The abandoned Gotham Shipyard was a skeletal monument to a forgotten industrial past, a vast expanse of rusted metal, cavernous warehouses, and the ghostly silhouettes of decaying dry docks. Rain, a perpetual feature of Gotham nights, slicked the concrete and turned puddles into black mirrors reflecting the city's distant, sickly glow. A biting wind whipped off the bay, carrying the scent of salt and decay.
Jona Martini, heir to a criminal empire now reduced to ashes, paced the cluttered interior of Warehouse 17. The faint glow of a battery-powered lamp cast shifting shadows across his face, highlighting the deep lines of stress and exhaustion. Jona was a man driven by sharp cunning and a desperate will to survive. He was a survivor, not a fighter, and his intelligence had allowed him to slip through the cracks when the rest of his family had been brutally, incomprehensibly, annihilated.
His suit, usually impeccably tailored, was rumpled and stained. A heavy duffel bag lay at his feet, packed with burner phones, false passports, and enough cash to buy a new life somewhere far from Gotham's reach.
"Almost ready, sir," one of his remaining five guards, a burly ex-military type named Marco, reported, adjusting the strap of his assault rifle. "The tug's signaled. ETA fifteen minutes. They'll pull up to the old cargo ramp. Quick transfer, then we're gone."
Jona nodded, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. His eyes constantly darted towards the warehouse's grimy windows, listening to the wail of the wind, the creak of rusty metal, every sound magnified by his frayed nerves. He hadn't slept properly in days. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every distant siren promised capture.
He thought of the massacre, a memory that still sent shivers down his spine despite the warm, stale air of the warehouse. It wasn't a hit. It was an execution. A force of nature. He'd seen the initial moments of the chaos, the sheer, impossible strength that had shattered his father's strongest enforcers like matchsticks. And he'd seen him. Lester Finch. The low-level thug he didn't even know existed. He moved with a chilling purpose, a terrifying confidence as he tore through the room, leaving a trail of broken bodies. Jona had only escaped through sheer luck and by sacrificing three of his most loyal guards, who'd bought him precious seconds to scramble out a rarely used service tunnel.
He'd been running ever since, meticulously planning this escape. Using presetup contracts to plan his escape, minimising movement and noise. It was perfect: off-grid, untraceable, a phantom vessel ferrying him to a new life.
But how did Finch know? The question gnawed at him. He'd been so careful. Only a handful of people knew about this particular plan, and they were all either dead or absolutely loyal. Yet, the chilling words from the Narrows' underground had filtered even into his isolated hiding place: Finch is hunting.
A sudden, sharp clang echoed from outside the warehouse, closer than the wind or the distant harbor sounds. Jona's head snapped up. His guards immediately tensed, weapons raised, scanning the shadows.
"What was that?" Jona hissed, his voice tight.
Marco frowned, peering through a grimy window. "Just the wind, sir. Or maybe a loose sheet of metal." But his grip on his rifle tightened, betraying his unease.
Jona walked to the edge of the large loading bay door, running his hand over its cold, solid metal. Too quiet. The sounds of the dock, normally a constant symphony of creaks and groans, seemed unnaturally muffled. He felt a prickle of dread.
Suddenly, the massive loading bay door of Warehouse 17 groaned and began to deform inward. With a series of ear-splitting shrieks of protesting metal and snapping bolts, the reinforced steel was slowly, agonizingly, pried open. The sound was like a tortured beast, as the door's hinges were forced open. Before Jona's guards could even process the phenomenon, a silhouette filled the gap.
It was Lester Finch. His posture was utterly changed from the low-level thug Jona had known. He stood tall, radiating an unnerving calm, his eyes holding a cold, focused intent that sent a shiver through Jona's very soul.
"Fire!" Marco bellowed, his voice laced with panic, as he and his fellow guards opened fire.
Automatic weapon fire erupted, raking Finch's figure. Bullets, designed to tear through flesh and bone, struck him with sickening thuds. Jona watched, horrified, as they simply flattened against his skin, deforming into harmless slugs before clattering to the concrete floor. Finch didn't flinch. He didn't even slow his steady, relentless advance.
One of the guards, desperate, charged, attempting to tackle Finch. Finch met him with a single, brutal punch. The sound was sickening, like a concrete block striking a side of beef. The guard was lifted off his feet, flung across the warehouse to crash against a stack of crates, utterly incapacitated. The force was that of a human operating at peak, uninhibited capacity, every muscle firing without fear of strain or injury.
Another guard emptied his clip into Finch's chest, then swung the rifle like a club. The stock shattered against Finch's jaw, leaving him unmoved. Finch grabbed the man by the head with one hand, lifting him effortlessly, then slammed him against the nearest support beam. The guard slumped, unconscious.
