On the upper levels of the Ark Academies, the world had not ended.
It had simply… changed.
The overhead screens in the common areas were still streaming Slade's final words on loop—edited versions now, with added graphic overlays and subtle musical undertones. Some staff stopped to watch.
Most didn't. A few paused mid-conversation, listened, then went back to whatever they were doing. Schedules still needed running. Training modules still needed review. Lunch hour didn't pause just because the country lost a city.
To them, Arias was hardly a mystery anymore. He paid on time. He didn't micromanage. He funded experimental programs no government board would approve and protected the instructors when things went sideways.
So what if he declared Gotham a sovereign nation?
He wasn't blowing up schools. He was building them.
Dr. Kerschner, head of Meta-Psych Integration, shrugged as she passed by the monitor and muttered, "Guess it's official now." She didn't slow her pace.
In the students' commons, the reaction was less muted.
Cheers erupted before the broadcast had even ended.
Phones were out. Videos were being recorded. Some had started chanting Arias's name like he was a prophet descending from circuitry and flame.
Students gathered in clusters, hooting and laughing. Some formed impromptu circles, others just ran through the halls yelling nonsense.
One group, led by none other than Billy Batson, had got into the Academy's internal intercom and started playing some low-budget beat with an AI-generated hook about "New Gotham" over the PA.
"New Gotham, rise up—take the crown, lock it down!"
It was awful. No one cared.
In the far corner of the main common space, a handful of students sat quietly, not quite celebrating, but not resisting either. One of them, a girl with black sclera and glowing hands, chewed her nails and kept glancing at the screen.
"This is weird, right?" she whispered.
A boy next to her—gray skin, expression blank—just said, "Yeah. Don't say it too loud, though."
They didn't. They joined the clapping later. No one wanted to be the kid caught doubting the man who gave them the only place they'd ever belonged.
Outside the Ark Academies, the energy was different.
Not all of Gotham clapped.
Protests finally began forming by midday—first in pockets, then in organized waves. Angry voices held up cardboard signs and cell phones, chanting slogans no one really believed in.
Some raged against metahuman power.
Others screamed about liberty, about sovereignty, about what it meant to "lose a city."
But it didn't matter.
No Gotham news station ran their footage. Not one.
Most networks were busy airing loops of the U.S. president's broken press appearances and desperate soundbites from former cabinet members now in hiding.
And the Gotham Gazette? They were busy publishing an article titled "The Future We Deserve: Why Gotham's Sovereignty Might Save Us All," complete with a full-width photo of Arias under softly color-graded lighting.
Outside news stations didn't say a word either. Not because they were censored. Because they were scared.
You didn't get on Arias Markovic's radar without consequences. Not anymore.
As the protests grew, Leviathan Operatives moved in.
Black armored transports rolled through intersections. Units filed out with discipline. They weren't shouting. They weren't firing. They didn't need to. People were simply… removed.
Some protestors were handcuffed and guided into vans. Others were scanned, warned, and released with a silent nod. Every approach was calculated. Choreographed.
Blockades formed around key bridges and roads. Surveillance drones flew low, almost lazy, casting long, slow-moving shadows across the streets.
It was like watching a city absorb a new system of control in real time.
No explosions. No war cries.
Just architecture realigning.
———
In a suburban neighborhood, Commissioner James Gordon stood in front of a static-filled TV. He hadn't sat down once since the broadcast started.
His living room was dim, save for the light spilling from the screen. His badge lay discarded on the coffee table, next to a half-empty glass of something stronger than coffee.
Barbara sat on the couch, curled forward, arms wrapped around her knees. The look on her face wasn't anger. It wasn't even disbelief. It was something thinner.
Something cold.
Slade's voice echoed from the screen again. That stupid, calm announcement about her father's new position.
"High Marshal of Law and Order."
She blinked, then turned slowly toward him.
"What are you gonna do, Dad?"
Gordon didn't answer at first.
He didn't even blink.
His eyes stayed fixed on the screen—on the image of himself being spoken about like a chess piece moved without consent.
His voice finally came, cracked and low.
"I don't know."
———
By afternoon, Gotham had accepted its new reality with all the grace of a hungry animal given a feast.
The initial shock of sovereignty had barely settled before details emerged—details that turned outrage into awe. Anyone earning below a specified threshold would be granted one million dollars upon acquiring formal citizenship.
