The night near Slaughter Swamp reeked of rain, oil, and gunpowder. A nightclub squatted at the edge of the marsh—a rusted, neon-lit box that pulsed like a dying heartbeat. Around it, gunfire cracked through the fog. Several gangs had converged on the same prize: what remained of the Odessa family's last profitable front this side of the swamp.
The Bratva came from the west, their black SUVs lined up like teeth. A Latin crew from the Narrows had slipped in through the back alley. A few local bikers joined for blood and loot. Inside, a handful of Odessa's last soldiers were trying to hold the line, their automatic fire cutting through the night.
Shells clattered. Muzzle flashes danced in the fog. The swamp drank the blood that splattered the cracked pavement.
Then, something heavy moved in the dark.
At first, the fighting drowned it out. The low, wet sound of something dragging through mud. The faint splash of a massive foot hitting shallow water. But when the ground began to tremble—when the air itself seemed to change temperature—someone finally noticed.
"The hell's that?" a Bratva soldier muttered, squinting through the mist.
A shape was moving out of the swamp—huge, gray, misshapen, shoulders broad as a truck, drawn in by the sound of gunfire it.
"Shoot it!" someone shouted.
Gunfire erupted again, a storm of muzzle flashes lighting up the night. The rounds punched into the figure's chest and arms—no effect. The thing stopped, as if trying to understand. Then its head tilted, pale eyes flashing faint blue in the dark.
"Born… on a Monday…" it rumbled.
Then it charged.
The swamp exploded with motion. Solomon Grundy—half-dead, half-immortal—tore into the first line of gangsters. A man screamed as he was swatted into a lamppost, another hurled twenty feet through a car windshield. Bratva, Odessa, bikers—it didn't matter. Grundy's rage was blind and absolute.
A Molotov hit his shoulder and burst into flame. He didn't notice. He ripped up a chunk of concrete and hurled it through a truck. Guns emptied. Men ran. Grundy smashed through them all, the nightclub trembling with every impact.
By the time the Batmobile's engine roared in the distance, the ground was slick with blood and rain.
Batman leapt from the moving vehicle before it stopped, cape flaring behind him. His eyes narrowed beneath the cowl as he took in the scene—the mangled bodies, the fire, the hulking form at the center of it all.
"Grundy," he said under his breath.
The creature turned, eyes burning like pale moons in the dark.
Batman raised a hand to his comm. "Robin," he said, voice calm but urgent, "Grundy's awake. Looks like several gangs drew his anger. Multiple casualties already."
Robin's voice came sharp and fast over the channel. "Copy. I'll bring the others. ETA five minutes."
Batman ducked as a car door sailed past him. Grundy roared and swung his massive arm, shattering a support beam. The roof of the nightclub began to sag, glass falling like rain.
High above, on a rooftop across the street, a homeless man stirred from his makeshift bedding. The noise pulled him halfway from sleep. He blinked, rubbed his eyes—and froze when he saw the carnage below.
"Holy hell…" he whispered, fumbling for his cracked phone. He started taking pictures, the soft click-click almost lost in the chaos.
Down in the alleys, two more drifters crouched in the shadows, filming shaky footage of the chaos—Batman dodging debris, Grundy roaring through gunfire, gangs scattering like rats. One of them muttered, "Boss'll wanna see this."
Within minutes, those photos and clips were being sent through encrypted channels, passed phone to phone, until they reached a quiet room in Gotham.
There, a figure sat at a desk surrounded by screens. One monitor blinked to life—the footage of Grundy, towering, roaring, unstoppable.
The figure leaned forward, eyes narrowing then a smile bloomed on his lips.
"…well this changes some things."
It was a grainy photo but, the ones that followed changed everything.
Nolan didn't breathe until the last clip finished. He set the phone down, walked to the desk, and tapped the encrypted line. The conference link lit up: Dre, Marcy, Naima — all three icons pulsing. He keyed the mic.
The force with the strongest might often
won, but those who had the best source of information they conquered.
And Nolan's information network was the best in the city.
"Listen up," he said, voice cold and fast. "Something big's happening down by Slaughter Swamp. Batman's on scene, and Robin's going to be there soon. Gangs are being drawn to them like sharks to blood. I want everyone moving right now."
Naima's voice came through, taut but steady. "We saw movement on the docks minutes ago. What do you want us to do?"
"This," Nolan said, and laid it out with no wasted words. "Naima, you push out from the docks. Take every warehouse close to the main building you can. Lock down anything we can hold by sunup, hold it. Don't get greedy; take what you can and get out. Two decent warehouses are better than five you can't defend."
"Dre," Nolan continued, "I need you to send over some men to shoot up a couple of the storefronts near the docks, make sure they have gang protection and make sure there are no casualties. Preferably target Odessa store fronts they are already taking a massive hit."
Dre answer was a short, affirmative bark. "Copy. I'll make some calls, do you want anything else? Just shooting up some stores doesn't make a lot of sense to me."
Nolan smiled, "I'll explain in the morning we have to move fast now."
"Marcy," Nolan said, turning his attention to the logistics queen. "Keep the supply lines open. Ammo, medkits, food— everything. If you can, slide a couple extra drivers into the west corridors. And if the cops start asking questions, make it look like routine deliveries. Quiet, and smooth."
Marcy's voice hummed with controlled confidence. "I can stage two convoys on 20-minute intervals. You want them staging or flowing through?"
"Stage, then flow to the targets after Naima calls green," Nolan said. "Timing has to be tight."
On the other end the personalities crowded the edges of his voice — Quentin muttering something about striking hard and fast.
"One more thing," he said. "Don't be greedy. I would rather us take a potential property loss than a manpower loss. This could be an opportunity to expand in more ways than one."
The line crackled with quick confirmations. Naima's last voice was flat with iron.
"Understood, boss. We'll move now."
Nolan ended the call and let the silence settle for a breath. He looked at the photo one more time — the hulking shape blurred by motion — then placed the phone face down. The theater mask on his desk caught the lamplight. He tapped the edge of the mask twice, a small, satisfied motion, and smiled without humor.
"Make it count," Kieran murmured, and Nolan—already shifting into motion—answered by opening a map and tracking the first points of contact.
Tonight he was playing oversight and he was not going to let this golden opportunity go to waste.