Even though the newcomer was covered head to toe, Commissioner Gordon could tell the figure before him was a woman.
He'd been alive over sixty years—if he couldn't tell a man from a woman by now, he might as well retire blind.
This wasn't some Shakespearean farce where a change of outfit fooled everyone. His eyesight might not be what it once was, but it wasn't that bad.
The street fell silent, save for the faint rustle of the thugs still trapped in Thea's sticky net, weakly struggling.
Thea made no move to show her face or introduce herself.
She trusted Gordon—his reputation for integrity was second to none—but Gotham PD was another story entirely. The department was a sieve, full of corruption and leaks. Best to stay anonymous for now.
While Gordon tried to figure out when his jurisdiction had gained a female vigilante, a familiar thrum echoed overhead.
Catwoman's helicopter descended at last.
She and Gordon exchanged quiet words. They'd known each other for years; their communication was quick, clipped, and full of unspoken understanding.
The wounded officers looked up at the chopper as if seeing salvation itself.
Gotham had turned into a warzone—gunfire echoing like rain, explosions shaking the skyline.
They were out of ammo, half their number injured, and morale sinking. The arrival of an evacuation route brought visible relief to their faces.
Meanwhile, the thugs caught in Thea's net had begun to lose consciousness.
After all, her "Spider-Web" formula was a chemical compound—skin contact for too long numbed the nervous system.
Natural and organic? Not quite. Still a work in progress.
Wearing gloves, Thea and Felicity examined the results of their handiwork.
"Adhesion's holding up nicely," Thea noted.
"Yeah," Felicity replied, jotting data into her tablet. "But for single targets, we can probably reduce the payload. This much glue's a bit of a waste."
As Thea crouched to study the fiber structure through her visor, Gordon and Catwoman approached.
He whistled low when he saw the dense lattice of webbing.
Now this… this is something.
For years, Gordon had dreamed of a nonlethal way to subdue suspects without breaking half their bones.
Batman's "deliveries" often arrived bloodied and battered, leaving half the station working overtime just to clean up.
But this net — no bleeding, no broken bones, instant incapacitation — and it even came with a free nap.
If not for the chaos around them, he might've asked her how much it cost per unit.
He shook the thought off and cleared his throat.
"Thank you for helping Gotham."
Thea straightened, feigning modesty. "Oh? You're welcome."
Apparently Catwoman had already briefed him on who she was. Not that it was hard to guess.
Felicity, standing nearby with zero disguise, made it pretty obvious. Anyone with half a brain could cross-reference the clues.
Thea didn't dwell on it. She simply asked, "Where to next?"
If anyone knew where to regroup, it'd be Gordon — the man was practically Gotham's moral compass and GPS.
He didn't hesitate. "Some of my remaining officers are holding out at Gotham University. We'll head there."
Thea blinked. "You people have a university here? What's the major—how to build C4? Advanced psychopathy? 'Terrorism and You'?"
She couldn't help it — her respect for whoever decided to found an institution of higher learning in this city rose immensely. Forget helping old ladies cross the street; that's the real act of heroism.
When it came time to split up for transport, Gordon suggested Thea take two men on her board.
She glanced at the soot-covered, bloodstained officers and cringed inwardly. Her hoverboard wasn't exactly public transit, and she had… mild issues with grime.
The officers, meanwhile, took one look at her floating platform and noped out. It looked anything but stable.
In the end, they reached a perfect compromise:
Women on the board, men in the helicopter.
As it turned out, three of the four policemen could fly helicopters — not bad for Gotham PD.
Thea made a mental note: maybe it was time she learned a few modern piloting skills herself.
Catwoman balanced effortlessly on one side of the board; Thea stood opposite, holding Felicity steady by the waist.
They flew low, gliding behind the chopper in a slow, synchronized formation.
No one mentioned the thugs still hanging in the net.
Thea and Felicity did have a solvent that could release them — but in a city this chaotic, where would they even put the prisoners?
They decided, somewhat guiltily, to leave them there. If the guys managed to free themselves, well… good for them.
Because she had to keep one arm around Felicity, Thea could only shoot one-handed.
Fortunately, she was a good shot — every time a stray looter appeared below, a clean burst from her pistol handled it.
The helicopter's roaring blades ruined any hope of stealth, so subtlety was out the window anyway.
Catwoman, meanwhile, demonstrated just how far human agility could go.
Even without gadgets, she balanced perfectly on the moving board, occasionally flicking a knife into the dark when a gun barrel glinted from below.
By the time Felicity was visibly pale and seconds away from throwing up, they finally arrived.
Gotham University.
The name sounded noble. The place… less so.
Thea gawked at the campus.
It was exactly what she'd expect from Gotham — gloomy, crumbling, and eerily silent.
A rusted iron fence framed the entrance. The main building's once-white facade was now a dirty gray.
Even the greenery looked cursed; the trees twisted under the dim light, their branches whispering with every gust like the breath of ghosts.
Great, Thea thought, a horror movie set that builds itself. Midnight Ring could film here and save half its budget.
Felicity, normally the talkative one, clung to Thea's arm, trembling.
Catwoman and the cops, on the other hand, looked completely unfazed — probably immune after a lifetime of Gotham exposure.
To be fair, the school was historically productive.
One of its professors had a fascination with fear psychology — a man who would later become the infamous Scarecrow.
And among its star alumni? A bright, athletic girl once hailed as the university's pride — gymnast champion, top of her class in psychology, later better known as Harley Quinn.
Of course, the university wasn't to blame.
You don't blame Hogwarts for Voldemort, after all. The school just taught them how to think — what they did with it was on them.
Even Bruce Wayne himself had once sent his son here for "higher education."
Say what you will about Gotham's chaos — the faculty credentials were apparently top-notch.