Heart racing, hands shaking!
If this really was a major event, then Max had just found his next objective—
Find Wayne Manor!
Then get in good with Alfred!
Everybody knows: in the DC Universe, when it comes to surviving crazy situations, if Batman says he's second best, nobody dares claim first! No matter how brutal the universe gets, there's always a Batman making Gotham his playground.
The slate-gray clouds hung low over Gotham, casting the already-shadowy metropolis into deeper darkness. Sirens wailed in the distance, punctuated by occasional gunfire and the unmistakable sound of the Joker's laughter echoing through alleyways. The air smelled of smoke, chemicals, and fear.
So yeah—Wayne Manor? Safest place in the entire city. If even that place went down, then Max would have to seriously consider how to get the hell out of this universe. He'd read enough comics to know that if Batman couldn't handle something, nobody could.
Before transforming, Max scanned his surroundings, heart hammering against his ribcage.
The streets were eerily deserted except for abandoned vehicles and the occasional body twisted in grotesque laughter. Dark green mist snaked between buildings, hugging the ground like a toxic blanket.
He spotted an artificial fountain not too far off and instantly got bolder. Confidence surged back into his chest. The splashing water reminded him he wasn't completely helpless.
"Perfect! Heaven's on my side today!
Omnitrix—activate!"
BOOM!
A flash of green light erupted, momentarily illuminating the darkened street. The transformation sent tingling energy coursing through Max's body as his form shifted and contracted.
Suddenly, Max dropped to all fours on the ground. He looked down at his hands—
Wait… paws?!
"Three-fingered little paws? Round belly? Omnitrix logo on my chest? Yellow fur… What the heck am I!?"
The concrete felt rough against his soft new pads. His entire perspective had changed—the world seemed giant now, buildings towering impossibly high above him. His awareness of his body felt different, lighter somehow, with strange new muscles along his back.
He scampered over to the nearest car using his stubby little legs and peered at his reflection in the shiny surface. The chrome bumper distorted his image, but he could still make out his new form clearly enough.
"No freaking way—is this a Digimon? Am I… Patamon!?"
Staring back at him in the reflection was a cute, guinea pig–looking creature with a pair of big wing-like ears and big sparkly eyes. His fur was a warm honey-yellow, almost glowing against the darkness of Gotham.
Patamon could fly—but not fast.
"Man, Patamon's kinda weak! Not much combat power. Looks cute, sure, but other than that? Not much to write home about."
He flapped his wing-ears experimentally, lifting a few inches off the ground before settling back down with a soft thud.
His special ability? Air Shot—inhale a ton of air and spit it out in a blast of wind to attack enemies.
"Eh... I mean, it's better than nothing. At least it's something. Whatever, first things first: Wayne Manor!"
Max looked around, trying to get his bearings. The Gotham skyline was unmistakable—jagged skyscrapers with Gothic architecture, Wayne Tower standing tallest among them. Wayne Manor would be outside the city proper, in the more secluded Bristol Township area.
Patamon's flight speed was laughable—about 1 km per hour. His little legs on the ground might actually be faster. The thought of traversing Gotham's sprawling metropolis on tiny paws made his heart sink.
But Max wasn't dumb. He'd studied aerodynamics back on Earth! His old professor's lectures about lift and drag suddenly seemed incredibly relevant.
Sure, Patamon couldn't fly fast, but he could glide using his wings!
All he needed to do was climb to the top of a tall building and leap off. That way, he could cover long distances quickly, bypassing all the winding streets and, more importantly, avoiding the Joker gas drifting across the ground.
The green gas swirled menacingly below, clinging to the asphalt like a sentient fog. Even from here, Max could hear the occasional burst of frenzied laughter as someone new succumbed to its effects. A chill ran down his spine.
As long as he could glide, he wouldn't crash and die. And his Air Shot ability? That could be used for mid-air turns—like a balloon deflating in random directions! A little chaotic, sure, but fast!
He spotted a fire escape on a nearby building and made his way toward it, hopping awkwardly on his short legs, careful to stay away from the toxic mist. The metal rungs were slippery with evening dew, but his new paws gripped surprisingly well.
Way faster than waddling across Gotham on tiny legs.
Meanwhile...
