THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 11: THE SEIGE OF GOTHAM’S HEART

Barbara Gordon felt the weight of anxiety settle deep in her chest.

She had grown accustomed to the routine at the police station—volunteering in the communications room without pay, without special treatment, despite being the daughter of Commissioner Gordon. Her father could have easily arranged for her to be an officer, perhaps even paved her way to leadership, given his influence. But that wasn't who James Gordon was.

The Gotham City Police Department was not his personal domain; it belonged to the people. To wield his power unfairly would make him no better than the criminals he fought against.

Barbara understood that better than anyone. That unwavering sense of principle was what she admired most about her father. So when she first stepped into the precinct two weeks ago, she made a silent promise: she would prove herself—not as Gordon's daughter, but as Barbara.

And she had.

Her unparalleled skill with computers had made her an asset in the communications division. The officers had come to respect her, not out of pity for what had happened to her, nor because of her family name, but because she was brilliant at what she did and genuinely good at heart.

Yet, in another world, in another timeline, she had been more than this.

She had worn the mask of Batgirl, leaping across Gotham's skyline in pursuit of justice. After a terrible encounter with the Joker left her paralyzed, she had reinvented herself as Oracle—the eyes and ears of Gotham's heroes. From the shadows, she guided Batman and his allies, founded the Birds of Prey, and lent her expertise to nearly every hero in the Justice League, save for the Flash, who hardly needed assistance with technology.

But not here.

Not in this version of Gotham.

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was the eerie, invisible force of this universe's will. But here, the thought of donning a cape and mask seemed... absurd.

Still, in this moment, as chaos erupted around her, she wished she were anything but a helpless civilian.

---

It had happened in an instant.

A group of armed figures dressed in black stormed the precinct. Barbara had seen them first, catching their movements on the surveillance monitors, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she sent out warnings. But the police were slow to respond, unprepared for such a brutal, calculated assault.

The first wave of officers had been cut down before they could mount a proper defense. Gunfire rang through the halls, the rapid crack of bullets echoing like thunder. The security cameras were the next to go, severing her only connection to the outside world. Now, all she had to rely on were scattered radio transmissions and the distant sounds of battle.

The remaining officers had sealed her and a handful of others inside the communications room. Thick iron doors, meant for fire prevention, now served as their only barrier against the bloodshed outside.

"Find a way to contact the military," they had told her. "The Amazon Council—anyone who can help."

But the attackers had been thorough.

The phone lines were dead. The network was severed. Even emergency signals were jammed. For all her technical prowess, she may as well have been stranded on a desert island.

She clenched her fists, frustration bubbling beneath her skin. If only she had a carrier pigeon.

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She could only hope that someone—anyone—outside would notice. But in this storm, at this hour, the chances were slim.

A perfect night for crime.

The gunfire beyond the door continued in sporadic bursts, then softened, replaced by something different.

A shift in the battlefield.

The screams changed, no longer those of desperate officers, but of attackers caught off guard.

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

"My Supreme God Zeus—!"

"Ah, stop him!"

"Help! It's mourning—"

Then, silence.

Barbara's breath hitched.

What just happened?

Her mind raced, but the panicked whispers and barely suppressed sobs of the men locked in the room with her made it difficult to focus. The tension pressed against her temples like a vice.

Then—laughter.

It drifted through the heavy doors, light and amused, tinged with something unsettling.

Her stomach twisted.

It was familiar.

That sound—playful yet dripping with malice—was carved into her very soul.

The Joker.

No.

She froze, unable to stop the memories from crashing over her like a tidal wave. The way he had smiled as he pulled the trigger. The pain as the bullet shattered her spine. The cold tiles beneath her as she lay there, unable to move, drowning in agony.

No, no, no—

Another voice interrupted the humming. A second figure, speaking casually, telling the first to use "less explosives."

The words snapped her back to the present.

They were about to breach the door.

Barbara pushed herself back, rolling behind a desk for cover. Her hands darted over the table, searching for anything—anything—that could be used as a weapon. But the only people trapped in the room with her were administrative officers, forensic analysts, and a janitor. None of them carried firearms.

There were only chairs.

And her laptop.

She gritted her teeth and clutched the device to her chest, as if it were a shield.

Then—

BOOM.

The explosion tore through the doors. The force sent them flying open, slamming against the walls with a deafening clang.

Barbara felt the blast shake through her body, her vision swimming with golden bursts of light. The sound rang in her ears, high-pitched and disorienting.

She barely registered the two figures stepping through the smoke.

One of them spoke, his voice cool and edged with amusement.

"Without Gordon, I win."

Barbara shook her head, willing herself to focus. The room was spinning, her limbs sluggish, but she forced herself to rise.

She was Jim Gordon's daughter.

She would not cower.

She would protect the people in this room.

Through the haze, she could just make out the intruder's silhouette—the way he moved, the calculated precision of his stance.

And then she saw the armor.

Black and yellow.

The realization struck her like ice water down her spine.

The officers behind her sobbed harder. Some collapsed to the floor in sheer terror.

Because they knew who he was.

Deathstroke.

Slade Wilson rarely operated in Gotham. His clients were worldwide—dictators, warlords, and corrupt corporate giants. He was an assassin of unparalleled efficiency, his mission completion rate an unbroken 100%.

And wherever he went, bodies followed.

Not just his targets—anyone in the vicinity. Families. Employees. Pets.

If Slade knew how Gotham whispered his name in fear, he might have laughed. In truth, he didn't always need to kill bystanders. Sometimes, leaving a few survivors meant more work later—more contracts, more money.

Like pruning weeds.

But tonight, his interest was piqued.

He glanced at Barbara, giving her a slow, appraising nod.

Then, with casual ease, he slid his sword back into its sheath and perched himself on the desk.

He turned to his companion, grinning.

"Well, well. Looks like I won the bet. There really is a 'Gordon' here."