The Batmobile sped through Gotham's chaotic streets.
All around her, people smashed, looted, and robbed. Every so often, gunfights erupted over uneven shares of the spoils.
Behind her mask, Brucie's face was as cold as ice that had never melted for ten thousand years. Streetlights ahead shattered one after another.
With sharp pops, the bulbs burst. Someone was shooting out the streetlights.
Brucie quickly spun the wheel while activating the Batcomputer to check the ballistic data and scan the surrounding map.
Firing distance: 2,300 meters from here. The shots had come from the rooftop of Wayne Enterprises in the city center.
Ballistic analysis: the rounds were 5.56mm rifle ammunition. It was absurd, but the weapon type had already been identified.
An M4A1 Carbine—an assault rifle with an effective range of 360 meters—had achieved sniper-rifle-level accuracy.
There was only one person in Gotham capable of that, but Brucie had no time to worry about it. The Batmobile roared again, its rear spoiler lowering as it raced toward the Gotham Police Department like a supercar.
She needed help. She could never bring Gotham under control by herself.
She needed Commissioner Gordon, the man who had fought beside her. He was brave and upright.
She needed Gordon to come out, take control of Gotham's chaos, mobilize Gotham's police officers, and put out those fires.
The Batmobile drifted to a stop outside the Gotham Police Department, and Brucie leaped out.
Her jagged cape wrapped around her body as she warily scanned her surroundings, Batarangs in hand and ready to fly at any moment.
But there was only a mess of garbage around her, blown about by the wind like snowflakes. They were scraps of paper from documents shredded by a machine, drifting through the air.
Brucie lowered her Batarangs, flicked her cape aside, and