Barbara was extremely nervous.
After Batwoman left that day, Barbara insisted on accompanying her father to work. Commissioner Gordon agreed but assigned her as a volunteer in the communications room—not as a police officer, but to help without pay or special treatment.
Given Gordon's position, he could have easily made his daughter a police officer or even the next commissioner, with ample support from others. But he refrained; the police station existed to serve the citizens, not to become a family enterprise. Abusing his power would make him no different from those he despised.
Barbara understood and was content to assist as a volunteer, helping both the station and her father. Over the past two weeks, she diligently performed her duties. With unparalleled computer skills—among the best in Gotham—she was a valuable asset.
Her colleagues quickly accepted her, not because she was the commissioner's daughter or due to her past hardships, but because of her exceptional skills and genuine kindness.
Unbeknownst to this world's Barbara, in other parallel universes, she was also a superhero. She had been Batgirl, later becoming "Oracle" after a spine injury inflicted by the Joker. As Oracle, she provided technical and intelligence support to Batman, founded the Birds of Prey, assisted the Suicide Squad, befriended Supergirl, and was an unofficial member of the Justice League. Connected to Batman, she offered technological support to nearly all superheroes, except perhaps those around the Flash.
She was incredibly busy.
But under the influence of Earth-11's grand design, no one except Bryce harbored unconscious desires to become a superhero. This Barbara thought dressing up like a bat was rather odd.
However, at this moment, she desperately wished she were a superhero rather than a powerless hacker.
About ten minutes ago, a group of black-clad individuals launched a surprise attack on the police station. Although Barbara spotted them on surveillance and sounded an early warning, the officers' response was worryingly slow.
In the initial assault, the officers suffered heavy casualties. The attackers wielded formidable firepower and destroyed all the cameras. Barbara could only gather information through radio communications with the officers.
Her colleagues locked Barbara and some male staff in the communications room. Along with the armory, it was one of the strongest locations in the station. They went out to confront the attackers, asking her to find a way to contact the military outside the city or the Amazon Council.
Unfortunately, the attackers were well-prepared. They severed all connections between the police station and the outside world from the outset. In this situation, Barbara felt not only crippled but also blind and deaf. She could only sit in her wheelchair, repeatedly attempting to establish contact.
The network was down, the phones jammed, and there was no telegraph. She wished for a carrier pigeon—anything to send a message. Her only hope was that someone would notice the situation and alert the outside military. But she knew that on such a stormy night, it was unlikely anyone would notice the chaos.
It was the perfect time for a crime.
She could only listen to the distant gunshots and screams, her heart sinking deeper with each passing moment. Soon, the sounds outside changed. The noises of battle transformed into exclamations and frantic shouts.
"Oh my God! She's so fast!"
"By Zeus!"
"Stop him!"
"Help! It's Deaths—"
Her heart pounded. The sudden silence that followed—the cessation of gunfire and screams—was even more unsettling.
What happened? What was going on outside? Were her colleagues safe?
Her mind raced, but the tense environment and the sobbing of her male colleagues made it hard to focus. At that moment, she heard strange laughter and humming outside the door, reminiscent of the Jester. Fear gripped her; memories of being shot by the Jester and the agonizing pain in her back resurfaced, trapping her in a vortex of terror.
Then another voice sounded, reminding the humming person to use fewer explosives, snapping Barbara back to reality.
She quickly retreated, hiding behind a table to brace for an explosion. Desperately, she searched for anything to defend herself. Unfortunately, the male colleagues with her—administrative staff, forensic doctors, a janitor—were all unarmed. The only potential weapons were a few chairs and her laptop.
She clutched her laptop tightly.
"Boom!!!"
The door blasted open, slamming hard against the wall, hinges creaking under the strain.
Barbara's ears rang; her vision blurred. Facing an explosion at such close range for the first time, she could only lie behind the table, watching two figures emerge through the smoke.
"No Gordon here; I win," one said, drawing a weapon and moving menacingly toward the terrified men huddled against the wall.
