"What the fuck?!"
Deathstroke couldn't help yelling too: "Where the hell did you get all this shit?!"
He knew Gotham wasn't a city you could compare to anywhere else. As long as the GCPD was breathing, their firepower at least had to be on par with the Afghanistan war. But a tank was still pushing it, right? How the hell would Batman ever allow…
Thinking that, Deathstroke slapped his forehead. There is no Batman here!
Batman would definitely never allow anyone in this city to privately stash heavy weaponry, not even the police. Because that really is too dangerous. Nobody wants to imagine Bane driving a tank rampaging through downtown. And in this city, anything that exists is guaranteed to get snatched by some villain.
But in this cosmos, nobody's in charge. The Gotham Police Department's firepower has been ramping up without limit. No wonder Gordon got so excited the moment he remembered they could come poke around GCPD — turns out there really was good stuff.
On top of that, there were lethal quantities of rocket launchers, all kinds of models, plus crate after crate of grenades and landmines. Just from the sheer amount of explosives, even if Batman showed up, he wouldn't be able to tell who the Joker was in the moment.
So that explains why the Mob has such insane firepower — turns out Wolong and Phoenix were both hiding here! You guys are running a damn arms race?
Listening to Gordon explain where all this gear came from, Deathstroke realized the whole development process really did sound like an arms race. Only it was an arms race between the Gotham Police Department and every Mob outfit in town. That's exactly why the weapon stockpile here was ridiculously overflowing.
Of course, there was another main reason: GCPD had always been loaded. Besides Wayne Enterprises' funding, the Gotham Police Department also took a ton of money from the Twelve Families.
That's right, a lot of the weapons here were funded by the Mob, that tank included; it was smuggled in through gangster channels. It sounds unbelievable, but in practice it's perfectly logical.
The cops go after the Mob that doesn't play by the rules. Like when somebody insists on having a shootout in the business district, the police will naturally mobilize everything they've got, suppress them with overwhelming firepower, and drag everyone back to the station.
But actually, gunfights in the business district don't align with the Twelve Families' interests either. Most of the properties there belong to them. If it gets trashed, they're the ones who lose money. Using the police to suppress it lets them stand on the moral high ground without sacrificing their own manpower, so of course they're happy.
The gangsters who get arrested might be from rival gangster families, but those families can pay to bail them out. America's bail money system basically exists to make this convenient. Even if they get sentenced later, they won't suffer much in prison.
The police are just tools in the Mob's power games. Tools need upkeep and maintenance. So the Gotham Police Department took plenty of cash from the Mob, and could even get equipment that money normally can't buy.
"Tsk tsk," Deathstroke said as he walked and looked around, "hard to imagine what kind of days you guys lived through in this cosmos. What the hell were you planning to throw all these grenades at?"
"It's exactly because we almost never threw them that we stockpiled so many," Gordon said with a shake of his head. "Most of the time we just toss a few into an empty lot to hear them go off, not really to blow people up. Same with these…"
Deathstroke followed his finger and saw a whole pile of cluster bombs, and on the rack behind them sat a gigantic fuel-air bomb. He was actually kind of scared to go near it.
Because these bombs require specific storage conditions. And now they're just sitting out here in the basement, caked with a layer of dust. Deathstroke was worried that if he brushed against one, it'd go off right away.
Further back were plenty of standard police-issue gear, mostly batons, Shields, that kind of thing. But in the very innermost part of the Arsenal, Deathstroke dug out something magical — the Bat Light.
"So you guys still have a Bat Light," Deathstroke said, a bit surprised.
"We do," Gordon nodded, "but it hasn't been used in a long time. And even if we did use it, it might not bring Batman out."
Gordon and Deathstroke lugged the huge Bat Light out. Deathstroke hooked it up to a power source, and the next second a big green bat appeared on the wall. He frowned and asked, "Why's it green?"
"Oh, we converted it from a traffic light," Gordon said, patting his head. "No, wait. Or was it later turned into a traffic light? I don't remember."
Deathstroke was speechless: "What intersection needs a traffic light with this much wattage?"
"That's where you don't get it," Gordon said. "Did you see that giant turntable we passed coming in? It's used there. Without this level of power, drivers in Gotham wouldn't give a damn what color your light is."
Deathstroke could basically picture it. Turntables are universally recognized crimes against the Human race. If you put one in the city center, that's a full-on catastrophe. Thankfully, Prime Universe Gotham doesn't have that.
"Who designed that turntable?" Deathstroke couldn't help asking.
Gordon shook his head, saying he didn't know either. But he really did think about it. Logically, it ought to have been designed by Gotham's old families. Maybe back then they had no experience and thought a turntable would be the most convenient solution, so they went with it.
They came out of the Arsenal. Deathstroke thought for a moment and said, "There's no way we'll use all of this. Have the other squads come haul some."
