"Good thing we didn't take the tram," Cindy remarked, brushing her rain-soaked blonde hair away from her forehead. She glanced at the dashboard. "At this rate, we'll be at the destination in about thirty minutes."
Michael looked out into the pouring rain. A tram was stuck on the elevated tracks, stalled due to the city's power outages. He wondered if there were passengers inside, people waiting to get home. If things went the way he feared, those people might never make it home.
In a rare moment of reflection, he thought about how other people had homes to return to, while he had always been alone, living in rented apartments that never felt like home.
"If I get the chance, once this is over," he said, breaking the silence, "I'll leave. I'll figure out a way to get to Earth-0. What about you?"
His question was abrupt, but he wasn't interested in dragging the conversation into dangerous territory where the nosy reporters in the back might overhear.
Cindy thought for a moment, then shook her head. "This is my world. Earth-0... is that your home?"
"No. It's not. My home is much farther away... Earth-0 is just a place I know better than this one," he said, fumbling for a cigar from his nearly empty pack.
"Where is your home, really?"
Cindy glanced at him, then spotted a small convenience store up ahead. She pulled over and expertly broke the lock with her staff, a sign of how used to this kind of situation she was. As they entered the store to scavenge for supplies, she continued, "Why not stay here? We could be long-term partners."
"You live in Earth Negative-11, a world in the Dark Multiverse. Barbatos, the god of darkness, can't be defeated here. The only way to stop this crisis is to hide the truth from them while making my way to Earth-0. That's the only way I have a chance of surviving," Michael explained, his tone grave. These thoughts had been swirling in his mind for too long, and while he didn't expect Cindy to offer a solution, simply sharing his burden with someone helped.
Cindy paused mid-reach, holding a bag of chips. "I see... It sounds like there's a lot you need to explain to me."
Meanwhile, Commissioner Gordon regained consciousness in darkness, his head throbbing from a sharp pain at the back. He tried to recall the events leading up to this moment. He had been grabbed by a group of people and thrown into a van. Before they knocked him out, though, he'd had the presence of mind to scratch the license plate of the van into his glasses, leaving them behind as a clue.
It was a long shot, but he hoped someone—anyone—would find the glasses and track him down. But who could? Batman had left the city. Who was left to take up the mantle?
He trusted some of the younger cops in the department, but even if they found the clue, they might not have the resources or know-how to follow it.
He didn't even know where he was. The black-clad kidnappers had knocked him out after loading him into the van.
He sat up and realized he wasn't in a cell, as he had expected. Instead, he was lying in a soft bed, the silk sheets cool to the touch. The room felt damp, oppressive, and there was a distinct underground vibe.
Checking his watch, Gordon noted he had been unconscious for just over an hour. That wasn't enough time for the van to have left Gotham. He was still in the city, probably underground somewhere.
As he gingerly rose from the bed, he was surprised to find everything intact. His handcuffs were still on his belt, though his gun was missing. It felt oddly like he was a guest, despite the violent invitation.
In the dim light, he fumbled for a lamp, eventually finding one on the nightstand. The soft light illuminated the small, well-furnished room. On the nightstand, there was a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin, the label addressed to him personally.
They had taken these things from his home. They had broken into his house.
And then it hit him—Barbara! The kidnappers had mentioned something about going after his daughter. His pulse quickened as he recalled the black-clad woman's ominous words.
He didn't waste any time. Ignoring the aspirin, he rushed to the door, turning the knob swiftly. To his surprise, the door was unlocked, but outside, several more black-clad women stood guard.
"Where's my daughter? Let me see her!" Gordon demanded, grabbing one of the women by the arm.
She quickly shrugged him off, and a familiar voice spoke from the shadows.
"Commissioner Gordon, our boss is waiting for you."
The same woman who had knocked him out before stepped forward, her expression as cold and mocking as ever. She moved with precise, measured steps until she stood before him, her eyes full of amusement.
Gordon realized he was in a long, sterile corridor. The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh, unnatural glow on the tiled walls, giving the place the appearance of a hospital or laboratory.
"Where's Barbara?" Gordon demanded again.
The woman rubbed her temples as if exhausted by his persistence. "Once you meet our boss, all your questions will be answered."
Frustrated but outnumbered, Gordon straightened his coat and nodded. "Fine. Lead the way."
The woman turned without a word, and the group proceeded down the seemingly endless corridor. Gordon tried to take in as many details as possible, but there was little to discern. The entire place was cold, clinical, and sterile. Every room they passed was closed off, and Gordon couldn't tell what lay behind the doors.
After what felt like an eternity of walking, they stopped at a grand, ornate door. It was made of dark wood, trimmed with gold and decorated with intricate engravings of the Fates—three women representing destiny. Their lifelike expressions seemed to watch him.
The woman knocked, then stepped aside, gesturing for Gordon to enter.
With no hesitation, Gordon stepped through the door.
The room he entered was nothing like the cold, sterile corridors outside. Instead, it was warm, almost cozy, resembling the luxurious study of Wayne Manor. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with rare volumes. A fire crackled in the hearth, and rich, plush carpets covered the floor. Expensive art adorned the walls, and even the scent of fine tea filled the air.
For a moment, Gordon wondered if he had been wrong about his location—this couldn't be underground, could it?
Then he saw the man seated behind an enormous oak desk, a white cat curled in his lap.
The man, dressed in a tailored suit, sat perfectly straight, his hair slicked back with precision. A rose adorned his breast pocket, and though his face was lined with age and his hair was graying at the temples, there was no mistaking those eyes—calm, calculating, and commanding.
It had been years, but Gordon knew him instantly.
"Carmine Falcone."
Gordon whispered the name in shock. Memories flooded back, of a time when Gotham had been under the thumb of this man—the Roman. For the first decade of his career, Falcone had been the shadow cast over Gotham, controlling everything from the restaurants to the bars, gas stations, and even the street vendors.
"Commissioner Gordon, my old friend," Falcone greeted, his voice smooth as ever. "Welcome to my family's home."