"Today marks the fourth day of the brutal urban warfare between Deathstroke and Deadshot in Gotham City. Thankfully, we've just received breaking news that this utter disaster has finally been contained. Batman has successfully apprehended both mercenaries and remanded them to custody. We can finally rest easy for a while."
"Yeah, yeah, Batman stopped two criminals. He's a hero again. But at what cost, Bill? Was it really worth it?"
"Frank, what exactly are you trying to say?"
"Four days, Bill! Four whole days! These three incredibly dangerous lunatics treated Gotham like it was their own personal playground. Every single district became a battlefield. Add in that psychopathic cyclist, and you've got four lunatics treating our streets like a twisted game of mahjong. Look, I know Kite Man saved a lot of people, so we'll put him aside—but do you have any idea what a mess Gotham was in during those four days? Grand Central Terminal was strafed with automatic fire, buildings in the Park District were blown to pieces, and wherever they went, a storm of bullets followed!"
"Hey! Batman drove them into a no-man's land to fight! Out of all that, only a dozen Gotham citizens were injured, and miraculously, no one died! That is a blessing in disguise!"
"My God, Bill, that was only three people! The Joker has his army, the Riddler has his, and Batman just spent four days tearing up the city over two guys. Do you have any idea how many armed lunatics the Joker and the Riddler actually command? Do you know how many casualties their street soldiers cause every single day? Do I need to count them for you? If those two factions launch a full-scale offensive, Gotham's days are numbered."
"So what do you suggest we do? Hand over Batman and expect mercy from a clown?"
"End the war! The priority right now is to end the war! We're sitting comfortably outside the quarantine zone, but it's a bloodbath inside! And even if the Federal Special Forces deploy, they might not be able to stop these monsters!"
Commissioner Gordon turned off the news feed on his phone with a heavy heart. Although the host, Frank, was abrasive and unpleasant to listen to, he unfortunately wasn't wrong.
Gordon raised his pipe, taking a long, exhausted drag. Beside him, the massive Bat-Signal pierced the night sky, casting the iconic bat emblem against the low-hanging clouds.
"You called."
Batman materialized from the darkness, his approach as completely silent as always.
"Did you hear what they're saying on the news?" Gordon asked, not turning around.
"The cost."
"No, not the price, and not the madmen." Gordon shook his head slowly. "Those are just talking heads giving commentary. I'm talking about the facts."
"The Federal Special Forces."
"Yes," Gordon sighed. "My contacts just gave me the news. The feds."
"They're already here."
Gordon froze slightly. He finally glanced over at Batman. "Yes. They were here."
"They moved in while I was fighting Slade and Floyd."
"Exactly. Without a trace of warning, two elite Special Forces teams breached the quarantine zone. The best of the best. They moved simultaneously—one unit infiltrating the East Side, the other striking the Upper West Side." Gordon gripped the railing. "They only bothered to call me after they deployed, just to tell the GCPD to 'stay out of their way and clean up our own mess'."
"But something went wrong," Batman deduced, his voice a low gravel.
Gordon was silent for a moment. He checked his watch. "It's been twenty minutes since their operation began." He looked back up. "A few minutes ago, the Upper West Side team completely lost contact. And now... nothing. Dead silence across all channels."
Suddenly, Commissioner Gordon's cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID. It was the precinct switchboard. He immediately answered.
"Commissioner? Someone forced a connection to your secure landline in your office," the dispatcher said, her voice shaking. "It's the Riddler."
Gordon and Batman exchanged a single, grim look. They immediately turned and rushed down the rooftop stairs toward Gordon's office.
Gordon picked up the receiver. "Riddler. What do you want?"
"I merely wanted to call and remind the Gotham Police Department not to litter without a good reason," the Riddler's voice echoed smoothly through the speaker, dripping with arrogant calm. "It took me a few minutes to deal with them, but as a gentleman, I decided to observe the proper etiquette of hospitality."
Gordon's grip tightened on the phone.
"Commissioner Gordon," the Riddler continued, "You are welcome to come to any part of the East District at any time. And I am more than welcome to come in at any time to 'clean up your mess'."
Hearing this, Gordon's knuckles turned white. Those were the exact words the Federal Special Forces commander had arrogantly spoken to him an hour ago. The fact that the Riddler knew that phrase meant he had completely intercepted and anticipated the military's movements.
A sharp beep signaled the end of the line. Having delivered his unilateral taunt, the Riddler hung up.
Ring, ring—!
Gordon flinched. Right as the secure line went dead, his personal cell phone started ringing. A cold pit formed in his stomach.
"Gordon."
"Commissioner," a frantic military liaison barked through the static. "The operation failed. The Upper West Side team was completely wiped out. That bastard... the Joker just used their encrypted comms to contact us."
Gordon closed his eyes. He hated that his worst instincts were always right.
"What did he say?"
"He... he said he wanted to buy some camouflage uniforms a few days ago, but couldn't find any in his size." The liaison's teeth were audibly chattering through the phone, a mix of pure fury and terror. "He called to say... 'Thank you for the delivery."
Commissioner Gordon remained dead silent. The Joker hadn't just slaughtered an elite military unit. He had stripped them.
That evening, at Wayne Manor.
Bruce Wayne stood silently by the massive windows of his study. He gazed out at the Bat-Signal shining in the distant sky, watched the black plumes of smoke rising from the Park District, listened to the faint, echoing pops of gunfire, and watched a tiny green Kite Man gliding through the night.
I have a way to deal with those guys, he thought methodically. I can beat them all. But I need time. And time was the one resource Gotham City was entirely out of.
Every single minute Batman spent locked in combat with a super-villain, heavily armed mercenaries from the Joker and the Riddler's factions were slaughtering each other—and anyone caught in the crossfire—across the city. Kite Man and Jude alone couldn't physically save everyone.
I have to do something else, he realized. If Batman can't solve this with his fists... let Bruce Wayne try.
"Alfred." Bruce suddenly turned, looking at the old butler standing patiently by the door. "I plan to arrange a dinner party."
Alfred's face registered a flicker of genuine surprise. "A dinner party? Oh, well, of course, sir. I will arrange it for you... but who exactly do you plan to invite at a time like this?"
"Well, when I was little, my mother used to say that when you're lost, just have dinner."
"At the time, I would argue, 'What's so special about dinner? We eat it every day, but we don't feel there's any magic in it.' And my mom would say, 'Bruce, this isn't just any dinner, this is a traditional, French nine-course meal.'"
When Alfred heard this, a knowing expression appeared on his face.
"It's not just about eating, it's about the art of eating—sitting at the table and taking the time to get to know your food, and also taking the time to get to know the guests you choose to host, the people you share your food with."
"If you do it right, with decorum, preparation, and skill, this dinner will save you from confusion."
"Of course, Master." Alfred said, "I will arrange the dinner for you."
"Please feel free to worry."
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