you and the Red Hood girl talking, saying each other’s name. That’s it! You didn’t think I wouldn’t have cameras on every building around the Casino, did you?”
Malachi narrows his eyes, the tension in his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. After a long, measured pause, he deactivates the stick, the hum dying out, and slides it back into his belt.
“Who have you told?” he asks, his tone still edged.
“Nobody,” Walker says quickly, shaking his head. “There’s no point in telling anyone your guys’ first names. Except, maybe the girls. There can’t be that many Xochitl’s in town. But like I said—I’m not a villain, and I’m not working for the Joker. I don’t care who you are under the mask. So relax with the shock sticks, will ya?”
Malachi doesn’t answer. He just grits his teeth, his hands flexing against the steering wheel as he shakes his head in frustration.
The silence lingers for a beat before Walker breaks it, smirking again, his usual smugness creeping back. “What’s your relationship with that girl, anyway? You two dating? That’d be a shame. She’s hot.”
Malachi nearly gags. He shoots Walker a disgusted look. “Dude, gross. That’s my cousin.”
Walker only shrugs, unbothered. “Lucky me, I guess.”
Malachi’s fist snaps out and punches him in the arm, drawing a groan from Walker, who winces and clutches the spot. He’s still sore from his earlier beatings, and the pain clearly lands.
“Shut up,” Malachi mutters, turning his attention out the windshield.
The headlights cut through the misty night air, illuminating the monstrous shape that rises ahead of them. Off Gotham’s coast, connected by a rusted steel bridge, stands Ace Chemicals. The factory looms like a graveyard of industry, its jagged chimneys coughing out faint wisps of smoke into the starless sky. The main compound stretches across the water, a sprawl of corrugated metal buildings, rusted pipes, and tangled catwalks. Greenish light seeps through shattered windows, reflecting off black pools of runoff that gather along the cracked pavement. The bridge leading into the facility looks skeletal, its girders streaked with rust, the rails sagging in places as though one wrong step would send the whole thing plunging into the black waters below.
The factory hums faintly, a sickly mechanical rhythm that carries across the water like a heartbeat. To most, the sight of it is a warning. To Gotham, it is a scar.
Malachi tightens his grip on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the building’s silhouette.
“We’re here.”
~~~~~
The terrace creaks beneath their weight, a skeletal structure bolted to the side of Ace Chemicals like it was never meant to hold anyone for long. Rust gnaws through its beams, leaving sharp flakes that crunch beneath their boots. The railing is bent, warped, and split in places, threatening to give way if leaned on too heavily. All around, remnants of forgotten life cling to the ledges—pots filled with withered plants, brittle stems bowing under the weight of shriveled leaves. Dead vines snake across the brickwork, their roots long starved of water. The air carries a faint chemical sting, heavy and metallic, as if even the plants here were poisoned out of existence.
Malachi crouches low beside a broken pane, keeping his voice hushed as he explains. They had to sneak around for hours just to get up here. Guards were everywhere, every corner, every catwalk—it was locked down tight. They couldn’t find a clear path. Malachi, reluctantly, had to take Walker's collar off again. And for the first time tonight, Walker did as he was instructed. Because at this point, why the hell not? Malachi had a death plan, trying to stop the Joker. Regardless, once they were inside the compound, Malachi put the collar back on and grappled the two of them onto the terrace.
Below, the main atrium stretches out like the heart of the facility. Pools of dim, greenish light spill across cracked tile and steel beams overhead. And in the center—squatting there like a beast—is the Joker’s black van. Its body is tagged in garish streaks of purple and green graffiti, Joker’s twisted smile and mocking eyes sprayed across the sides. It looks less like a vehicle and more like a trophy in this light. A monument to the clown’s chaos.
Guards in clown masks pace around it, rifles in hand, their boots stomping in an almost military rhythm. They’re on edge, scanning every shadow, every rusted doorway, daring anything to step too close.
Malachi frowns, his whisper slipping through his clenched teeth. “What’s it doing here?”
But Walker isn’t listening. He’s still slouched back against the terrace, his hands behind his head like he’s sunbathing instead of hiding in a death trap. “Why don’t you just jump in there and take them all out?” he says casually, nodding toward the atrium floor.
Malachi glares at him, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, great idea. Kill the guards, scare off the van, lose the package again. Brilliant.”
He’s about to say more when a steel door grinds open below. The sound echoes off the atrium walls like a scream.
Malachi freezes. His eyes track the figure that emerges.
A tall, looming silhouette in tattered robes, his very presence pulling the air cold. Burlap sacks stitched into a mockery of humanity hang from his frame, a gas mask fused into his face with tubes trailing down into his chest rig. Rusted syringes gleam at his belt, while his gauntlets bristle with hooked needles, each one ready to inject terror itself. The cowl of his mask is pointed, its hollow eyes glowing faintly in the dark, a nightmare given form.
