The car door shut with a dull thud that echoed down the empty street, where the streetlamps had just begun to flicker as night settled in.
The woman who stepped out tugged at the hem of her long synthetic-leather coat —its surface patterned with geometric textures— tightened it with a sharp pull, lowered her gaze to sidestep a puddle, and set off toward the gray labyrinth of the city's industrial district.
Between the steam rising from the sewers and the distant hum of machinery, she placed a call.
Seconds later, a holographic window bloomed across her IDn interface. Inside it, the bust of a handsome man appeared —tall, with a streak of silver cutting through his dark hair.
"I'm going to be late again," she said the moment the connection stabilized, without slowing her pace.
In the projection, he leaned back in his chair, tilting a knowing smile her way.
["It's fine. After what happened in Night City, the girls and I figured as much."]
She looked away toward the sidewalk, avoiding another puddle —and that understanding gaze which, by this point in her absence from home and family, hurt more than it comforted. She murmured, "I'm sorry."
Trying to shake the bitter taste of feeling like a bad mother, she asked, "And Ellie? Did she take her medication?"
He leaned forward, as if that could bridge the distance between them.
["Yeah… though I think the incident's reopened old wounds, judging by how she's shut herself in her room. Dana's also…"] He searched for the words before finishing, ["…melancholy."]
["She acts as if—just because she's listening to music…"] He glanced offscreen and raised his voice, adding a note of reproach, ["—it means she can't hear what you're saying."] He made sure the other person in the room caught the message.
Then, turning back to his wife with a fatherly sigh, he added, ["She reminds me of when she first hit her teens."]
"Given the circumstances… they're probably just remembering what happened that night… and the boy," she murmured, feeling the same herself.
Referring back to a conversation they'd had as a couple a decade ago, she added:
"You were right, Dick — I shouldn't have taken them."
He shook his head, a gesture she caught through the holographic frame.
["According to them, they really did try to help him back then. And while I didn't like them getting involved in something so tragic… you did the right thing, Barbara."]
She arched a brow as she kept walking. "Thanks… though I think you're just telling me what I want to hear."
["Shhh!"] Dick pressed a finger to his lips and leaned in until his face filled the projection. ["Don't give away my secret to a happy marriage — not even over a call… who knows who might be listening."]
Catching her off guard, Barbara let out a short laugh, covering her mouth with one hand, and repeated a line she'd said more times than she could count.
"…You're an idiot, Grayson."
Hearing his wife's laughter, Dick puffed out his chest in the quiet pride of a job well done.
Barbara truly valued those small reprieves her husband knew how to create, even on the worst of days. She was convinced that was the reason her hair had yet to be overtaken by gray.
And thanks to the family training sessions they kept up, she still carried a relatively youthful look despite the years.
Even so, the smile on her face faded when her husband, his tone lower but no less warm, asked:
["Have you managed to get in touch with the boy?"]
She shook her head, leaning back against a wall scrawled with graffiti.
"No. I've tried several times, but his IDn is always set to Do Not Disturb."
Dick narrowed his eyes, thoughtful.
["It must've been hard on him… especially seeing that photo on the news again."]
Barbara's gaze dropped to the ground, tracing a crack in the pavement with her eyes.
"Yeah… it's probably reopened old wounds for him, too. I did manage to get through to his younger brother. He said he'd gone out to get some air."
The silence that followed wasn't broken—not even by the distant hum of machinery.
["That's not good,"] Dick said at last. ["You think he's going to try and take justice into his own hands?"]
Barbara drew a slow breath through her nose and exhaled.
"I don't know… I hope not. But he and his case remind me so much of—"
["Bruce,"] Dick finished, feeling the same.
"Speaking of the devil… have you heard from him?" the commissioner asked, pushing herself off the wall to resume walking.
["Hm? I still have to go see him with the girls and drop off this month's groceries for him and Ace." ]Dick scratched the back of his neck, a note of sadness slipping into his voice. ["If it weren't for us, that mansion would've crumbled to the ground by now…"]
["Why do you ask? Have you spoken to him?"] he added, leaning a little closer to the camera, a spark of curiosity lighting up his blue eyes.