No strings. No red tape. Just a clean deposit backed by Leviathan accounts.
And for the wealthy? The compensation package was even more absurd. Business owners whose operations might be disrupted by the new governance would receive double their company's assessed value—either in direct funds or resource-backed credit, redeemable instantly within Gotham's new internal market.
The numbers were too large to dismiss. The math too simple.
For the average citizen, it was a dream. For the opportunistic elite, it was a bribe they couldn't turn down. Greed did what bullets couldn't.
Even protestors who had been hauled off the streets hours earlier began to question their defiance.
Some, when quietly released, returned home and joined the very crowds they'd once cursed—holding signs with slogans like "New Gotham, New Dawn" or "Justice, Finally Paid."
The city wasn't surrendering.
It was bending.
And at the center of it all stood the great steps of the Gotham Legislative Assembly—an old stone building draped now in black banners trimmed with green.
It was the kind of place that once echoed with empty debates and padded language. Today, it had the weight of transition.
Its architecture was cold and traditional—pillars wide enough to hide tanks behind, a dome that rose above the skyline like a watchful eye.
Now, a stage had been constructed at the top of the marble steps, lined with mic stands and screens broadcasting the event citywide.
The former mayor of Gotham stood near the top, jaw tight, suit collar visibly damp with sweat. Behind him stood other former officials—department heads, unelected power brokers now made irrelevant.
None looked happy. All looked obedient.
Because they'd been told—very clearly—that this performance was their exit ticket. Participate in the handover, show public support, and walk away free. Deny it, and vanish.
Self-preservation, in the end, always outbid principle.
Crowds had already packed themselves behind barricades by the time the first vehicle arrived—an armored matte-black transport that looked more like a mobile war room than a car.
The doors opened with a muted clunk.
Slade Wilson stepped out first, dressed in a tailored black suit that somehow made him look more dangerous. No weapons in sight. He didn't need them. The cut of his jaw and the expression in his eye were weapon enough.
Next was Diana—Themysciran regalia untouched, armor shining beneath the afternoon sun. She didn't wave. She didn't smile. She simply walked.
And beside her came Dr. Pamela Isley. Dark green pantsuit. No visible jewelry. Hair tied back into a tight twist. Her face was pulled into a frown so sharp it could split granite.
The applause was loud. Applause for all three. Even her.
She muttered something under her breath—too low to catch—but her hands were clenched. She wasn't thrilled. Arias had clearly assigned her this role without warning.
A few steps behind them came Gordon.
No tie. Just a plain suit. Sleeves rolled slightly. Eyes sunken.
He looked like a man still at war inside his head, but the fact that he came at all told the story. Something in him had cracked—maybe the part that used to believe in process.
He looked out over the crowd as he climbed the steps, then turned his eyes toward the street—not the protestors, but the city itself. The buildings. The sky. The place he'd bled for.
And then he kept walking.
Next came Dr. October. She arrived alone. No escort. No expression of surprise.
Her heels clicked softly across the stone path as she moved with the indifference of someone already five steps into the next phase.
She barely looked at the audience. Her eyes were on the structure of the stage, the materials used, the way the speakers were embedded—her mind cataloguing the new regime the way a scientist evaluates a subject under glass.
And then the crowd stirred again.
A different vehicle pulled up this time. Custom. Not armored, but still brimming with presence.
Arias stepped out.
He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't glance at the crowd. He didn't smile.
But the cheers he received dwarfed the others.
Some chanted his name.
Others simply reached out through the barricades like he was something sacred.
He walked forward slowly, his blazer swaying with each step, his posture unchanged—hands relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable. As he approached the base of the steps, the former mayor stiffened visibly.
Arias didn't look up at him.
Not yet.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs—and that's when another car arrived.
It was quiet. Understated.
Bruce Wayne emerged, wearing a navy-blue suit, collar unbuttoned at the top like he hadn't cared enough to tie it. He smiled faintly at the crowd—just enough to play the part.
The cheers he received were polite. Familiar. But not fervent.
He climbed the steps casually, as if attending another gala. But when his eyes met Arias's, the smile didn't follow.
And Arias saw it.
The anger.
Not rage. Not desperation. But cold, slow-burning anger.
It made Arias smile.
Just a little.