Jona stumbled backward, scrambling over the scattered debris, his blood turning to ice. This wasn't a man. This was a force. Finch moved through the remaining guards like a phantom through fog, delivering precise, devastating blows. Punches that fractured bone without breaking skin, kicks that sent men sprawling. The guards' desperate shouts and gunfire became muffled thuds as they were systematically, brutally, dispatched.
In less than a minute, all five of Jona's protectors were unconscious or worse, scattered like broken dolls across the warehouse floor. Finch stood amidst the carnage, utterly unmarked, not a speck of dust or a drop of blood on his clothes. He slowly turned, his cold gaze locking onto Jona, who was now pressed against a wall, clutching his duffel bag like a shield.
A chilling, predatory smile stretched across Finch's face. "Running, Jona? You should have known better. There's nowhere left to hide." He took a slow, deliberate step towards the terrified heir. "Your family used me like a dog for years and what do i get from it, to not be acknowledged, butchered in alley ' to eliminate waste? '"
Just as Finch raised a hand, poised to deliver a final, crushing blow, the warehouse was plunged into sudden, disorienting darkness. The emergency lights flickered on, painting the scene in sickly red hues.
From the shattered loading bay, three distinct silhouettes dropped into the warehouse, moving with coordinated precision.
"Halt, Finch!" Batman's voice, amplified by his cowl, boomed through the space, laden with authority and menace.
Batwoman's grappling hook whizzed, securing itself to a high beam, and she landed lightly between Finch and the petrified Jona Martini. Beside her, Batgirl moved with silent, almost ethereal speed, her stance already one of poised aggression.
Lester Finch paused, his head cocked slightly, his cold smile widening into something almost gleeful. He slowly turned to face the new arrivals, his eyes glinting in the red light. "Well, well. The whole freak show has come to play." He flexed his fingers, the ominous cracks of bone now silent. "Good. More to break."
Lester Finch's words hung in the air, a cold promise of violence. Without another word, he lunged. He moved with a speed that belied his bulk, a blur of raw, unrestrained force.
Batman met the charge head-on. His gauntleted forearm blocked a brutal, uninhibited punch aimed at Jona Martini, the impact jarring his entire arm. The force behind it was bone-shattering, yet Finch remained unphased, twisting his body to launch a kick at Batman's chest. Batman absorbed the blow, skidding back a few feet, the reinforced plates of his suit groaning but holding.
As Batman recovered, Batwoman was already in motion. Her twin batarangs, sharp and weighted, whistled through the air, striking Finch's head with sickening thuds. They bounced off harmlessly, clattering to the floor. Finch merely grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim red light, and backhanded her with casual contempt. Kate, relying on her agility, ducked under the swipe, rolling away and bringing her grappling gun to bear, firing a line at his legs to momentarily bind them.
At the same instant, Batgirl was a phantom. She materialized behind Finch, a whirlwind of precise, non-lethal strikes. Kicks aimed at pressure points, chops to the neck, rapid-fire punches to the spine – blows that would incapacitate a normal man instantly. Finch simply absorbed them. He felt the impacts, registered them, but they had no effect. It was like striking solid rock. He roared, a sound of frustrated amusement, and spun, attempting to swat Batgirl like a fly. Cassandra, anticipating the wild swing, flowed with the momentum, using her opponent's own force to launch herself back and away.
"You can't hurt me, fools!" Finch bellowed, his voice echoing in the vast warehouse, filled with a terrifying glee. He effortlessly snapped Batwoman's grapple line, tearing the thick cable with his bare hands. "I'm blessed! Chosen! A higher being touched me! Made me perfect! Made me whole!" He slammed his foot down, cracking the concrete floor. "I can't be broken again!"
The words hit Batman like a physical blow, a sudden, chilling connection forming in his mind. Blessed. Higher being. Perfect. Whole. The Watchtower anomaly. Azrael's cryptic pronouncements about "corrections." The impossible healing of Lester Finch weeks ago. An alarm bell screamed in his mind – this wasn't just a powerful meta-human; this was something... different. A side effect. A twisted gift.
He shoved the thought aside for now. Intel was useless if Finch was still conscious and tearing the shipyard apart. His immediate priority was containment. He launched himself forward again, engaging Finch with a barrage of precise, high-impact strikes aimed at disrupting balance, at creating openings, even if damage was impossible.
His mind raced, calculating trajectories, assessing vulnerabilities. Tasers. Explosives. Cryo-pellets. Nothing physical would work. If he can't be hurt physically...
As Batwoman fired stun rounds that harmlessly dissipated against Finch's skin and Batgirl danced around his wild swings, delivering rapid, useless blows, a new thought, cold and clear, formed in Batman's mind.
Physical harm is irrelevant. But what about internal systems? He watched Finch's eyes, focused and aware. His breathing, strong and steady. His mind. His nervous system.
