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"Kill me. Sentence me to death."
Inside the police station's detention room, Doctor Otto's four mechanical tentacles were locked tightly into reinforced restraints, fixed against the wall like captured beasts. His head hung low, shoulders shaking as quiet sobs escaped him—remorse, guilt, and despair tearing through his once-proud mind.
After being knocked unconscious by Batman, Otto had awakened here again.
For a brief moment, relief had flickered through him.
I'm alive. I'm sane.
But that relief shattered almost instantly.
Memories surged back like a violent flood.
Tentacles.
The laboratory.
The sewer.
Police sirens.
Electrical cables.
Batman.
His breathing became ragged.
"Doctor Otto," Police Officer Ogg said, standing outside the cell, his expression grim. "We'll arrange for New York's best surgeons to remove the tentacles. But before that, you need to understand exactly what you've done."
Otto didn't look up.
"You illegally transferred experimental equipment worth hundreds of millions," Ogg continued. "You tapped into New York's underground power grid without authorization…"
Ogg paused for half a second.
"And you electrocuted thirty-one police officers to death."
The words echoed in the room.
More than half of the fallen officers were from Ogg's own Major Crimes Unit. The rest were special operations officers dispatched from Brooklyn. Ogg's voice was controlled—but it trembled despite his effort.
Otto's mind went blank.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze to his hands.
These hands.
Hands that once built machines meant to change the world.
Hands now stained with the blood of thirty-one lives.
Ogg watched him silently. The world-renowned nuclear physicist—once celebrated as a visionary—now looked like nothing more than a broken man.
"You have the right to remain silent," Ogg said. "You can request a lawyer. But understand this—everything you say from now on becomes evidence in court."
"No."
Otto raised his head at last.
His eyes were red, hollow, yet terrifyingly clear.
"I refuse any defense," he said hoarsely. "No lawyers. No excuses. Sentence me to death. Let me pay for the lives I took."
"I'm afraid that won't be up to you," Ogg replied, shaking his head.
He turned away, signaling to two officers nearby.
"Watch him closely. Don't let him kill himself."
As the cell door shut, Otto finally broke.
Tears streamed down his face.
He had devoted his entire life to nuclear fusion, to ending energy scarcity, to freeing workers from dangerous labor that fueled domestic violence and despair. He had believed—truly believed—that his work could save the world.
And before that dream could even take shape…
He had become a murderer.
"If only I hadn't rushed the experiment…"
"If only I had listened to Peter…"
"If only I had protected the control chip…"
Each thought stabbed deeper than the last.
---
Several rooms away, in a quiet office, George Stacy sat behind his desk, studying a man in a gray suit standing calmly before him.
"Homeland Strategic Defense, Counterattack and Logistics Support Bureau," George repeated slowly. "That's quite a name. I've never heard of it."
"Understandable," the man replied calmly, sliding a document across the desk. "This authorization comes directly from the Department of Defense Director."
George frowned, took the file, and read it carefully.
After several seconds, his expression hardened—not with anger, but with caution.
"So," George said, closing the folder, "Agent Phil… what exactly do you want?"
Agent Phil Coulson met his gaze without flinching.
"Doctor Otto did not act with intent," Phil said evenly. "He lost control after the neural-control chip behind his brain was destroyed."
George's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And that chip," Phil continued, "was destroyed by the electroshock tranquilizer round used during the arrest."
Silence filled the office.
"Are you telling me," George said slowly, "that your organization wants him released?"
"No," Phil answered immediately. "I'm saying we want to give him a different sentence."
George leaned back slightly.
"Instead of execution or life imprisonment," Phil said, "Doctor Otto will be given the opportunity to use his abilities to save far more lives than he took."
"And the families?" George asked coldly.
"They will be fully compensated and resettled," Phil replied. "Doctor Otto will never appear in public again. We will do everything possible to respect the victims."
George stared at him for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"Your organization's name still needs work."
Phil smiled faintly.
"We've heard that before."
He turned and walked out—toward Doctor Otto's detention room.
---
On the streets of Manhattan, Batman moved without urgency, walking instead of taking a taxi.
The city flowed around him, unaware.
"The Tesseract is in the hands of that organization," Batman thought. "A secretive multinational force operating beyond conventional oversight."
Tony Stark hadn't known much—only fragments. That the object was discovered by a long-defunct terrorist group. That Howard Stark recovered it from the North Pole after World War II.
Batman exhaled slowly.
"I need to build a business empire—fast," he calculated. "Then assemble a scientific team capable of participating in their research."
Stealing the Tesseract wasn't an option.
That kind of move would create more enemies than opportunities.
If he wanted to return to Gotham—truly return—he had to think long-term.
And that meant infrastructure.
A Batcave.
Not just a hideout—but a fully integrated system:
• A citywide surveillance hub
• Forensic and analysis labs
• Equipment and armor workshops
• An armory
• Batmobile and Batwing platforms
• Medical facilities
• Training zones
• Power generators and servers
Batman wasn't walking for leisure.
He was surveying one of his chosen locations.
City Hall Station.
An abandoned subway station in central Brooklyn.
Built in 1904, preserved yet unused, sealed off from public access. Compared to modern stations, it was almost absurdly elegant—brass chandeliers, curved arches, stained glass skylights, bronze plaques.
A forgotten relic.
Batman didn't care about beauty.
He cared about space, privacy, and structural potential.
"The station itself is only one level," he assessed. "I'll need to expand downward—or laterally—to house the Batmobile, Batwing, and heavy infrastructure."
"I'll need to acquire surrounding land," he continued mentally, "to ensure privacy, suppress construction noise, and eliminate suspicion."
Batman had designed and built over fifty Batcaves across Gotham in other lives.
Experience guided his judgment.
After a final sweep, his conclusion was clear.
This place was perfect.
One of the best possible locations for the Batcave.
And soon—
It would belong to the Bat. 🦇