Deep within the fortified sanctum of Wayne Tower, Batman stood over his grisly trophies, expression grim beneath his cowl.
"Alfred, when's Zatanna getting here?!"
In front of Batman lay eleven Joker Claws, mangled and severed like meat puppets. Their purple suits were torn and stained, faces frozen in that horrifying rictus grin even in death. The fluorescent lights of the makeshift lab cast harsh shadows across their pallid skin.
The twelfth? Beheaded.
Only complete decapitation seemed to actually finish these freaks off—otherwise, even limbless, they'd still try to bite you to death.
The severed head lay face-up on a sterile tray, its dead eyes still somehow seeming to follow Batman's movements. He was more and more convinced: magic was involved.
Alfred responded in his usual calm voice over the secure line, though Bruce could detect the faintest strain underneath,
"Miss Zatanna says she's currently banishing an interdimensional demon. She'll need at least another hour. From what I could hear on the line, she may be in some trouble herself. It might take longer."
The ambient sounds coming through the comm suggested Alfred was in the Batcave, frantically working multiple systems simultaneously. The soft humming of advanced machinery and occasional beeping of monitoring equipment created a tense soundtrack.
Batman started weighing his options, then said,
"Alright. Notify me the moment she's here. What's the status on the antidote for Joker's toxin?"
He paced the length of the laboratory, cape sweeping behind him. His gauntlets were stained with dark fluid he didn't want to think about. Outside the reinforced windows, Gotham burned.
Alfred glanced toward Wayne Enterprises' fully automated chemical lab. Inside were three large, meter-tall glass tanks filled with a weird-colored liquid. The amber-tinged substance bubbled and swirled, occasionally emitting faint wisps of vapor.
"We've got three tanks of fear toxin prepared. That should be enough to spray the whole city using the Batplane.
But, sir, I must warn you—using fear toxin on such a large scale could be risky.
The amount each person inhales isn't consistent. Some people might react violently due to personal sensitivity. And the long-term psychological effects..."
Alfred's voice trailed off. Both men knew what he was leaving unsaid—this could create a new wave of mentally scarred citizens, perhaps even new villains down the line.
Batman had already considered that. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, the only outward sign of his internal conflict.
"It's fine. I'll buy out Arkham Asylum and treat anyone who reacts badly. Right now, time is of the essence. If we wait any longer, even more people are gonna die from asphyxiation. We don't have a choice."
Outside the window, another explosion lit up the night sky. Orange flames reflected in Batman's cowl lenses.
Alfred sighed deeply. He knew what that meant.
The Dark Knight of Gotham had once again decided to carry this burden alone.
"Understood. The Batplane is fully loaded with the 'cure' and ready for launch. It'll arrive at your office in five minutes."
The hum of powerful engines could already be heard in the distance as the autonomous vehicle responded to Alfred's commands.
Batman ended the call, dashed to the top floor, and found the central air duct of Wayne Tower. His movements were fluid despite the exhaustion that had been building over the last twelve hours of non-stop combat.
He tossed the antidote canister Robin had brought into the main vent, then sprinted back to the control room to activate the building's ventilation system. His gloved fingers flew over the controls, overriding safety protocols.
The building's air system was quick—
within moments, Joker gas was being flushed out and replaced by fear toxin from the central ducts. The sickly sweet smell of the Joker's concoction gave way to the acrid, metallic taste of Scarecrow's weapon—now repurposed as salvation.
Once everything was set, Batman headed to the large office window. The glass was designed to withstand rocket launchers, but Batman had already unlocked the emergency release.
Jason Todd tried to follow him, his Robin uniform torn and bloodied from earlier encounters. The boy's face was set in determination despite the obvious fatigue.
"Robin, watch them! When Alfred calls for you, take them to him. They're important."
Those mangled Joker Claws were to be handed over to Zatanna so she could use her magic expertise to investigate their origin—
and why the hell they wouldn't die.
Jason pouted. He knew he was still the rookie here and had to listen. The frustration of being left behind was evident in every line of his young body.
"Yeah, yeah. Be careful out there, man."
With a flick of his cape, Batman leapt from the tower window. The dark fabric billowed out around him like wings as he plummeted toward the chaos below, a silent guardian descending into hell.