A sudden surge of inspiration. His eyes darted to his utility belt. Sleep. knockout gas. Tranquilizers. If his physical form was impervious, perhaps his brain, his consciousness, was not. If he couldn't be broken, maybe he could be sedated. It was a gamble, but it was the only strategy that made sense given the impossible nature of his opponent.
"Batwoman, Batgirl!" Batman's voice cut through the comms, sharp and urgent. "Disengage! Create distance! We need to switch tactics!"
Finch roared with laughter, mistaking their tactical retreat for fear. "Running already? I told you, you can't stop perfection!"
The brief lull in the direct assault, however, was all Jona Martini needed. While Finch was momentarily distracted by the Caped Crusader's tactical shift and his own triumphant taunts, Jona saw his window. His earlier terror was instantly superseded by a desperate surge of adrenaline. He didn't hesitate. Clutching his duffel bag tightly, he scrambled towards the gaping hole in the loading bay door. The damaged metal edges were sharp, but he hardly noticed. He flung himself through, landing awkwardly on the slick concrete outside, and then vanished into the driving rain and the labyrinthine shadows of the shipyard, a desperate silhouette disappearing into the night.
Batman registered Jona's escape in his peripheral vision, the familiar exasperation of a missed target flaring for a split second. But his focus remained entirely on the immediate, existential threat: Lester Finch. Jona was gone for now, but Finch was still here, an unbreakable, increasingly unhinged force of nature. The priority remained the same: neutralize the immediate threat.
"Now, team!" Batman's command cut through Finch's triumphant laughter. "Plan B!"
He launched himself forward again, not to strike, but to distract. He fired a series of sonic emitters from his gauntlets, creating a disorienting, high-frequency screech that caused even Finch to flinch, his hand rising to his ear. It didn't harm him, but it broke his focus, making him momentarily less precise.
Batwoman, already positioned, had anticipated the shift. As Finch stumbled from the sonic assault, she produced a specialized dart gun from her thigh holster. This wasn't for lethal force, but for heavy-duty tranquilizers. She aimed for the neck. The dart flew true, striking Finch's skin with a sharp thwack! and bouncing harmlessly off, clattering to the floor. Finch roared, more in annoyance at the trivial attempt than pain, and glared at Batwoman. "A needle? You think that will work?"
"It's a start," Batman grunted, using Finch's brief moment of irate distraction. He threw a flash-bang that detonated at Finch's feet. The blinding light and concussive blast caused Finch to roar in frustration, momentarily disoriented, his hands flying to his eyes.
This was Cassandra's cue. She moved like smoke, her movements perfectly synchronized with Batman's distraction. From her belt, she produced a small, spherical device – a concentrated knockout gas pellet. Its range was limited, designed for close-quarters subduing. She didn't throw it; she placed it precisely at Finch's feet as he was reeling from the flash-bang, then instantly rolled out of the rapidly expanding cloud.
The gas was potent, colorless, and odorless to anyone not equipped with filtered breathing. Finch inhaled deeply, still disoriented. He began to cough, a deep, rasping sound. His arrogant smile wavered.
"What... what is this?" he choked, stumbling back. His movements, moments ago so fluid and uninhibited, became sluggish. His eyes, fixed on Batman, began to lose their sharp focus, glazing over. He raised a hand, as if to swat away the invisible assailant, but his arm moved with leaden slowness.
"A sedative," Batman explained, stepping back, allowing the gas to do its work. "Your body might be unbreakable, Finch, but your brain still needs oxygen. Your nervous system still responds to chemistry."
Finch roared again, a guttural sound of impotent rage. He tried to lunge, tried to fight, but his muscles no longer obeyed. His invulnerability did nothing to protect his consciousness from the drug rapidly flooding his system. He swung wildly, missing by feet, then stumbled, collapsing to one knee. His eyes rolled back in his head, fighting the inevitable.
"No... can't... be..." he slurred, his voice fading. He tried to push himself up, but his immense, unyielding form swayed, then toppled forward with a crash onto the concrete floor. Finch remained motionless, finally subdued. His breathing became deep, slow, and even.
Batwoman approached cautiously, keeping her dart gun ready. Batgirl, ever vigilant, checked the perimeter. Batman knelt beside Finch, his medical scanner quickly confirming the man was unconscious, his vital signs steady but his brain activity significantly depressed.
"He's out," Batman confirmed, rising. "For at least a few hours. Enough time to get him to the Batcave and into a secure containment unit." He looked at Batwoman and Batgirl. "This confirms it. His physical form is impervious, but his internal biology is still susceptible to chemical agents. A critical vulnerability."
The immediate threat was contained, but the implications of Finch's impossible power and the 'higher being' he spoke of resonated deeply within Batman's analytical mind. This was far from over.