Chapter 59: New Powers, New Message
Alex had turned an old, empty warehouse in Gotham's industrial district into his new lab. The large, open space was ideal for conducting experiments in secret.
Sunlight filtered through cracked windows, illuminating the dust in the air and highlighting the metal items he'd laid out across the concrete floor.
A wrench. Three different sized bolts. A length of rebar. A crowbar. Various tools and fragments, each positioned at varying distances from where Alex stood in the center of the makeshift testing ground.
He extended his right hand toward the wrench, palm open and fingers spread. The strange power running through his nerves felt like a mix of electricity and ice—Grodd's telekinetic powers gradually trying to merge with his human body.
The cosmic radiation that had turned Grodd from a normal gorilla into a telepathic war mongering monkey came from a meteorite that crashed into Gorilla City years ago. Alex had absorbed those memories along with Grodd's genetic material: the blinding flash of impact, the strange green glow emanating from the crater, young Grodd's screams as his dna mutated, granting him power and intelligence.
The wrench trembled against the concrete. Alex concentrated harder, feeling sweat form on his forehead despite the warehouse's cold air. The tool rose—one inch, two inches, six inches—hovering unsteadily in the air.
Pain ripped through Alex's skull. The wrench clattered to the floor as he doubled over and clutched his temples, blood trickling from his nose onto the dusty concrete.
His body was beginning to reject the genetic changes he'd made to accommodate Grodd's DNA, violently resisting the telekinetic abilities he was trying to unlock.
But progress was progress. Each session pushed his success a little further and expanded his capabilities. Yesterday he could barely make a bolt twitch. Today he'd levitated a two-pound wrench for nearly thirty seconds. Tomorrow, who knew?
Alex wiped the blood away with his sleeve and tried again with something lighter. One of the bolts rose smoothly this time, spinning in lazy circles three feet off the ground. No pain, minimal effort required. The DNA integration was showing signs of success, but more experiments were required to perfect it.
The applications were immediately obvious: moving objects without physical contact, manipulating crime scenes from across a room, disabling weapons, unlocking doors, activating switches—all without leaving fingerprints or DNA evidence. Another tool in his growing arsenal of retribution. He could already achieve most of that with his existing biomass powers, but who says no to more?
He spent another hour experimenting, trying different ways to merge the two DNAs. Slowly, he raised the weight and difficulty of his telekinetic tests. By sunset, Alex could lift several small objects at once with good control. His body was adapting—but still nowhere near Grodd's level.
Satisfied with his progress, Alex headed over to his makeshift workstation—a desk pieced together from old shipping crates holding his research notes and plans. While he'd been in Central City helping Team Flash deal with Dr. Blunt's fractured mind, Gotham had fallen into its own nightmare.
He opened a thick manila folder marked Firefly Incident – Complete Analysis – Priority Alpha. Inside were three days' worth of research he'd gathered on the trip back from Central City: news reports from every major Gotham outlet, police files and witness accounts pulled from the press, hospital records obtained through less legal means, insurance documents, building plans, and even personnel files.
Everything he needed to understand exactly what had happened at Sunset Gardens retirement home.
The headlines told the story in stark black ink across dozens of newspaper clippings: "RETIREMENT HOME INFERNO KILLS 23." "FIREFLY STRIKES SUNSET GARDENS." "BATMAN CAPTURES PYROMANIAC AFTER MASSACRE." "SURVIVOR: 'HE LAUGHED WHILE THEY BURNED.'"
The photographs were the worst part. Sunset Gardens retirement home, reduced to charred skeleton. Bodies carried out in bags. Survivors with haunted eyes speaking to reporters about the screams, the smell, the helplessness.
Martin Reeves, 24. The file contained everything—Martin's volunteer schedule, his relationship with Emma, his academic records. A good kid who had chosen to spend his free time caring for the elderly instead of partying or studying. Now he lay in Gotham General's burn unit, his life forever scarred by one madman's obsession with fire.
His girlfriend Emma hadn't been so fortunate.
Alex's hands trembled slightly as he read Emma's volunteer file. Photos showed a young woman with bright eyes and an infectious smile, someone who radiated the kind of genuine warmth that drew people like moths to flame. Her supervisor's evaluation noted: "Emma treats every resident like her own grandparent. Her empathy and patience are extraordinary."
Now she was ash and memory, another casualty of Gotham's endless cycle of violence.
Another article mentioned how Martin Reeves had begged Batman to kill the murderer, only to be refused due to the Dark Knight's moral code. There was video footage—grainy cell phone recording from another patient—showing Martin begging at Batman despite his injuries: "Kill him. Please. I'm begging you. He doesn't deserve to live."
Alex closed the video file and leaned back in his makeshift chair, processing everything. Batman's moral code might prevent him from delivering true justice, but the Architect operated under no such constraints.
He pulled up additional research on Firefly's previous crimes. Garfield Lynns had been arrested seventeen times in the last decade for arson. Seventeen times the system processed him—and seventeen times it let him go to burn again.
The pattern was obvious: useless therapy, minimum-security lockups he slipped out of, and lenient judges who believed he could be "rehabilitated."
The Sunset Gardens massacre had been entirely predictable. Entirely preventable. If someone had possessed the courage to permanently remove Lynns from society after his first few victims, twenty-three innocent people would still be alive.
Instead, they'd trusted the system. They'd believed in second chances and rehabilitation programs and the fundamental goodness of human nature. They'd been wrong, and their wrongness had cost twenty-three lives.
Alex reached into his equipment case and withdrew one of his signature black envelopes, the paper thick and expensive, the blood-red wax seal gleaming like a drop of blood. He ran his thumb over the message: "When justice fails, judgment comes."
Martin Reeves deserved to know he had options beyond shallow grief counseling and empty condolences. He deserved to understand that someone was willing to do what Batman wouldn't—provide actual justice for the woman he'd loved.
Alex tested his telekinetic abilities one more time, lifting the envelope and rotating it slowly in the air. The power felt more stable now, more controllable. Soon he would be more powerful, possessing one more method in his arsenal.
But first, Firefly needed to face the punishment he had prepared.
Alex pocketed the envelope and gathered his research materials, storing everything in a waterproof case for future reference. The warehouse had served its purpose as a training facility, but he couldn't risk extended exposure. Batman's surveillance network was expanding throughout the city, and even abandoned buildings might harbor monitoring equipment.
He made his way to the building's rear exit, pausing to scan the alley for potential observers. Clear. Alex stepped into the fading daylight and began walking toward Gotham General Hospital, his appearance shifting subtly with each block traveled. Taller, different facial structure, clothing that suggested middle-class rather than dangerous.
The Architect was about to make another house call, and Gotham's criminals would soon learn that some fires burned far hotter than anything they could imagine.
In his pocket, the black envelope seemed to pulse with anticipation.
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