Wayne Tower's air system did its job quickly. The "antidote" spreading through the air turned the citizens' insane laughter into… sheer terror. Screams replaced giggles, running replaced dancing, but at least people were no longer dying with smiles on their faces.
In the Batplane...
Batman flew through the city, rescuing people left and right. The aircraft's spotlight cut through smoke and darkness, identifying clusters of survivors and threats alike.
He now knew the Joker Claws were already dead men walking—so his methods got a lot more... intense.
Batplane weapons? Fully unlocked.
Safety protocols? Disabled.
Targeting systems? In full auto mode.
The Batplane wasn't pulling any punches anymore. Its sleek black form moved like a predator through Gotham's skyline, weapons systems humming with deadly intent.
Any Joker Claw that showed up in Batman's sights was ruthlessly shredded by its onboard machine guns. The staccato thunder of heavy-caliber rounds echoed between buildings as purple-suited monstrosities fell.
Either they lost their heads... or they became just heads.
The GCPD's stress dropped instantly. Officers who had been cornered, fighting desperately for their lives, suddenly found an angel of death swooping in from above, decimating their attackers.
Commissioner Gordon finally got through to Batman over the radio. His voice came through scratchy and desperate over the secure channel.
"F***, man! You're finally here! I thought you were toast! Gotham's gone to hell—what's the plan?!"
Gordon was practically in tears. The pressure on him was immense—every few minutes, another citizen would collapse from gas poisoning or laughter-induced shock. His glasses were cracked, his trench coat spattered with blood that wasn't his own.
And there was nothing he could do!
Call an ambulance? The hospitals weren't even picking up anymore. Heck, one of the emergency calls was from a hospital asking him for help. Doctors and nurses were succumbing to the gas, laughing themselves to death while trying to treat patients.
Gordon's voice cracked. His only hope had arrived.
Batman replied in his deep, gravelly tone:
"Gordon. Tell your people—aim for the head. Those undead freaks? Blow their heads clean off. Just piercing the skull won't work. The whole head has to go."
Batman banked the Batplane sharply, demonstrating his point by unleashing a barrage that decapitated three Joker Claws advancing on a school bus filled with terrified children.
"As for the civilians who inhaled Joker gas—get them to open spaces. I've got a cure."
"Yes! Yes! Got it!" Gordon ended the call and immediately gave it a shot.
He ordered the nearest officers to focus fire and blast one of the Joker Claws' heads apart. The thing had been dragging itself toward them despite missing both legs, teeth gnashing hungrily.
It worked.
The thing finally died for good, collapsing in a heap of purple fabric and pale flesh.
Gordon ran to his police car, grabbed the radio, and yelled through the public channel:
"Headshots! Those freaks can die! Just blow their heads off! Don't be afraid—they're killable!"
With Gordon's rallying cry and Batman's "cheat code," the cops across Gotham went wild.
The fear that had paralyzed them? Gone. Replaced by pure adrenaline.
Turns out, fear comes from the unknown.
But now? They knew the rule: go for the head.
It was like getting the secret boss strategy after being stomped for three days straight in a video game.
Suddenly, they were pumped to fight back.
Time for a reversal.
Time for these undead clown freaks to meet Gotham's finest sharpshooters!
No more running.
Now it was their turn to feel the pain.
"F*** you ugly bastards—eat lead!" A veteran officer screamed as he emptied his magazine into an approaching Joker Claw's face, spattering the brick wall behind it with dark matter.
The GCPD had long ditched their handguns. Under Gordon's leadership, their standard issue was AK-47s—enough firepower to go toe-to-toe with any gang in Gotham. The weapons had been controversial when first introduced, but tonight, those automatic rifles were saving lives.
How did Gordon earn his respect?
Firepower. And a backbone.
But the best part?
There was a flying murder machine in the sky.
The Batplane flew by and mowed down Joker Claws whenever it saw them, its engines roaring like a vengeful god as it swooped between buildings.
Within minutes, the chaos was turning around.
The Joker Claws were being wiped out.
Multiple units radioed Gordon, confirming their areas were clear of hostiles—
but now, they had a new problem:
Too many poisoned civilians.
The streets were filling with people gripped by terror, screaming at hallucinations only they could see. Some clawed at their own faces, others huddled in catatonic fear. The cure was working—they weren't dying anymore—but at what cost?