Woo—wah!
Sirens tore through Manhattan's night. Two fire engines barreled down the streets toward NYPD Manhattan.
Chief George Stacy and the firefighters plunged again and again into flame and smoke, dragging out detainees and key files.
But one section remained unreachable.
Deepest in the station, several cells had been crushed—blast-shattered walls and floors pancaked over the lowest level. Without heavy equipment—excavators, cranes—no amount of manpower could budge it, and the area still roared with fire and choking smoke.
It was the dead of night. Where would they get gear like that? Even if they could, it wouldn't arrive in time.
The firefighting crews were stumped. All they could do was hose the flames and buy trapped people a sliver of time.
"Aug, how many left?" George's face was blackened with soot. He ignored it and asked his aide.
"Three still inside… all in the deepest block of cells. One of them is Dr. Octavius."
Aug read from the list of those already pulled out.
"Lives first, no matter what." George's brow twisted tight. "Call the nearest construction site. Get me an excavator or—"
Boom!
Before he finished, another collapse tore through the already high-risk zone.
Ash and dust billowed and drifted on the wind; George and Aug fell back, covering their mouths and noses.
Fire Captain Becker—clothes and face smoked black—stepped up. "Chief, we need Urban Search and Rescue. Without a structural engineer on site, we can't move in. The wrong call could kill people we might have saved.
"We can't take that risk—and we can't let you commandeer heavy machinery."
George exhaled hard. He knew all that. He just wanted them out now.
"Agent Coul—" he turned to Phil Coulson—but the agent shook his head, eyes fixed on the collapsed zone where the firefighters were powerless.
George glanced at him. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he thought he saw expectation there. With the crews stymied and three still under, what was he hoping for?
Then—
Creeeak…
A teeth-hurting bend of steel; then a chorus of metal striking metal.
Every eye swung to the deepest rubble. A slab of rebar-studded concrete—tons of it—shifted, then heaved aside with a crash.
A mechanical arm thrust out—rearing like a cobra, three-pronged claw opening—then slammed down onto stable debris.
Clack!
It locked in; then a second… a third tentacle punched through.
In the swirling dust, a figure in prison garb rose—held aloft by the arms.
Whoosh!
Everyone on the scene stepped back—NYPD officers ducked behind cars and cover, pistols up and trained on Octavius.
Coulson didn't move. He'd spoken with Octavius—and he knew the truth behind the sewer killings. The man hadn't had the money for his power bills; S.H.I.E.L.D. could fix that.
George Stacy stood fast too, eyes mirroring Coulson's expectation, fixed on the fourth arm that had yet to lift.
Clang—clang—clang!
The arms levered up in turn, clearing a path as Octavius's figure stepped free. The last tentacle curled tight—cradling two other trapped inmates.
Hoo—
George let out a breath and met Coulson's eyes. Together, they moved to meet Octavius.
A few people, tentative, started to clap—but were hushed by those beside them.
Octavius's slaughter of thirty-one officers still owned the Daily Bugle's front page. Saving two lives didn't erase the fear.
As firefighters and cops exhaled in relief, at the Osborn estate Batman held his breath.
Norman Osborn had returned and was strolling—unhurried—toward his study.
Batman was calm. He pinned the torn suit to his utility belt, swept the secret room with a glance, and flipped the light switch.
Thunk!
Darkness flooded the room.
Tap, tap, tap…
Humming a broken tune, Norman entered, pupils pinpricks as the hum died on his lips.
"Harry?"
Seeing the shifted bookshelf and yawning black void, he called out.
Silence.
The darkness was finger-thick. With a rasp he drew a short knife from his suit, reversed the grip, and crept in, hunched.
Tap… tap…
His soft steps were the only sound. Then he slowed further—falling to a hush.
He knew this room intimately. Even blind he touched nothing, threading every obstacle, blade twitching, ready to stab.
It wasn't large. He swept the corners; feinted the knife several times—touched nothing.
Thunk.
At the switch, he flipped the lights—sickly green filled the room.
In the same instant the knife came up, eyes raking the chamber. Still empty.
"Heh—"
His grin had just begun when he felt it. He looked up.
A jet-black figure with two sharp ears clung to the ceiling, watching in silence—its eyes eerie in the green gloom.
A heartbeat later—crash!
A cloud of bats shattered the study windows, swooping down the dark hall into the secret room—just as Batman dropped from the ceiling.
~~~
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