"Yeah, a couple of weeks ago — just to tip me off about where a fighting rave was taking place," Barbara replied, quickening her pace now, her boots splashing through a shallow puddle that reflected the flickering streetlights overhead.
["Oh..."] Dick tilted his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. ["Didn't know Bruce was still running in those circles at his age… good for him!"]
Unlike her husband's lighthearted reaction, Barbara shook her head, unable to smooth the crease of worry between her brows. "You know how he is… he didn't give me anything else. But it's got me concerned."
["What makes you say that?"] Dick asked, studying his wife's expression.
"According to four of my officers…" Barbara raised a finger to mark the point, "…when they were chasing the suspect out of the area — just as I'd ordered — all the lights on the highway went out for a split second. And when they came back on…" she paused briefly, "…he was gone. Ring any bells?"
The question drew an involuntary smile from Dick — the kind that escapes when an old memory hits home. He'd pulled that move more than once himself.
["Ugh… sure, it sounds suspicious and very much like him. But I doubt his hip's up for many motorcycle rides these days — let alone high-speed chases."]
"I agree," Barbara admitted, before adding — in a way that made Dick's own concern sharpen — "And that's exactly why I'm worried. Because I don't think it was him riding."
Dick was about to ask when Barbara's gaze hardened — she'd just spotted the detective waiting for her outside the 'meeting' place. "I have to go."
Familiar with that very expression — the same one that had captivated him years ago when they patrolled together — Dick allowed himself a faint smile before saying, ["Be careful… and remember, you're a cop and a commissioner now, just like your father. Even if you want to, you can't punch the answers out of scumbags anymore."]
"I wish I could," she replied with a faint smile before hanging up.
Barbara approached the detective and recognized him instantly — the same patrolman who, ten years ago, had guided her through the massacre at the intersection.
A tall, lean man with a straight-backed posture, ebony skin, and a sharp face that conveyed more control than harshness.
His dark, calculating eyes seemed to weigh every word before letting it leave his mouth. The immaculate cut of his long black coat —as black as the leather glove on his hand— stood in stark contrast to the rough, graffiti-tagged wall beside him.
"Marcus…"
"Commissioner Gordon…" the detective greeted her with a subtle nod, adjusting the bulletproof vest beneath his black trench coat — just as Barbara did.
"The plan's in motion. The other detective squads are already visiting properties tied to the Maelstrom in Neo-Gotham."
Barbara nodded, assessing the building in front of them — a rusted, abandoned structure, its cyber-graffiti flickering like glitches in augmented reality. "Good. Any preliminary reports from the other teams, Detective Shirley?"
"Nothing solid yet. Just rumors that the Maelstrom had been moving their contraband out of the city before the Night City incident. Like they knew a hornet's nest of cops was about to come down on them."
The detective glanced toward the door, where a low thrum of music seeped through. "But in here… looks like the party's already started."
Without wasting a single byte, Barbara stepped up to the rusted door and rapped on it with the back of her hand.
The metal rang out with a hollow echo, muffled under the pounding of hardcore electronic music that roared inside like a mechanical scream. The sound was pure Maelstrom chromehead territory — frantic beats, distorted synths, and samples ripped from industrial machinery.
A few seconds later, a small section of the door slid open with a creak, revealing a sentry — a man with half his skull replaced by gleaming metal plates that caught the pulse of the strobe lights.
His cybernetic eyes swept over Barbara and the detective, sizing them up without showing hostility."Detectives, huh?" he said in a metallic voice. "Lose something?"
"We've got questions about one of your more… famous members," Barbara replied.
"Well, well… you want to talk about Viper, huh?" His tone was so casual it nearly dripped with mockery. "After the shit he pulled, I'm not surprised."
Then the slot slammed shut. A couple of seconds later, after the rest of the locks clicked free…
"Come in," he said, with all the enthusiasm of a bored clerk. "Unlike that cyberpsycho, we haven't done anything wrong."