Gordon nodded and looked at Charles. Charles quickly relayed the message to the other squads. But everybody else was busy with their own stuff too.
To put it bluntly, anyone who can hustle in this city and actually survive the dark age—who doesn't have a little something stashed away?
Prime Universe's Robin followed behind Harley. The group was moving forward through a pitch‑black stretch of sewer. Walking at the front, Nightwing asked, "How much farther?"
"Almost there," Harley said. "I hid it somewhere a bit out of the way. But just walk a little more and we'll be there."
"Why would you…" Red hood paused for a second, then still went on, "When did you stash it?"
"There was a time I was running guns with the other Harley Quinns, you know that," Harley said. "Of course I'd keep some good toys for myself, just in case. It's just that after Brainiac showed up, this stuff never got any use."
"Then why didn't you take it out earlier?" Damian asked.
"I didn't think it'd ever come in handy," Harley said. "Not that it's necessarily going to help now, either. But last time we came into the sewers, we found traces of the Court of Owls. If I don't go get it, I'm afraid they'll take it."
"Brainiac let you hide it too?" Red Robin clearly understood more about their universe. "No matter how you slice it, that's still a hidden risk. And he actually allowed it?"
"Compared to the guns, a me who's gone insane is an even bigger risk." Harley laughed. "Normally, Brainiac doesn't like to provoke us. Whatever we want to stash away, he just pretends he doesn't see it. Including Joker's explosives and Scarecrow's fear gas."
"He's not afraid you'll use that stuff on him? Or that someone else will get their hands on it and start wrecking things?" Nightwing asked.
"Your concern makes perfect sense," Harley sighed. "Rulers are always making choices like this. Weighing pros and cons, choosing the lesser evil. Apparently, Brainiac decided it was more important to keep us in a good mood."
"But for you, this stuff is kind of useless now, isn't it?" Red hood pointed out. "Why hang on to it all this time?"
"You sound pretty optimistic," Harley said. "But I keep thinking, maybe one day the dark age will come back. You're right, this arsenal might not be much use to me. But if the darkness returns, it can at least make sure that you and your comrades, when the storm surge hits, won't be stuck hiding in some cramped, damp basement just waiting to die."
Red hood fell silent for a moment. He knew those words weren't meant for him, but still, there was a brief jolt in his chest. "I really didn't expect you to be that kind of person."
"What kind of person Harley Quinn is depends on what kind of Joker she runs into." Harley laughed, as if she'd remembered something funny, then let her expression settle. "He made me always appreciate people with a shocking capacity for revolution a little more."
Red hood was about to say something else. Harley suddenly spoke up: "We're here."
In front of them was an underground warehouse that looked like an abandoned cold storage facility. Judging from the map, this place really was pretty out of the way, almost at the outskirts, and it was also at the end of the indoor underground water system. The cold storage itself didn't look like it saw much use, but once it was opened, the scene inside stunned everyone.
Row after row of Soviet‑pattern equipment filled the space. Some of it was even brand‑new, the kind that had come off the production line and never been used, and the models weren't exactly outdated either.
Nightwing opened his mouth, then Red Robin opened his. In the end, it was Red hood who said, "Are we… not supposed to ask where all this came from?"
"Of course you can ask," Harley said as she walked inside. "Did you forget where that big bomb you guys used before came from?"
Red hood rubbed his face. On this front, none of them really had any right to judge. After all, there was only one place in the world that would casually let this sort of thing leak out.
"Wait," Red Robin said, "the Soviet Union in your universe never collapsed, right?"
"Doesn't stop them from doing a massive clearance sale." Harley shook her head. "Honestly, compared to that thing you guys got, this is nothing. Just costs a bit more money. I don't think we'll need all of it; hauling out a portion should be enough."
"If I'd known, I would've had Pamela come," Nightwing said. "This stuff isn't exactly easy to move. It's not that we don't want to help, it's just kind of dangerous."
"He's got his own stash to dig up," Harley said. "Anyone who's been hustling in Gotham this long—who doesn't have some old capital stashed away?"
At the door of the underground lab beneath the Biology Department building of Gotham University. Ted said nervously, "What exactly is it that needs the two of us to come fetch it?"
"It's all Brainiac's fault," Pamela said. "If the seeds won't germinate, he could've said so earlier. I wasted half the day messing around in the backyard. If I'd known, I'd have just come and grabbed the ready‑made ones."
"So you're here to get plants?" Ted asked. "Then you could've come on your own, why drag me along? No need to make such a big production out of a few potted plants…"
Before he could finish, a green shadow flashed by. There was a loud "bang," and by the time Ted came back to his senses, he'd already been slapped into the wall.
Ted fell to the floor, baring his teeth in pain as he pushed himself up. When he looked up, he saw a cabbage over two meters tall standing in the lab doorway, waving its fist‑shaped leaves at him.