Jude walked through the streets, watching fireworks bloom and fade overhead.
He wasn't in a hurry. The system mission timer hadn't started yet—still had a few minutes before the official start time. But he was already near the objective location, casually drifting closer with the crowd while maintaining perfect plausible deniability.
He'd been here many times over the past few days. Scouting. Planning. Running calculations in his head about escape routes, sight lines, potential complications.
Because this time, Jude had decided to accept the mission.
Facing two super-criminals simultaneously was terrifying, sure. But this situation had one critical advantage he hadn't possessed during the Joker encounter:
He could run.
That was the key difference. This wasn't about protecting someone. The money in the vault didn't belong to him. Batman wasn't on holiday—he was probably watching the city from some rooftop right now, waiting for crime to happen so he could swoop in and ruin everyone's evening.
Whether the villains took the money and fled, or Batman arrived in time to stop them, Jude had the initiative to retreat whenever he wanted. And with his current survival abilities, he could ensure his escape.
More importantly, the villains were destined to fail at keeping the vault money.
Because Jude had visited Gotham Bank a few days ago and made some preparations.
He drifted closer to the bank's entrance, studying it with the casual disinterest of someone just killing time during a parade. The building was impressive—all granite and marble, the kind of architecture meant to project stability and permanence. Old money. Established trust.
The security was equally impressive.
Two armed guards at the main entrance, both carrying visible sidearms. More security inside, he knew from his reconnaissance. Cameras at every angle. Motion sensors. Panic buttons. And behind all of that, deep in the building's reinforced core, the vault door itself—heavy steel, combination lock, designed to withstand everything from crowbars to explosives.
The vault door alone would stop most criminals. Without the access codes, you weren't getting in. Period.
Scarecrow and The Riddler, Jude assumes the Crazy Duo, were both intelligent super-criminals, though. Jude wasn't sure exactly how they planned to steal the money, but he'd considered the options.
Maybe they'd disguise themselves as bank employees or security personnel—blend in, get the codes through social engineering or computer hacking.
Maybe they'd just find a way to obtain the vault password directly and force their way in from the outside with overwhelming firepower.
But covert approaches like tunneling? Basically impossible.
Jude had already communicated with the insects and ants underground. His Nature Language Proficiency had some uses beyond giving him migraines during parades. And according to the six-legged intelligence network beneath Gotham Bank, there was no large-scale construction happening. No tunnels. No underground approach.
Their attack would come from ground level.
Which meant Jude could prepare accordingly.
He was still dressed as a random passerby—T-shirt, shorts, completely unremarkable. At this point, he wasn't sure whether to use his "Wheelchair Stripper" identity or not.
If the situation suited blowgun darts, sneak attacks, and high-speed wheelchair chases, then fine. Let Scarecrow and The Riddler have a memorable Independence Day courtesy of Gotham's most feared vigilante-adjacent disaster magnet.
But if the situation demanded something different... well, Jude had been considering creating another identity entirely. A new vest. Someone whose fighting methods were completely different from the wheelchair guy.
Diversification was good for business.
While thinking, he scanned the area. The main parade route didn't pass through here—the floats and motorcades were several blocks over—so foot traffic was light. Quiet, even. Just the distant sounds of celebration and the occasional early firework.
The two security guards at the entrance looked normal. Professional. Alert but not tense.
Except the system indicated the mission timer was about to begin.
Which made Jude study their faces more carefully.
"Could they be disguised?" he murmured to himself. "Are those two the ones planning to rob the vault?"
Meanwhile, the two security guards at the bank entrance had been keeping an eye on Jude for a while now.
"Is this guy here to rob the vault?" one guard asked quietly, not looking directly at Jude but tracking him in peripheral vision.
His partner—older, graying at the temples—raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"
"Haven't you noticed? This guy's been hanging around the bank for about a week now. Staring at it every day without going in. Classic surveillance behavior. He's scouting the place."
"But what could he do alone?" The older guard shrugged. "Besides, I remember seeing him go into the bank to deposit money one day."
"You saw that?"
"Yeah. Ten thousand in cash. And he seemed to have some reputation in the underworld. My brother mentioned him."
The younger guard perked up. "Oh right, your brother has friends in the Falcone family. Does he know this guy?"
"Mentioned him once. Said there was a fierce-looking Asian man who'd caused problems for the Maroni family. Multiple incidents. This guy matches the description."
"Wait, what the hell? He's a player?"
"Not exactly. More like..." The older guard searched for the right words. "His nickname is 'Disaster Star.'"
"'Disaster Star?'"
"Yeah. Wherever he goes, bad things happen. Not because he does anything, necessarily. Just... coincidence. Statistically improbable amounts of coincidence."
"That's the dumbest superpower I've ever heard."
"Tell me about it."
Neither guard noticed that Jude's ears had been clearly capturing their entire conversation.
Jude turned awkwardly and walked toward the corner of the street, face heating slightly.
Great. Just great. Even random security guards know about me now.
If he'd known he'd be this recognizable, he would have spent asset points on a disguise skill. But it was too late now—he'd been made.
