Where does the wind come from?
The question flashed through both their minds, but there was no time to pursue it. The impossible updraft swept over them with terrifying force, carrying momentum, purpose, and power.
Batman's tactical instincts kicked in instantly. Supporting Chuck tightly by the collar, he hit the retract button on his grappling hook. But his internal calculations warned him instantly: holding two men against this wind shear would snap the line or dislocate his shoulder. Simple math. Unforgiving reality.
So he made a different choice. He opened his cloak.
The cape's reinforced memory-cloth fibers caught the vertical pressure column. A pitch-black bat spread its wings and flew. They surged upward against gravity, clearing the edge of the tower and rising high into the Gotham night.
Dangling from Batman's grip like cargo, Chuck stared in absolute disbelief. He had studied aerodynamics his whole life. He had dreamed of this. Suspended sixty stories up, the city was a breathtaking grid of neon and shadows, the river a dark vein cutting through it all.
Despite the terror, the fake bomb, and the Joker's threats, Chuck couldn't help himself. He opened his arms wide. He felt the air lifting them. Flight. Pure and exhilarating.
He thought of his abandoned jet pack blueprints, his oversized kite designs. He thought of the days before the divorce, when his son looked at him like he was a genius who understood the sky. The memories hurt, but up here, flying, they hurt less.
Batman, meanwhile, ignored the view. He was analyzing the mystery. The meteorological conditions didn't support a thermal column. This wind had appeared from nowhere, rising vertically with impossible precision to save their lives. Metahuman interference? Directed air-pressure tech? Magic? Batman hated magic.
Whatever the cause, the wind remained a mystery. And in Gotham, mysteries were dangerous.
The next day, Chuck didn't go to the bar. Lyle's didn't exist anymore, and for the first time in months, Chuck felt a spark of something other than despair.
He went to his old warehouse. His sanctuary. Since he'd lost his job and his family, it had been sealed like a tomb for dead dreams.
He pushed open the door, stepping over piles of canvas and ripstop nylon. He grabbed an iron shelving unit holding his half-finished prototypes and shook it hard. Years of neglect puffed into the air, settling to reveal the brilliant reds, ocean blues, and sunshine yellows of his kites beneath.
He spread his old blueprints on a table. Complex mechanical structures for a jet pack. Specifications for a human-weight glider kite. His colleagues had dismissed them as impractical death traps. His depression had finished the job, burying the projects completely.
But as Chuck traced the faded lines, a quiet thought bloomed. Maybe I should do something. Not to get his job back, or fix his broken marriage, but just because it made him feel alive. The ideas from last night's impossible flight were already burning in his mind.
He picked up a pen and started calculating.
In the corner, the TV flickered with real-time news footage. Mr. Freeze, Scarecrow, and Deadshot were turning downtown into a war zone.
"This city is finished!" the anchor, Frank, shouted over footage of Gotham simultaneously freezing and burning. "Are we just supposed to sit here? Do you honestly think Batman can fix all of this?"
His co-host tried to play damage control. "He's an option, Frank. Which is more than the GCPD."
"Batman?" Frank scoffed. "You might as well pray to the wind."
Chuck looked up from his sketches. It was the exact question he'd been asking himself. The Joker and Riddler's turf war had unleashed half of Arkham Asylum. How could one vigilante handle it all? Why did the whole city just lie flat on the ground, waiting to be rescued?
His phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. He picked it up. "Hello?"
"Guess the riddle, Chuck."
The theatrical, precise voice froze the blood in Chuck's veins. The Riddler.
"I love to dance, spin, and leap," the Riddler sang softly, clearly enjoying himself. "When I set off, I shake my tail. I will ride the wind and fly higher and higher. So, Chuck Brown. What am I?"
Chuck stopped breathing. A kite. His favorite thing in the world.
But it wasn't the answer that paralyzed him. It was the casual revelation that followed.
Chuck stood frozen as the Riddler explained his clever plan. His mind dissolved into white noise. The phone slipped from his trembling fingers, cracking against the floorboards. The Riddler's tinny voice kept talking from the ground, but Chuck didn't hear it.
His face was the color of old paper.
Nighttime. A Gotham rooftop.
"I want to see my son!"
Chuck grabbed Batman's armor with frantic, desperate strength. "Oh my God, I want to see my son!"
Batman stood perfectly still, letting the broken man hold on.
"He said it!" Chuck was nearly incoherent, his eyes wild and red-rimmed. "The Riddler—he said he expected me to betray him. That this was just a puzzle he left for you! He poisoned my son's kite string! That damn kite string!"
The words landed like physical blows. Batman's fists clenched, the leather of his gloves creaking.
He had thought eight-year-old Charlie Brown—currently safe at Wayne Manor—just had a mild cold. Alfred had been treating him with soup and children's medicine.
Batman understood now. The Riddler had planned this. A slow-acting toxin on a child's toy. Not to kill immediately, but to use the boy's life as leverage. A child's suffering was just another brain teaser in Edward Nygma's twisted game.
Batman forced his boiling rage down into a cold, tactical focus.
"I want to see my son!" Chuck sobbed, his voice breaking entirely. He was a father stripped down to his most basic human need. "Please."
Batman looked at the aerodynamicist—the failed father trying desperately to protect his child—and made a decision.
"Come with me," Batman said, his voice hard but steady. "We'll go to him together." He placed a hand on Chuck's shoulder. "And we'll find the cure. I promise."
Because in Gotham, promises to dying children had to be kept. Especially when the Riddler was playing games with their lives.