The blast door loomed ahead, sealed tight under the flickering red light marked ARMORY DIVISION – Authorized Personnel Only. Hazard stripes stretched across the floor like veins leading straight to it. Pamela, Barbara, and Harley slowed their pace as the air grew colder, the walls thicker with steel plating and barbed mesh.
Barbara's brow furrowed as her eyes darted around the dim corridor. "Where's the guy in charge of this department? And why the hell are there bushes down here? We're underground."
She gestured toward the row of low shrubs planted directly in front of the door.
Before either woman could respond, the foliage exploded upward.
A man surged from the greenery, his entire body draped in a ghillie trench coat made of moss-green mesh and bark plating. Razor wire spiraled around his boots, and a helmet of dried branches crowned his head, night-vision goggles buried inside the tangle. Across his chest, rows of firearms gleamed like trophies strapped to living camouflage.
"Welcome to the Armory Division of the Undercarriage," he growled.
Barbara stiffened, while Pamela arched a cool eyebrow.
Harley groaned and dragged a hand down her face. "Oh my god, Mossbeard. How many times have I told you not to jump people I'm escorting?"
"Sorry, Harley," he rumbled. "Habit. I can't take the ghillie off—not after the post-war PTSD. And I've still got pre-war PTSD too."
Pamela tilted her head. "So you've got post-war… and pre-war trauma?"
"Yup," Mossbeard said, dead serious. "Prepared for everything. And everyone."
Harley shrugged with a crooked smile. "Don't underestimate him. He's better armed than some third-world nations."
Barbara's eyes flicked behind him—and froze. "She's right."
The door groaned open, and the Armory revealed itself.
Rows of racks stretched into the cavernous chamber, metal gleaming under cold white light. Rifles, sniper barrels, grenade belts, rocket launchers, smoke canisters, knives, explosives, even prototype energy weapons hummed faintly behind glass. Vehicles sat in recessed lifts: gray vans armored like tanks, half-dismantled motorcycles fitted with gun mounts, turrets waiting to be claimed. The sheer scale of it left Pamela breathless.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "You really do have everything."
"Damn right," Mossbeard replied proudly. "Fifteen conflicts, fifteen engagements . Got it all here, baby."
Pamela's lips quirked, amused despite herself. "I suppose you've earned the right to call me that."
"Damn right I have," he shot back. "A man this well-armed can call a woman whatever he wants."
"Within reason," Harley warned sharply.
"Right, right," Mossbeard said quickly. "No electrocutions this time. Learned that the hard way."
"That was an accident," Harley muttered.
"My PTSD says otherwise," Mossbeard deadpanned.
Pamela stepped forward, her eyes sweeping over the arsenal before locking on him. Her voice firm, deliberate. "We need to arm a dozen henchwomen led by Kira Strix. Full kit: grenades, sniper rifles, automatics, sidearms, spare clips, belts, duffels, and armored vans—two of them. With tires resistant to spikes and countermeasures against Batman's magnetic grapples."
Mossbeard nodded gravely. "Smart. Batman's the last one you want crashing an op. Best to have an exit plan. Do you want rocket launchers mounted on those vans?"
Barbara blinked. "That's… extra?"
"Nope," Mossbeard said with a flash of teeth. "Standard package. Rocket launchers, armor plating, heat-signature scramblers, ejector seats, underbody armor. Comes with every van we sell."
Barbara turned to Harley, incredulous. "I've never seen Joker driving anything like that."
Harley rolled her eyes. "That's because most Gotham crooks never spend their money. They pile it in a room and count it until the cops seize it. Half the time the banks get it back without anyone filing claims."
Barbara's expression sharpened, realization dawning. "Which means… there's an endless supply for us to steal."
"Exactly," Harley said with a grin.
Pamela stepped closer, voice decisive. "Then we'll take your standard package—with every detail I listed."
Mossbeard snapped his gloves together in a crisp salute. "Excellent. Delivery within twelve hours. We'll drop it off at that subway garage Barbara's been using."
Barbara's head jerked toward him, suspicion flashing in her eyes. "How do you know about that?"
Mossbeard's grin widened beneath the mask of bark and mesh. "Here at the Undercarriage, we know everything. What you should worry about isn't what we know—it's what we don't. If we don't know it… then you should be truly afraid."
Pamela studied him, a flicker of awe breaking through her cool composure. Her voice softened, almost reverent. "I actually believe that. Ironically."
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