The moment they stepped inside, the door slammed behind them with a dull, heavy thud.
Enjoying the way the detective flinched, the sentry chuckled. "Heh… sorry," he offered without a hint of actual regret. "Follow me — I'll take you to the others."
As they made their way deeper into the abandoned factory, Barbara and Marcus passed flashing crimson panels mounted on walls, beams, and rusted catwalks.
They projected Blackwall lockdown screens as if the gang liked to flirt with the danger of the Net's forbidden zone just for the thrill of it.
Machinery hummed in the corners: 3D printers spitting out cyberware parts, jury-rigged servers cooled by rattling fans, and tables strewn with surgical tools.
Weapons were everywhere — assault rifles hanging from walls, pistols stacked on shelves, even EMP grenades piled like soda cans.
All perfectly legal these days… but so "difficult" to obtain that you could find vending machines selling them on the street.
The sentry led them into a wide open area: threadbare couches stained beyond salvation, tables buried under fast-food wrappers, empty bottles of synth-alcohol, and illegal drug vials rolling across the floor.
With the sentry joining them, eight Maelstrom lounged in the space, each lost in their own vice:
A pair were passing back and forth braindances whose contents Barbara had no desire to imagine — the twisted grimaces on their faces, and the bulges in their pants, said more than enough.
A trio roared with laughter in front of a cluster of holographic screens streaming savage chrome-on-chrome fights, betting with combat boosts on who would drop first.
In one corner, a netrunner lay jacked directly into the Net, his body as still as a corpse except for the faint micro-spasms that proved he was still breathing.
And finally, the most chromed-out — and likely the leader of the small pack — was sharpening his cybernetic prosthetics with a laser welder.
He tested his thermal-edged mantis blades on a slab of synthetic flesh, savoring the curling burn marks and the sizzling cuts that opened across its "skin."
Sherly stepped forward, hands buried in his pockets, speaking with a politeness that bordered on mockery — though he had to raise his voice to be heard over the low, grinding pulse of the industrial music.
"Good evening. Detective Sherly, NGPD. We're looking for Viper. We know he's hiding out in Night City, but given his history in Gotham… I figure one of you might know something."
Eyes met across the room, and the laughter began as a low ripple, mingling with the roar of the fans and the bass-heavy industrial beat that made the floor shiver.
"As long as that bastard's still out there," Sherly added, his tone edged with warning, "you're gonna have cops from every corner of the country breathing down your necks.
"And maybe some of you are into that, but trust me… you won't be moving product, cutting deals, or making another eddie. So, for your own sake… cooperate."
One of them, not quite tearing his gaze away from the holographic brawl playing out before him, was the first to speak:"We don't have anything to do with that kind of Maelstrom…"
"Yeah, he's not in our league," added another from the back.
"We live for chrome, that's all," said the one who seemed to be the leader, twirling his mantis blade like it was some harmless hobby. "We're practically model citizens, right boys?"
The room answered with laughter.
Sherly raised an eyebrow, his gaze drifting to the weapons piled on a side table.
The leader, noticing, retracted the blade with a sharp click. "All perfectly legal under the laws of this great country… right, officer?"
Barbara, who had been leaning against a rusted beam, let out a barely audible sigh. She'd already finished scanning their faces with her police IDn app, and she was more than done with the charade.
She pushed off the beam with her shoulder and took a step forward, raising her hand in a small, almost graceful gesture—then brought it down sharply.
The sound system gave a wounded, metallic wail, cutting the obnoxious music dead.
The silence dropped so suddenly that even the hum of the cooling fans became deafening.
The holographic screens flickered and went dark, leaving the room lit only by a few crooked red neon tubes dangling from the beams, their exposed wires buzzing faintly.
A couple of Maelstrom cursed under their breath; the others froze, eyes darting around until they settled on the only woman there.
Even Marcus, hand on his weapon and ready to draw, turned to her.
In the reddish glow, Barbara's Kiroshi implants cast a soft golden light across her face.
"Looks like your netrunner's gone a little too deep," she said with a half-smile. "So deep, in fact… that he left the house wide open."