He had deposited ten thousand dollars in cash at the bank a few days ago. That part was true. But those bills had been marked.
Inspired by Poison Ivy's tracking methods, Jude had smeared pollen from his ten vine children onto the cash. He could use the vines to track the pollen anywhere in the city. And he didn't even have to worry about his money not making it into the vault—he'd personally witnessed the bills going through the bank's money counter that day.
Any large cash deposit went through counting machines. The pollen on his bills would spread to other bills in the counter. If the vault got robbed and the thieves took cash, Jude could simply follow the concentrated pollen trail and recover everything.
It was elegant. Efficient. Completely devious.
"I've never been this underhanded before," Jude muttered, settling into position in a shadowed alley with good sight lines to the bank entrance. "I must have been infected by Batman."
That's right. Even if Jude was 99% responsible for his own moral decline, didn't Batman share at least 1% of the blame?
Definitely.
Absolutely.
This was Batman's fault for being a bad influence.
"Hey, where'd the disaster star go?" the younger guard asked, scanning the street.
The older guard shrugged. "Just as well. Maroni's restaurant got bombed when he was working there. If he stays here much longer, aren't you afraid the bank will have problems?"
"Good point—Hey, those fireworks are really beautiful."
The younger guard looked up at the sky, where another burst had just exploded. This one was different from the others. Emerald green instead of the usual red, white, and blue.
"Indeed," the older guard agreed, following his gaze. "I really like fireworks. They make me feel like a kid again—"
Before he could finish the sentence, the emerald green fireworks changed.
Instead of fading like normal fireworks, the green sparks seemed to liquefy mid-air. Turned into droplets. Began falling like rain.
"Oh," the younger guard said, still smiling. "This color is so pretty."
"No," the older guard said, eyes widening. "That's not right. Something's falling—"
The green rain hit them.
It was gentle at first. Light droplets, barely noticeable. Like mist.
Then both guards started shivering.
Not from cold. From fear.
The older guard's eyes went wide. His breathing accelerated. Pupils dilated. He saw—
His brother's funeral. The closed casket. The way his mother screamed when they lowered it into the ground. The guilt of knowing he could have stopped it if he'd just answered the phone that night—
The younger guard dropped to his knees, trembling.
Dark water. Can't breathe. Sinking. The pool when he was seven, when he almost drowned, when his lungs burned and the world went dark and nobody noticed he was at the bottom—
Both guards collapsed, curling into fetal positions, whimpering.
All around the bank entrance, the same scene repeated. Every guard. Every person within a fifty-foot radius. Down. Incapacitated. Lost in personalized nightmares pumped directly into their neurology.
Fear gas.
Jude saw the green droplets falling and reacted immediately.
His hand shot to his pocket. Pulled out a piece of candy—hard candy, wrapped in plastic. He'd prepared a dozen of them, carried them everywhere since the Joker incident.
He unwrapped it with practiced speed and stuffed it into his mouth.
The candy was made from milk purchased in the system shop. Specifically designed for continuous control release. As long as he didn't swallow it—just kept it in his cheek, slowly dissolving—it would constantly counteract status effects.
After nearly dying to Joker toxin because he'd run out of control-release items, Jude had immediately recognized the need for something sustainable. If that dagger had been coated with concentrated laughing gas instead of just terror, he would have died on the spot.
Never again.
The candy dissolved on his tongue, faintly sweet. The fear gas droplets hit his skin, his clothes. He felt the initial tingling—neurological warfare trying to find purchase in his brain.
Then nothing.
The candy's effect kicked in, purging the toxin before it could take hold.
Jude stayed standing while everyone around him fell.
He was the only person left conscious in a fifty-foot radius of Gotham Bank's entrance.
Then he heard the whistling.
High-pitched. Growing louder. Coming from the sky.
Jude looked up.
His pupils contracted.
"I'm super!" he shouted at the empty street. "R-P-G!"
The rocket-propelled grenade descended in a perfect arc, trailing smoke, warhead gleaming in the firework light.
It hit the bank's front entrance at approximately 200 feet per second.
BOOM.
The explosion was enormous.
Intense flames mixed with dense green smoke—more fear gas, weaponized and delivered via explosive dispersal. The blast blew a hole in the reinforced wall, sent chunks of granite flying, shattered every window within thirty yards.
Within ten seconds, the entire bank area had transformed into a smoke zone.
Inside the building, everyone who'd been protected from the initial gas attack now got the full dose. Screaming. Panic. People dropping to the floor, crying out in terror at visions only they could see.
The bank's sophisticated security system was now completely irrelevant.
Everyone was incapacitated.
And in the hazy fog, through the smoke and chaos, Jude heard something that made his blood run cold.
Horse hooves.
Clop. Clop. Clop.
Then singing. High-pitched. Manic. Completely inappropriate for the situation.
"The Walrus and the Carpenter walked hand in hand on the seashore~"
The voice was cheerful. Delighted. Like someone singing at a tea party.
"When they saw so much sand, they couldn't help but burst into tears~"
Through the green-tinted smoke, a shape emerged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~