Lex's reason for agreeing to Alfred's experiment was brutally simple.
He'd already seen what happened when someone underestimated the infection.
Poison Ivy could metabolize toxins that would liquefy most human nervous systems. She was immune to chemical warfare, immune to biological agents, immune even to the Joker's custom-bred laughing compound.
But she hadn't been immune to the virus.
That had been the wake-up call.
If Ivy could fall, so could he.
Right now, Lex might be one of the strongest active players left in Gotham. But strength didn't matter against a bite. One mistake. One slip. One infected scratch.
Game over.
And unlike comic-book logic, there was no heroic third-act reversal waiting.
If he turned—
He wouldn't come back.
So yes, he'd test Alfred's serum.
Because if it worked, it wasn't just a cure.
It was insurance.
—
That evening, he rolled out on his first solo deployment since arriving at Wayne Manor.
Not as Batman.
Not tonight.
He left publicly in the Batmobile, per Gordon's suggestion—let the guards see the departure, let the rumor spread.
Then, two districts away, he swapped vehicles and gear.
Jack Lee.
Low-profile tactical outfit. Concealed armor. Civilian silhouette.
Wayne Manor's perimeter had roaming infected, but Alfred had forbidden experiments anywhere near the estate.
Secrecy above all.
And absolutely no serum testing while wearing the Batsuit.
Alfred's loyalty to Bruce bordered on religious doctrine.
Lex didn't argue.
As long as the serum worked, he didn't care whose name got protected.
—
The sedan rolled into a half-collapsed underground parking garage.
No working cameras.
Minimal structural lighting.
Low infected density.
Perfect.
He left the headlights on.
Bait.
He stepped back into the shadows and waited.
It didn't take long.
Five infected drifted toward the light—drawn by instinct, by noise, by whatever broken predatory circuitry remained in their skulls.
When they closed within range—
Vines burst from the concrete.
His ability wrapped around their limbs like living restraints, slamming them to the ground before they could react.
One was dragged forward.
Bound tightly.
He mounted Alfred's camera on the hood, angling it toward the restrained subject.
"Alfred. Visual?"
"Clear as day," Alfred replied through the communicator.
There was tension in his voice.
"You work astonishingly fast."
"Focus," Lex muttered. "Beginning injection."
He drew one syringe.
Stepped forward.
Pinned the infected's neck with his boot.
The creature snapped and snarled, jaws working violently.
He plunged the needle in.
Depressed the plunger fully.
Then stepped back.
They watched.
The transformation was immediate—but not what Alfred had hoped.
The infected's violent convulsions slowed.
Its snarling faded into weak, uneven breathing.
Its limbs trembled.
Then slackened.
Within seconds, it lay completely still.
Silence filled the garage.
"Status?" Alfred asked, voice tight.
Lex approached cautiously.
Checked for response.
Checked for reflex.
Nothing.
"It's dead."
There was a long pause.
"…Dead?" Alfred repeated faintly.
"That's correct."
"But that's not—"
Alfred's voice faltered.
"The compound was calibrated to neutralize viral activity. Once neutralized, metabolic function should stabilize and revert."
Lex didn't interrupt.
Alfred continued, almost to himself.
"It should have purged the infection… not terminated the host…"
He exhaled slowly.
"Where did I miscalculate?"
Lex looked down at the corpse.
You didn't miscalculate.
You misunderstood the nature of the target.
Zombies weren't infected humans in recovery state.
They were reanimated biological systems powered by viral override.
Remove the override—
The system shuts down.
That wasn't failure.
That was proof.
The serum killed the virus completely.
Which meant it would work as prevention.
But Alfred wasn't there yet.
"Lex," Alfred said, regaining composure, "we need a second trial."
"Agreed."
"And retrieve the body. I must analyze tissue response."
"Understood."
Lex glanced at the remaining four restrained infected.
Plenty of samples.
And more tests would be necessary anyway.
Because eventually, the real test wouldn't be on the dead.
It would be on the living.
That was the difficult part.
Even if the serum worked, no sane person would volunteer to be bitten just to confirm immunity.
And Lex certainly wasn't about to test it on himself first.
He sometimes wondered how much easier it would be to operate as a villain.
Villains didn't worry about ethics approval.
He stepped toward the next restrained subject—
And then—
BOOM.
A heavy impact echoed through the structure.
Concrete shook dust loose from the ceiling.
That wasn't collapse.
That was force.
A second crash followed.
Metal twisted.
Car alarms erupted in a chain reaction.
Lex froze.
That wasn't infected activity.
That was combat.
High-level combat.
He flicked off the communicator.
"Something's happening," he said quietly. "Pausing experiment."
Before Alfred could respond, he cut transmission and powered down the hood camera.
He moved to the driver's door—
Paused.
Listened.
The impacts were closer now.
Violent. Controlled. Intentional.
Curiosity pulled at him.
So did opportunity.
He stepped back into shadow instead of entering the car.
Four suppressed shots later, the remaining infected dropped permanently.
No loose ends.
He left the headlights on.
If whoever was fighting came through this level, the light would silhouette them instantly.
He melted into darkness near a support pillar.
The sounds grew clearer.
Concrete fracturing.
Metal bending.
Then—
A figure burst through the far ramp entrance.
Huge.
At least seven feet tall.
Mass layered over more mass.
A strange mask covered his face, mechanical tubing feeding into it from a canister system strapped along his spine.
Lex's eyes narrowed.
Of course.
Bane.
The mask wasn't decorative.
It pumped Venom directly into his system—an experimental enhancement compound that amplified muscle output and pain tolerance to absurd levels.
Bane without Venom was already formidable.
Bane with it?
Monstrous.
The man grabbed a parked Ford sedan with one hand—
One hand—
And hurled it aside like it weighed nothing.
The vehicle smashed against a pillar and crumpled.
Lex calculated automatically.
Two tons, minimum.
Thrown casually.
The urban legends about Bane lifting tens of tons suddenly didn't seem exaggerated.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Bane wasn't advancing.
He was retreating.
His movements were aggressive—but defensive.
He glanced back over his shoulder as he moved, posture tight.
That's when Lex saw it.
Blood.
Dark and heavy, running down Bane's back beneath the Venom tubing.
A deep laceration.
Not superficial.
Serious.
Which meant—
Someone had injured him.
Severely enough to force him into withdrawal.
Lex's focus shifted past Bane, toward the shattered ramp he'd come through.
Footsteps echoed.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Not the stumbling chaos of infected.
Not the reckless charge of a street gang.
Controlled.
Confident.
Whoever was coming—
Had just made Bane run.
And that made them very, very dangerous.
....
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