The Death knell

After Batgirl left that day, Barbara had requested her father, Commissioner Gordon, to let her accompany him to work. Instead of assigning her tasks at the police station, he allowed her to volunteer in the communication room—without pay, privileges, or special treatment.

Given Gordon's influence, he could have easily arranged for her to become a police officer or even the next police commissioner if he wished. But he didn't. The police station existed to serve the citizens, not his family. Abusing his authority would make him no different from the criminals he despised.

Barbara understood this and was happy to contribute as a volunteer. Since arriving half a month ago, she worked tirelessly, using her unparalleled computer skills—some of the best in Gotham—to support the department.

Her colleagues accepted her not because she was Gordon's daughter or due to her tragic past but because she was talented and genuinely kind.

Barbara in this world had no idea that, in alternate universes, she was a superhero. She had been Batgirl, and after the Joker shattered her spine, she became Oracle—Batman's primary tech and intelligence expert. She had founded the Birds of Prey, served as an intelligence officer for the Suicide Squad, maintained close ties with Supergirl, and supported nearly every superhero except The Flash's tech nerds.

Her workload had been overwhelming.

But in this version of Gotham—Earth Minus 11—anyone except Bliss unconsciously abandoned the idea of becoming a superhero.

Barbara here found the idea of dressing as a bat quite ridiculous.

Yet at this moment, she desperately wished she were a superhero instead of a powerless hacker.

The Attack

Ten minutes ago, a group of armed men in black stormed the police station.

Although Barbara spotted them on the surveillance cameras and issued an early warning, the officers' response was sluggish. When the first shots rang out, officers fell in alarming numbers. The enemy's firepower was overwhelming, and before long, all security cameras had been destroyed. Barbara had to rely on radio chatter and officers' updates to understand the situation.

Her colleagues locked Barbara and several other staff members—mostly administrative officers, forensic experts, and a janitor—inside the communication room, one of the most fortified areas in the station. Then, they rushed out to hold off the attackers, instructing Barbara to contact the military or the Amazon Council outside the city.

But the enemy was prepared. They had jammed all signals, cutting off the police station from the outside world.

With the internet down, phones jammed, and no telegraph machine, Barbara felt not only crippled but also deaf and mute.

She wished for anything—a carrier pigeon, a simple radio, anything to send a distress signal.

She could only hope someone outside noticed the attack and called for reinforcements. But on a stormy midnight in Gotham, the odds were bleak.

It was the perfect time to commit a crime.

As gunfire and screams echoed outside, Barbara's heart sank into an abyss.

Then, suddenly, the shouting changed.

The chaotic battle cries turned into exclamations of shock and horror.

"Oh my god! She's too fast!"

"My supreme god, Zeus!"

"Ah, stop him!"

"Help! It's a massacre—"

Then—silence.

The gunfire ceased. The shouting stopped.

Barbara's pulse pounded.

What happened? Was it over? Had reinforcements arrived? Or had the attackers won?

Her mind raced for answers, but the panicked cries of her fellow officers in the room clouded her thoughts.

Then, she heard it—laughter.

A chilling, humming tune drifted through the corridor, reminiscent of a twisted opera.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She was instantly reminded of the trauma—the Joker's laughter, the searing pain in her spine, the moment she fell, helpless, in his hands.

Her body trembled.

Then, another voice interrupted the humming, reminding the singer to use less explosives. The distraction snapped Barbara back to reality.

She wheeled herself behind a table, bracing for an explosion.

She scanned the room for weapons.

Nothing.

The officers locked in the room were unarmed. There were no guns. Just chairs, office supplies, and her laptop.

She clutched her computer to her chest.

The Break-In

BOOM!

The blast flung the door open.

Smoke and dust filled the air, and the force knocked the door against the wall with a metallic screech.

Barbara's ears rang. Stars danced in her vision.

She lay against the table, dazed, watching as two figures emerged from the smoke.

One of them spoke.

"I won without Gordon."

The figure slung a weapon off their back and approached the male officers against the wall, exuding malice.

Barbara shook off her dizziness.

She was Commissioner Gordon's daughter. She wouldn't cower.

"Don't bully them! If you want something, come at me!"

Her defiant voice made the approaching figure pause.

The man rubbed his arms as if covered in imaginary insects, visibly uncomfortable.

The terrified officers in the corner wailed louder. Some fainted from fear.

Unlike Barbara, who was too stunned to see clearly, they had been watching the intruders the entire time.

Black and yellow armor.

They recognized the infamous mercenary instantly—Deathstroke.

And not just any Deathstroke.

The most notorious mercenary in the world. A super-killer with a 100% mission completion rate.

Gotham rarely saw Deathstroke in action. He had high-profile clients worldwide. But the few times he had visited Gotham, he left trails of bodies in his wake.

Even Batgirl couldn't capture him.

Rumors spoke of his ruthlessness. Targets, their subordinates, their families—even their pet dogs—weren't spared.

If Cindy knew Gotham thought of her this way, she would've laughed.

She wasn't a mindless killer. She preferred leaving survivors—it was good for business. A gang with a new leader often needed "cleanup" services again, and she was happy to oblige.

Like trimming weeds, it was profitable to let them regrow.

But now, Cindy found something more interesting—Barbara Gordon.

She studied her curiously.

"It seems I won the bet. There really is a 'Gordon' here."

The second Deathstroke—Albert—sighed, irritated by the wailing officers. He preferred silence and was tempted to knock them all unconscious.

But then Barbara had spoken, breaking his train of thought.

He turned to her.

She looked about seventeen or eighteen—far younger than Cindy.

Nerdy square glasses.

Two braided pigtails.

A red, threadbare sweater over a pink-and-white plaid shirt.

Old-fashioned, but she had strikingly fair skin and delicate features.

Albert noticed her wheelchair.

When Cindy confirmed her identity, he had no doubts.

"Barbara Gordon?"

The question was rhetorical.

Barbara's heart pounded.

She had heard of Deathstroke.

Her father had warned her about the deadliest criminals in Gotham.

Among them: Rigoletto, Halle Berry, the Mad Hatter—psychopaths and assassins.

And, of course, Deathstroke.

Gordon had once described him as a "calm madman"—one who didn't see killing as wrong but merely as hastening the inevitable.

Barbara's blood ran cold.

Two Deathstrokes?

She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, then put them back on.

No mistake.

There were two of them.

Could this explain how Deathstroke accomplished impossible assassinations? Was he actually an organization? A duo distracting Batwoman while the other completed missions?

Had she just discovered a deadly secret?

Would she be silenced now?

Before panic consumed her, Albert stunned the wailing officers with an electric baton.

Silence.

Finally.

Barbara clutched her laptop tighter.

"Which one of you is the real Deathstroke?" she asked.

Cindy smirked. "That would be me. He's not."

Albert shrugged. It was her world. She could claim whatever she wanted.

Barbara straightened. "Why are you here? The police station isn't a place for mercenaries."

Cindy leaned forward. "We're here for your father. We need his help. But he's not here, is he?"

Barbara's jaw tightened. "I won't tell you where he is. Kill me if you must."

Cindy shook her head. "We don't need to kill you. But your father is in danger. We need to contact him—fast."

Barbara hesitated.

The mercenaries weren't here to kill her.

But could she trust them?