Alex returns to the greenhouse in New Eden, where his makeshift office—a corner with a rickety table and a safe—waits in the dim light. The air carries the scent of damp earth and old metal, with Pamela's vines snaking along the walls like silent sentinels. He shuts the door, but his superpower sounds an alarm: he's not alone. Someone's hiding in the blind spot—a corner behind the cabinet, invisible from the entrance. At first glance, everything seems in place: papers neatly stacked, safe locked, pen perfectly aligned. But his mind catches the details: a sheet on the table shifted by a millimeter, dust near the cabinet slightly smudged as if someone stepped carefully, and a faint whiff of ozone, like from high-tech gadgets. This isn't a common thief. It's clean work—not professional, but genius. In Gotham, only two people besides him pull that off: the Riddler or Batman. Nigma would've left a puzzle to gloat. This is the Bat.
Alex turns to the empty space, his voice steady but laced with mockery: "Didn't expect a visit from Batman himself."
Silence. His power senses tension in Pamela's vines. He presses a finger to the nearest one, signaling: something's wrong. The vines begin to slither along the walls, rustling to catch Ivy's attention. She's close—this is her turf.
The shadow behind the cabinet stirs. Batman steps out, his black armored suit gleaming dully, laden with gadgets, his gas mask ready for Pamela's toxins. His eyes—white lenses—bore into Alex. "You've flooded the streets with drugs," he says, his voice low, like stone grinding against stone. It's not a question, but a statement.
Alex shrugs, smirking. "Ivy's weed isn't addictive—cleaner than the water in your Bat-well. Call it… herbal therapy for the hopeless."
Reaction: low tolerance for sophistry, moderate chance of aggression.
"You've given Falcone a weapon against Maroni," Batman says, stepping forward, his shadow swallowing the table. "A war's coming. The streets will run with blood."
The vines stir louder, and Pamela appears in the doorway. Her eyes blaze, plants coiling around the walls, ready for a fight. Alex raises a hand. "Hold off, Ivy. He'll douse your babies with pesticides, and they'll die." Pamela freezes, but her vines quiver like taut strings. Alex turns to Batman, sarcasm dripping: "A mob war? Gotham's a powder keg, pal. Without us, it would've blown in a month. I saw Maroni's trucks at the docks—they weren't hauling flowers. They were already sharpening their knives. We just… redirected it for a more controlled explosion."
Justification: tactical move. Batman's assessment: weak.
Batman doesn't move, but his stillness grows heavier. "Your means don't justify your ends. You're feeding one monster to kill another."
Alex straightens, his smirk fading. "My means work. And you? You catch criminals, lock them in Arkham. Joker, Penguin, Two-Face… they get out and kill again. How many have died because of your sacred morals? You put out sparks but never the fire. Gotham's rotting because you're afraid to get your hands dirty. And you know why you don't kill?" Alex steps closer, his voice cutting like glass. "You're scared you won't stop. Scared you'll become a runaway train, mowing down anyone you don't like. Your logic's clear… and flawed. You can fight fires forever, but one day you'll slip, tire, or lose. You can't win endlessly."
Low blow: Batman's fear. Psychological vulnerability. Batman's reaction: high chance of escalation.
The silence hangs like a knife on a thread. Batman's lenses are unreadable, but the greenhouse air turns icy. When he speaks, his voice doesn't rise, but each word lands like a blow:
"You only see the immediate flames of a mob war? I see the inferno that will burn thousands of innocents. Your 'working means' are fuel for that fire. You blame me for evil's return? It returns because Gotham's sick. Treating symptoms with the poison of 'practical solutions' isn't healing—it's slow murder. Your path leads to a hell paved with good intentions, Alex Smith. And when you stumble on it—and you will—I'll be there. Not as an executioner. As a wall. The last barrier between your chaos and those you sacrifice in your haste."
He doesn't wait for a reply. A grappling hook hisses, shooting into a ceiling beam. Before Alex or Pamela can blink, the black figure melts into the shadowed rafters, leaving only the echo of his words and the scent of ozone.
Pamela's vines relax slowly. She stands, shaken—not just by Batman's infiltration (her plants sensed him too late), but by the clash of two irreconcilable truths. Batman, Gotham's shadow, didn't just warn them. He delivered an ideological slap, smashing Alex's pragmatism against the rock of his unyielding creed. And Alex… Alex didn't flinch. He challenged the city's symbol, exposed his fear, forced him to respond. Not with fists—with words, sharp as a scalpel. Until now, she saw him as a calculating guy with papers. Now she sees a leader, ready to argue with the darkness itself. Beneath her unease at Batman's words, a sharp, almost defiant respect flares in her chest.
"Well," Alex's voice is slightly hoarse, but his smirk returns, bolder than before. "Told him off, didn't I?"
Pamela meets his gaze, her green eyes glowing in the dim light. "Yeah," she says, a new note of acknowledgment in her voice. "That was… bold. To the bone."
Her words warm him, but Pamela quickly shifts to business, her eyes flicking to the room's corners. "What about his 'gifts'? Bugs?"
Alex shrugs, already opening the safe and grabbing the most critical papers. "Let them listen to the cicadas. The foundation's set, and we're moving anyway. Time for the docks. The real game starts there."
He locks the safe, and they step into the night. Gotham greets them with cold wind, the smell of rust, and wet asphalt. They walk in silence—not awkward, but comfortable, almost intimate. Pamela's vines, tucked in her bag, shift faintly, sensing her rhythm. Alex strides confidently, but she notices him glancing at her—not with caution, but with a warmth that surprises her.
The silence breaks with a raspy: "Hey, wallet or life!" Three thugs—typical Gotham scum—leap from an alley. Worn jackets, knives in hand, eyes cloudy from cheap liquor. Pamela's ready, but Alex steps behind her, letting out a dramatic, almost theatrical squeal: "Somebody save me!" It's ridiculous, but damn it, it's funny.
She tosses three seeds onto the asphalt. Her fingers twitch, and the seeds explode into growth—vines shoot out, ensnaring the thugs like a net, pinning them to the ground. They scream but can't move. Alex steps out from behind her, his grin wider than the Cheshire Cat's. He searches them—nothing but a rusty knife and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Then he pulls out three business cards, crouches, and looks the leader in the eye. "If you're tired of this life," he says seriously, "come to this address. I'll give you a shot at honest work."
He tucks the cards into their pockets, and they move on. Pamela glances back at the thugs—the vines will loosen in an hour, but they'll remember. "You really think they'll show up?" she asks.
"Someone will," Alex replies, not looking back. "Gotham loves a second chance."
They reach the docks, where rusted cranes and cracked asphalt frame a crumbling building—the old Gotham Chemical Works factory. It once poisoned the harbor, dumping toxins into the sea until protests shut it down. Now it's a skeleton of concrete and steel, but Pamela feels the earth beneath it yearning for her touch. Alex stops, staring at the factory.
"This is our home now," he says. "For a while."
Pamela nods, her plants already reaching for the soil. This isn't just a building—it's a beginning. Looking at Alex, she realizes: with him, Gotham might actually change.