The glow of the city filtered faintly through the penthouse windows, neon bleeding against glass. Inside, Nolan sat hunched over his worktable, the only true light coming from the soldering iron in his hand. It hissed faintly as he guided the tip along a thin wire, the scent of burning metal mixing with the faint incense smoke curling from one of the altars behind him.

On the desk lay a small, silver, box-like object—barely bigger than a pack of cigarettes. Its casing was still open, innards exposed: wires, circuits, something not quite familiar, not quite definable. A few scattered tools and coils of wire lay on the side, waiting for their turn. Nolan's fingers moved carefully, delicately, as if one wrong touch might ruin weeks of effort.

Behind him, the room wasn't silent.

Quentin paced by the window, fists tight, shoulders bristling with agitation. "Two hits. Two! He thinks we're weak—just scraps huddled in shadows. We have to show him otherwise."

On the far side, Vey leaned against the altar's shadow, his grin sharp, his voice low and dangerous. "He spilled our blood. That means we spill his. Let me off the leash, Nolan. Just say it, and I'll carve a path right through his birds."

The soldering iron hissed again as Nolan adjusted another wire. His eyes didn't lift. His voice was calm, almost detached.

"No. Not yet."

Quentin stopped pacing, turning toward him with disbelief. "Not yet? What else do you need to see? He's already cutting into our ground!"

Nolan set the iron down for a moment, flexing his wrist before tightening a screw with a small precision driver. The silver box clicked faintly, edges tightening.

"This—" he murmured, more to the device than to them. "This is almost done. And when it is… we will have the tools to move."

He finally looked up, his gaze moving first to Quentin, then locking on Vey. His tone sharpened, "You'll get your work soon enough. Especially you, Vey. But not before this is ready. Be patient."

For a moment, the room pulsed with the tension between them. Quentin restless, Vey grinning hungrily, and Nolan steady, controlled, his focus bent toward the small, unfinished machine on the table.

Then he lowered his head again, soldering iron sparking softly as he returned to work.

***

Boots splashed in the muck, the sound echoing in damp stone corridors. Vey's face was hard as ever, unreadable, though the muscles in his jaw tightened each time the sewer stench thickened.

"God, this is foul," Quentin muttered, one hand pressed over his nose as he picked his way along the narrow walkway. "We could've taken a dozen different routes, but no—you pick the one that smells like Satan's outhouse."

Kieran's voice carried, nasal and pinched. "I'm starting to regret wearing these shoes. They'll never be the same. You know that, right?"

Nolan kept his head slightly bowed, handkerchief loosely covering his mouth. He sounded more controlled, but no less irritated. "We need the lower routes if we're going to find Croc. And complaining isn't going to make the smell fade."

Vey didn't say a word. He just kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, though his shoulders rose slightly as if even his iron stomach fought back the urge to gag. The silence from him made Quentin scowl even harder.

"You see that? Stone face. Pretending he's not dying inside." Quentin threw a glare sideways. "You are dying inside, admit it."

The only response was Vey's eyes narrowing, but his boots never slowed.

They passed one of their checkpoints, two of their people posted with makeshift spears and scavenged pistols. A tent with a lamp flickered in the gloom, the men snapping to alertness until they recognized the silhouette of their boss. Vey only gave them a nod and kept going.

Not far past the checkpoint, a booming laugh cut through the dank air. A broad-shouldered figure emerged from the dark, lantern in hand.

"Boss!" Dre Matthews grinned wide, teeth flashing in the low light, and swept Vey into a bear hug that nearly lifted him off the ground. "Good to see you down here."

Vey let the hug happen, stiff but not unfriendly. Quentin gagged theatrically behind him. "I think he just squeezed three ribs out of alignment."

Dre set Vey down and motioned broadly to the stretch of tunnels behind him. "We're setting up solid, boss. Already got tents pitched, heaters and fans being hauled in. Food, water—whatever anyone needs, it's coming in steady. Only mystery left is making this place smell like peaches and roses instead of… well." He waved vaguely at the sewage.

For the first time, Vey cracked a smile—thin, brief, but real. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. You've done good work."

