Late at night, deep in the desolate streets of Gotham's Otisburg district, a heavy-duty freight truck rumbled through the city.
Karl drove one-handed, the other lazily holding a half-eaten burger. He stared out the window with idle detachment. This was Gotham at night—10:05 PM, to be exact. The streets were practically deserted, not a soul or vehicle in sight. The emptiness of it all got his blood pumping, and before he knew it, he was cruising at eighty.
He was no rookie to Gotham's trucking routes. He'd been hauling cargo along this stretch for years. A little speed didn't faze him anymore.
In Metropolis, maybe the average driver would weigh speed against pedestrian safety. But in Gotham? Karl had learned a long time ago that if you wanted to make real money, you had to break the rules—and maybe a few pedestrians, too.
After all, the reason he was still on the road instead of locked up in GCPD custody wasn't just his skills behind the wheel—it was his speed, his discretion, and a few friends who specialized in… cleaning up evidence.
To be fair, his driving was solid. Over the years, he hadn't hit that many people. And if the number of pedestrians out this late had dwindled, that was Gotham's problem, not his.
"Life… uh, finds a way~"
He sang through a mouthful of burger, chewing contentedly, thinking about how he'd gone nearly a year without hitting anyone. That had to count as good karma, right?
"Wahoo—!"
A piercing shout cut through the air, followed by a dazzling rainbow blur streaking past his window.
That shout carried four parts excitement, three parts joy, two parts sheer terror, and a sliver of calm.
Calm. What the hell was calm doing in the mix?
Karl's eyes bulged like saucers. He dropped the burger without thinking and leaned forward, craning his neck, trying to make out the source of the prismatic light. In that split second, his mind scrambled through a list of increasingly deranged possibilities.
A rocket-powered ice cream truck? A terrorist on a glitter bomb motorcycle? One of those phantom street racers from urban legend? Some deranged teenager on a tricked-out ghost bike? Or maybe a lunatic in spandex behind the wheel of a self-built super tank?
"No. No, wait…" he muttered, staring at the streak vanishing into the distance, his expression turning vacant with disbelief.
"Was that a glowing wheelchair?"
"Wahoo—!"
Meanwhile, Zhaodi was in full-speed ecstasy atop his custom-modded electric wheelchair.
One turbo-charged upgrade later—full throttle engaged! Barreling down the street at 120 kilometers per hour, backed by his $300 asset-point investment in Intermediate Wheelchair Driving Profiency, he wasn't just any rider—he was the wheelchair version of Takumi Fujiwara flying down Mount Akina!
Sure, eighty was technically the top speed on this thing—but his limits? Nowhere in sight.
With LED light strips blazing from every inch of his ride, Zhaodi lit up the streets like a rolling rave. Highway overtakes were now impossible to miss. He could share a frame with Ghost Rider and still hold his own in visual effects.
Sleek design, Weatherproof, Comfort-grade suspension, Safety belt, and Airbags. If you were looking for high-speed mobility and peace of mind—this was it.
In just seven minutes, Zhaodi had blasted out of Otisburg and was fast approaching Gotham's East End. Along the way, the few criminals who were lurking around decided almost unanimously not to mess with the rainbow blur that just zoomed by.
Seriously, how the hell are you supposed to shoot something drifting at 120?
Then again, Gotham's never been short on nutcases. A couple of trigger-happy souls actually took aim and fired at the rolling disco chair.
Naturally, the bullets missed. That blur didn't even dodge—it just wobbled a bit, and the would-be shooters lost their aim completely. Their rounds went flying into the night, hitting nothing.
Only a lucky few managed to catch a quick snapshot and upload it to their blogs or online forums.
At least now, thanks to a few grainy photos, people could confirm it wasn't just an urban myth before it disappeared into the wind like a specter.
Still going full speed, Zhaodi weaved into the tight alleyways of the East End without missing a beat.
If the wheelchair fit between the buildings, it was fair game. The prismatic streak zipped through crumbling neighborhoods and rundown buildings like some kind of poltergeist on wheels.
Luckily, his route came courtesy of his system's Gotham Map Navigator—way more reliable than those half-baked GPS apps that tried to send you into lakes.
Eventually, he reached a narrow passage where the map instructed him to dismount. Zhaodi hit the brakes hard, drifting to a perfect stop at the alley's mouth. In one smooth motion, he stood and tugged upward—the wheelchair's sides collapsed inward, folding neatly into a unicycle-like form.
He wheeled it through the cramped corridor. On the other side: the home of Derek.
"Let's see… 10:12 PM. Not bad. I could still shave off a minute or two next time."
In a few days, would Gotham be haunted by tales of a phantom rainbow wheelchair racer? Maybe. But in a city already this insane, a 120-kph wheelchair wasn't even in the top ten weirdest things.
He casually hoisted his "Boomer Boogie Chair" and strolled into the building.
Meanwhile, perched on a rooftop nearby, Catwoman watched the same young man she'd once rescued vanish into the shadows with that ridiculous chair. She stood there in stunned silence, processing what she'd just witnessed.
"I used to think Gotham couldn't get any crazier…"
---
Back on the street, Karl was still behind the wheel, muttering curses to himself.
"This is goddamn absurd. I've never seen anything like that in my whole life—Gotham's getting freakier by the day."
And then—a shadow moved.
A massive bat-shaped silhouette swept across the sky, its wingspan blotting out the light, diving toward Karl's truck.
"The hell is this now—Scarecrow, Penguin, and that Freeze freak showing up lately… and now they're saying some monster bat's haunting the city?"
He spat out the window in disgust. "They can all go to hell."
CRASH!
The windshield shattered.
Suddenly, there was someone—or something—in the cab with him. A presence as dark as the void. Not a man. Not a beast. Something in between.
It moved like a ghost. Felt like a nightmare. And radiated the cold calm of true, silent madness.
Its eyes were featureless voids. Its cape massive and black, wings stretched like a shadow cast by fear itself. Those pointed ears—sharp as daggers.
Karl's mind flashed back to all the stories he'd heard a thousand times over.
They said when night falls, a black bat circles over Gotham. Watching. Waiting. For anyone who dares commit a crime. And when it finds them, it brings terror… and judgment.
With horror and despair trembling in his throat, Karl croaked out the name:
"B-B-Batman!"