The Riddler's question hung in the air, unanswered.
Falcone's men stood in formation like pallbearers at a funeral nobody wanted to attend. Black suits, white shirts, black ties pulled tight enough to suggest they took their dress code seriously. Each man held his weapon with casual competence. Standard Gotham gangster aesthetic. The kind of thugs who showed up when someone needed to disappear.
A red-haired man holding two pistols gestured politely with his left gun. "Miss, please take a few steps to the left," his tone was apologetic, almost courteous. "Then close your eyes and cover your ears."
Poison Ivy turned her head slowly, her green eyes catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the botanical garden's glass ceiling. She studied the assembled firepower with detached curiosity.
So. Gotham City really had forgotten them.
It was one thing for ordinary citizens to fail to recognize super-criminals—the lower classes had enough problems without memorizing Arkham's revolving door roster. But the gangs? The actual organized crime families who should know better? That was unexpected.
What bothered her most wasn't the disrespect. It was the location.
This was a botanical garden. Her botanical garden, for the next hour at least. These men had walked in with their guns and their violence and their complete disregard for the fact that they were surrounded by living things that predated their entire evolutionary line. They were waving weapons around plants that had survived ice ages.
She could already imagine the damage. Stray bullets punching through rare orchids. Automatic fire shredding ferns that took decades to cultivate. Gunpowder residue contaminating carefully pH-balanced soil. The casual ecological warfare was genuinely offensive.
When Ivy didn't move, the red-haired man tried again. His patience suggested either remarkable professionalism or profound stupidity. "Miss, I don't have time to explain anything further."
Poison Ivy continued to ignore him.
Instead, she stared at the Riddler, her thoughts drifting to another theatrical maniac. The Joker. That grinning catastrophe who burned and destroyed without a single thought for the world's green things. Every building he demolished, every street he filled with corpses—all of it used to be earth. And he laughed while doing it.
The thought made her angry.
"Scorched earth?" she asked Nygma casually, as if discussing the weather instead of standing at gunpoint.
The Riddler adjusted his question-mark cane, completely unbothered by the dozen weapons aimed in his direction. "There's no doubt about it," his voice carried the lecturer's precision he never quite shed. "I'm not one to stop looking for answers. My conclusion? The Joker is exactly who he's always been. His style remains unchanged." He paused, adding with something approaching satisfaction: "Predictable, really."
The two continued their conversation as if the armed men were furniture. Poorly placed furniture that blocked the light and smelled of gun oil.
A fat, bald man next to the red-haired gangster finally cracked. Patience, apparently, had limits in Gotham's underworld. "Either you leave now," he announced, "or you never leave at all." He paused, reconsidering his own threat. "Well, forget it. You asked for it."
Another gangster shrugged, conveying both apology and inevitability. "Alright, buddy. We tried our best to persuade her. Let's finish the job quickly."
That was the moment Poison Ivy stopped being amused.
A disdainful smile crossed her face. She waved her hand with the casual authority of someone conducting an orchestra.
The botanical garden responded.
Vines erupted from every direction. They rolled out from the forest beds like pythons that had skipped breakfast—thick, green, and very much interested in the dozen men who had been rude enough to threaten violence in a place of growth.
The gangsters had exactly three seconds to understand they'd made a terrible mistake. This was Poison Ivy's home ground.
The screaming started shortly after.
On the other side of Gotham, Jude was riding his beloved bicycle through streets that looked like urban decay had won an award for excellence.
He'd bought it from a secondhand shop where the proprietor didn't ask why you needed something cheap and portable. As for why he hadn't bought a motorcycle or car? Parking. Gotham didn't have worry-free parking unless you were Batman. A bicycle could be carried up to an apartment, folded into a taxi trunk, and navigate perpetually gridlocked streets while cars sat honking in futile rage.
Plus, with his current physical fitness and his Master-Level Bicycle Driving skills (a cool 10,000 asset points, thank you very much), he was fully capable of making this $500 modified bicycle the most impressive thing on the road.
He pedaled smoothly through traffic. Not a drop of sweat visible, his breathing calm and measured. This wasn't exercise; this was transportation that happened to look effortless.
"Hey, hey, John," a voice called from inside a Chevrolet crawling along in the right lane. "Do you see that thing?"
John, who was driving, shot his friend an irritated glance. "Jimmy, I'm driving here. You want us to get hit?" In Gotham, standard driving conditions required assuming everyone else was drunk, armed, or fleeing a crime scene.
"No, John, look at that man on the side of the road!"
John reflexively glanced out the passenger window. "There's nothing there, what are you yelling about—"
He stopped.
Next to their Chevy, close enough to make eye contact, a man was riding a bicycle. Just casually pedaling along as if taking a leisurely Sunday ride through a park. No sweat. No heavy breathing. No visible exertion whatsoever.
The cyclist noticed them staring. He gave a friendly wave—the kind you'd give a neighbor picking up the morning paper—then smoothly accelerated past the Chevy's window and continued forward.
Everything seemed so natural. Except John had just checked his speedometer.
Seventy kilometers per hour.
He looked down at the dial again, up at the rapidly disappearing bicycle, and back down at the dial.
"How many blessings does he have?" John whispered.
"Does he have a propeller on that bike?" Jimmy asked.
The question went unanswered. They watched the bicycle—moving at a speed that should require an engine or a steep hill—disappear into the distance, weaving between cars with impossible grace.
"Jimmy," John said slowly, "I think I just hallucinated."
"John," Jimmy replied, "I think I hallucinated too."
They drove in silence for three blocks. Neither of them would mention this to anyone. In Gotham, you learned quickly that the weird stuff was best left unexamined. Answers usually involved words like "meta-human" or "Arkham escapee." Better to just keep driving.
How fast could a traditional cycling race go? If you were world-class, eighty kilometers per hour. In the 2009 Tour de France, Mark Cavendish hit 83 km/h on flat ground.
For Jude, eighty was sufficient. And this wasn't even his limit, but there was no need to speed up yet. He was making good time, and traffic was actually moving for once.
He pedaled steadily, muscle memory handling the mechanics while his mind wandered to the real problem: where exactly was he supposed to find Kite Man?
Then, he frowned.
Through his Intermediate Nature Language Proficiency, something felt... off. The skill gave him a connection to the natural world that went deeper than simple communication. It linked him to an interconnected web of living things sharing information across the city. Birds gossiping about dumpsters, trees complaining about exhaust, squirrels filing reports on humans.
Usually, it was just ambient chatter. But just now, the natural fluctuation had spiked. Something unusual had occurred. A disturbance in the green. The unnatural movement of plants and vines, all centered on a single location.
"The green of all things," Jude murmured, pedaling through an intersection. "The power of nature."
He had a basic understanding of DC Comics' metaphysical structure. Plants, animals, metals—these weren't merely categories of matter. They represented supernatural forces. The Green. The Red. The Grey. His proficiency granted him access to this cosmic database.
And right now, that network was pinging him.
"That place seems to have a lot of plants," Jude said aloud, thinking through the possibilities. "Maybe a botanical garden?"
The fluctuation had Poison Ivy written all over it. The signature—aggressive, controlled, protective—matched everything he knew about her. Which meant something interesting was happening.
At that exact moment, a familiar chime echoed in his mind.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]You have a new part-time job available. Please check it out.