Dre's grin widened, but Vey's expression hardened again as he asked, "Where's Killer Croc?"

Dre's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Haven't seen him since last we spoke. Might be down one of the channels we haven't started working on yet. You want backup? I can send some guys with you."

Vey shook his head. "No. Alone."

Dre hesitated, then nodded, respect plain in his eyes. "Fair enough. Be careful down there."

Vey slipped past, lantern light fading as he pressed deeper into the tunnels. The farther he went, the less sign of habitation. No lamps, no voices. Just the sluggish drip of water and the hollow echo of his boots against wet stone.

For a long while, nothing stirred. The air felt thicker here, darker, the smell sharper, suffocating. Then—

Ripple.

The black water ahead shivered. A low current, rolling outward, disturbed the stillness. Vey slowed, head tilting, hand brushing near the knife at his side but not drawing it.

"I know you're there," he said evenly, voice carrying across the tunnel. "Just come. To talk."

From the depths, a shape rose. Massive shoulders broke the surface first, followed by jagged scales and a wide, toothy snarl. Water sheeted down as Killer Croc loomed out of the blackness, towering, claws flexing.

His yellow eyes narrowed on Vey. His growl rumbled deep and primal.

"Talk."

The stone of the tunnel pressed cold against Vey's back as he leaned there, his face unmoving, his breaths steady. Beside him, Kieran let out a muffled squeal, "Not the suit, not the suit!" as stagnant sewer water had splashed up against his trousers.

Quentin's chuckle was bitter in the back of their head. You're worried about a suit while we're standing in Croc's pit?

Vey ignored them both, eyes fixed on the ripples spreading across the dark water. The surface parted, slow and deliberate, and then the hulking shape rose — scales slick with brackish muck, teeth flashing pale in the dim light. Killer Croc's growl reverberated in the chamber, more like stone grinding than a voice.

"Talk," Croc rumbled.

Vey inclined his head respectfully, voice level, words careful but not submissive. "I've heard of your appreciation for me and my friends. The last thing I want to do is cause trouble for you."

Croc's nostrils flared. He didn't move closer, but the tension in the water said he was listening.

Vey pressed on. "What I believe you'll find, though, is value in what we're building. Gotham's homeless were always shunned, discarded. Like they didn't exist — like they only lived to die. But now…" He paused, a rare spark tugging faintly at the corner of his lips. "Now they live for themselves. They live for something more."

From deep inside, Quentin muttered, 'Conquer, Vey. Just say it.'

Vey ignored the bait, rolling instead into the phrasing he wanted. "Maybe 'conquer' isn't the right word. But they live with purpose. With fight." He gestured faintly to the tunnel walls, the dripping pipes. "We've heard of you. Of how you've helped people before. And now that you're back, I hope you'll continue."

Killer Croc's growl deepened, but not in anger more like a warning rumble. He hadn't dismissed him, though.

"These sewers," Vey continued evenly, "we're not filling them with poison. No guns running here. No drugs. Just people. Food, water, beds. Some are armed, yes, but only to protect against what's already come for us." He let the word sharpen. "Penguin."

That earned a low snort from Croc, a puff of hot breath in the damp chill.

"Quite soon after we dealt with Black Mask, Penguin decided to make his move. He thinks he can stamp us out before we're steady. But here's the truth—" Vey's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone still level but carrying a harder edge. "—we're already steadier than he knows. And if you stood with us, if you lent your weight to what's happening here, it wouldn't just be survival. It'd be control."

Croc's yellow eyes gleamed in the dark, unblinking.

Vey nodded once, respectful, measured. "You don't know me. My name's Vey. But I'd like for you to know Dre — he's my man here. If you've got questions, if you want to talk, go through him. Just think about it. With us, with you… this whole sewer system? Locked down. Gotham's underbelly, yours to shape. Your field. Your playpen."

The ripples spread again as Croc's head tilted, the faintest ghost of a grin flashing teeth like knives. He said nothing, but the silence wasn't in a ddismissal but instead it was consideration.

Vey didn't push further. He only dipped his chin again, then slowly stepped back from the water's edge, leaving the offer to sink in with the current.