Scarecrow.
Behind him, six guards stagger in under the weight of heavy boxes, the word CAUTION stenciled across their sides in bright, threatening red. They march in silence, flanking the doctor like offerings to their priest of fear.
“Oh, shit,” Malachi mutters.
Walker sits up instantly, his smugness replaced with intrigue. “What?”
“It’s Scarecrow,” Malachi says, voice grim.
Walker’s eyes flick down, and for once, he looks rattled. He joins Malachi at the broken window, both of them peering into the atrium as Crane and his men move toward the van.
Scarecrow stops at the rear doors, his voice muffled through the filter of his mask as he orders them to open it. The guards obey, fumbling with the latches, the hinges groaning as the metal doors swing wide.
And then—chaos.
From the dark belly of the van, a figure bursts forth. Mason Thames, barefoot, clad only in his boxers, launches himself at Crane with raw desperation. His shoulder slams into Scarecrow’s chest, knocking the doctor backward into his men. The boxes tumble from their grip, scattering across the floor.
Mason doesn’t stop. His legs pump wildly, propelling him across the atrium toward the exit. His hands are still bound at the wrists, but he must’ve freed his legs somehow. Adrenaline and sheer survival drive him forward.
The clown-masked guards shout, rifles raised, and give chase. Mason’s almost at the door, almost free, when it slams open from the other side.
Something enormous bursts through.
A thick, twisting vine as wide as a man’s torso lurches into the atrium, its thorns glistening in the sickly light. It whips through the air and coils around Mason’s torso, yanking him off his feet. He thrashes, kicks, but the plant tightens its grip, pinning him helplessly in its grasp.
Then she steps through.
Poison Ivy.
Her every move radiates effortless allure, her figure silhouetted by the doorway’s light. Her red hair tumbles like wildfire over her shoulders, her eyes glowing with that dangerous, inhuman green. Dressed in leaves that shift and cling as if alive, she commands the room without speaking a word.
She smirks as she takes in the scene. “Crane,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “you need to be more careful with the boss’s toys.”
With a languid motion, she plucks a flower from the vine coiled around Mason. It blooms instantly in her hand, petals unfolding with unnatural vibrance. She presses it beneath Mason’s nose.
He inhales once. His eyes flutter. And then his body goes limp.
Unconscious.
ChatGPT said:
“Holy shit,” Malachi mutters, shaking his head as Ivy loosens her grip and the living coil peels away from Mason’s ribs. The kid slumps, dazed—only in black boxers, wrists still bound—before two clown-masked guards rush in to catch him by the arms. They haul him, half-dragging, back to the Joker van. The rear doors yaw open; box after box stamped with bold black CAUTION triangles already crowd the cargo bay. Mason disappears inside with them, the doors slam, external latches snap, and a padlock clicks home.
“What are Ivy and Crane doing here?” Malachi breathes, eyes combing the atrium for the answer—over the scaffolds, the flickering sodium lights, the oily vapor rising off chemical vats. “What’s in those boxes? What do they have to do with Mason?”
“I don’t know,” Walker says from the slanted roof, panic tightening his voice for the first time. “But if these two are working with the Joker, then we should really get out of here.”
The van’s engine coughs alive—low, hungry, echoing off concrete and glass. Malachi surges to his feet. “No!” He reaches for the Escrima sticks at his belt—
Walker yelps.
Malachi whips around just as a thick green vine, glossy as wet lacquer, whips through the terrace rail like a whipcord and corkscrews around his torso. It cinches chest, arms, and legs in a single crushing coil, bark-thorn ridges biting through his suit. Air knifes from his lungs; the pressure climbs fast enough to star him at the edges of his vision.
“Well, well,” a voice purrs.
Rising into view on the other side of the shattered railing is a carnivorous bloom—a giant Venus flytrap petal turned into a platform. A boy rides it down, hands clasped behind his back like he’s on a Sunday stroll. He looks their age: tan complexion, short, tight curls that gleam as if always damp, eyes sharp with amusement. “You really should have listened to the incel.”
Walker sucks a breath to fire back, but the vine pinning him snakes higher, unfurling a secondary tendril that slaps across his mouth and seals tight. His protest blurs into a muffled snarl.
Both vines yank hard.
Glass screams. The terrace window explodes inward as Malachi and Walker are hurled through it in twin arcs, safety wire and glittering shards fanning around them. Below, the entire floor pivots in shock: clown soldiers jerk their rifles up; Scarecrow’s burlap cowl tilts; Ivy’s green eyes flash. The boy descends between them on his floral dais, and the vines lower their captives to either side of him like trophies, still cinched tight, still choking.
“Mother. Father,” the boy declares, voice smooth and proud as he surveys the gathering. “I’ve caught a traitor and a trespasser.”