Shaking her head to clear it, Barbara struggled to sit up. As the commissioner's daughter, she wouldn't give up easily. She had to protect her friends.
"Don't bully them! If you have a problem, deal with me!" she shouted.
The figure heading toward the men paused, seemingly disgusted by her words, rubbing his arms as if trying to shake off an unsettling feeling.
This bizarre behavior made the male staff cry even harder; some fainted from fear. Unlike Barbara, whose vision was impaired, they saw the black and yellow armor clearly. They knew exactly who stood before them—the infamous mercenary, the super-assassin with a flawless mission completion rate: Deathstroke.
Deathstroke rarely appeared in Gotham, but her reputation preceded her. Stories of her unparalleled skills and intelligence, even outmatching Batwoman, were well-known. Tales of her leaving trails of bodies, eliminating not just targets but anyone connected to them—even pets—were whispered among the police.
If Cindy knew how Gotham perceived her, she'd probably laugh. In reality, she preferred not to kill unnecessarily. For instance, after eliminating a gang leader, she'd often leave the underlings alone, hoping someone would rise to power, prompting her clients to hire her again—a profitable cycle.
At this moment, Cindy seemed intrigued, eyeing Barbara up and down with satisfaction.
"Looks like I won the bet. There is a 'Gordon' here after all," she remarked.
Michael was annoyed by the men's sobbing. He'd never seen so many men weeping together—it made his skin crawl. He wanted to knock them all out, perhaps for a good ten days or so. But when Barbara confronted them, his discomfort intensified.
Turning to her, he realized she was likely the target the attackers sought.
"Barbara Gordon?" he inquired, already certain of her identity.
"Who are you?" Barbara responded, relieved they had stopped approaching her colleagues but anxious about her own fate.
Michael glanced around the dusty room. "Well, adjust your glasses and see who I am."
Barbara cleaned her glasses and looked closely.
"!!!"
As the commissioner's daughter, she knew about the criminals her father often mentioned—the particularly dangerous ones he warned her about. Among them was Deathstroke, the world's most dangerous mercenary.
But now there were two Deathstrokes before her.
She shook her head, thinking she might be concussed. After confirming she wasn't seeing double, a realization struck her: perhaps Deathstroke's seemingly impossible feats were due to multiple operatives. The thought that she had uncovered such a secret terrified her. She feared she would be silenced.
There were still so many things she wanted to do; she hadn't even met her biological mother yet.
Seeing her deep in thought, Michael proceeded to knock out the other staff with an electric baton, bringing silence to the room.
"Which one of you is Deathstroke?" Barbara clutched her laptop, seeking some semblance of security.
"I'm Deathstroke; he's not," Cindy quickly interjected, stepping forward.
Michael shrugged. This was her world; she could claim whatever she wanted.
"What are you doing here? This isn't a place for you," Barbara said firmly, her expression resolute.
Cindy was surprised by her courage. No wonder she survived an encounter with the Jester. "We originally came to find your father; we need his help. But it seems he's not here?"
"Don't think I'll tell you where my dad is. If you're going to kill me, just do it," Barbara retorted.
Shaking her head, Cindy had no intention of killing her. As Gordon's daughter, Barbara was valuable. Besides, Cindy had a mission—to prevent the world's destruction—which took precedence.
"Did you see those people in black suits? They're part of an organized gang," Michael said, attempting a different approach. "Their target is you and your father. I'll go disable the equipment they're using to block communications. See if you can contact him now."
If they could reach Gordon, it might lure him back. If not, it could confirm that he was already compromised. Either way, Barbara might try to contact Batwoman.
Barbara remained silent. Michael planned to leave, but Cindy volunteered to handle the equipment, leaving him to converse with Barbara.
Time ticked by until Cindy returned, humming a tune, her armor dripping wet. "There's a mole among your colleagues—probably one of those men. I found the network was physically severed from inside. So, did you two reach any consensus?"
What consensus could there be? Sitting silently in a room didn't amount to much.