Blackgate Prison – Psychiatric Ward.

In fact, the inmates transferred from Arkham were doing quite well here.

These prisoners could be categorized into four distinct groups: those whose bodies had mutated due to various reasons, like Poison Ivy, Clayface, and Killer Croc; those whose bodies were fine but whose minds were irreparably broken, like the psychopathic killer Victor Zsasz; highly intelligent “experts” in chemistry, physics, and psychology, such as Professor Pyg, the Riddler, and Firefly; and finally, those outside these categories but still mentally disturbed and addicted to crime—Harley Quinn probably fit here.

Because of their dangerous and unstable nature, the prison had no choice but to keep all these inmates in solitary confinement. Placing them together would be like breeding a nightmare.

So, first of all, Arkham’s criminals had their own private cells. These cells were embedded in concrete walls with one side made of thick, bulletproof glass. In front of the glass was a control panel through which food was delivered and retrieved. And due to the psychological expertise of some inmates, guards were forbidden from speaking to them.

Even psychologists were at risk when talking to these inmates—the most famous example being Dr. Harleen Quinzel, who was turned into Harley Quinn by the Joker himself.

If communication with the inmates was necessary—such as for interrogation—the guard could press a button at the control panel, allowing their voice to be transmitted into the room. The rooms were highly soundproof.

Once, a novelist seeking isolation came to Arkham, thinking it would be a great place to write in peace. Of course, it wasn’t long before he went mad, though he did end up writing a bestseller. After Arkham was bombed, the mentally ill were transferred to Gotham’s central hospital.

The psychiatric ward at Blackgate Prison was actually supported by Arkham Asylum, which made sense—the inmates were used to the accommodations, after all.

After reaching an agreement with Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn was moved to a solitary cell deep within the psychiatric ward. While the room itself hadn’t changed much, her neighbors had decreased significantly, leaving no one directly across from her. Vivi wasn’t sure if this improvement counted as a better environment, but Poison Ivy was pleased with it.

“Honestly, I don’t get it,” Vivi said, frowning as she looked through the one-way glass at the inmates who couldn’t see her. “Some of them are masters of poison, others have incredible medical skills, some can create weapons or specialized armor on their own, and a few even come up with elaborate, almost artistic ways to kill… but they all became criminals.”

She stood outside the cell of Solomon Grundy and tapped on the glass. The figure inside, a hulking “monster,” didn’t move.

Even with solitary cells, some inmates required special measures. The man in front of her was a zombie, his body transformed into its monstrous state by a variety of chemical treatments that also granted him monstrous strength and regenerative abilities. He was unkillable, invulnerable, and capable of independent thought.

So, he sat there, wearing a mind control device on his head.

“… He’d be great at laying bricks!” Vivi remarked.

Tim shot her a sideways glance. “Most people wouldn’t think of having him lay bricks. Controlling the criminals from Arkham is like commanding a powerful army. If they ever escape en masse, Gotham would turn into a living hell.”

Behind them was a row of cells containing various versions of Clayface—

These were criminals who, for different reasons, had gained the ability to turn their bodies into clay. Some merged with special soil and minerals, some bathed in unique mud pools—Vivi suspected extraterrestrial origins—others mutated through experimental drugs, and some were technologically enhanced. In total, there were five of them.

“If only they could help with the city’s green initiatives alongside Poison Ivy,” Vivi mused.

Tim crossed his arms, standing behind her, and smiled silently to himself as he watched her.

“Then do what you’re thinking,” he said.

Suddenly, Tim found himself understanding a bit of what Mr. C was after. Just as humans, after creating robots, produced countless works of fiction about robot uprisings, beings like him—creators—must find the idea of controlling their creations terribly boring. What they really sought was not domination but the day when their creations would rise against them.

… A dull, lofty ideal.

Mr. C had given her a purpose, a dangerous power, immense potential, a pure mind, and the gift of immortality—then patiently waited for her to be tainted by something else. Gotham was a dangerous city, where countless people, like Clayface, Firefly, and Poison Ivy, were transformed by having their “one bad day,” shaped by the city’s darkness.

This was the game. Mr. C was waiting for the day his creation would change. Beings like him could wait years, even centuries, for that moment of pleasure, nurturing her, spoiling her for many years… People like the Penguin? Just appetizers before the main course, mere gifts for the little girl.

Images of a filthy corpse in a sewer flashed through Tim’s mind, followed by the memory of a gargoyle stealing that same corpse away. His brow furrowed.

Then, a third set of footsteps echoed in the room. Blackgate’s warden, Bettywen, entered, placing one hand on Vivi’s shoulder as she smiled at Tim. There was an unspoken understanding between her and Vivi. The girl looked up at her but didn’t make a move.

Bella said, “The subcutaneous remote-controlled bombs that the prison ordered have arrived. You can take three types of prisoners—those who can be controlled by the fear of death, those who have needs and can be negotiated with.”

She opened the door for them, but it was clear she was working for the mayor. The woman in front of him could go toe-to-toe with Killer Croc and Black Mask, her combat skills exceptional. Tim’s hand instinctively rested on his short staff—his usual alertness. He asked, “And the third type?”

“The ones controlled by the THE1 serum,” Bella chuckled softly. “I’m sure you’ve already uncovered the truth. As soon as Batman returns to his Batcave, he’ll know exactly what I’ve been using to make these prisoners work… Don’t look at me with such suspicion, vigilante. I’ve only used THE1 to control less than two hundred people, all of them murderers. And I made sure their victims were innocents, not revenge killings. These prisoners feel no guilt. They rarely work diligently without some… encouragement, so why not spread its use in the prison? At least with the serum, we can squeeze some remaining value out of them.”

THE1 serum—just hearing the sound of two pieces of glass scraping together could turn those injected into mindless puppets. If they experienced extreme pain, they’d snap out of it, but the sound of breaking glass could revert them back to a compliant state.

“These prisoners have no human rights in here, but…” Bella tossed him a piece of glass. “I know you have the antidote.”

She left the choice up to the vigilantes.

As Bella exited, Tim pocketed the glass and muttered with a wry smile, “I hope all the windows in Blackgate get replaced with steel.”

“Hm?” Vivi hadn’t expected that to be his first comment.

“Because if the prisoners ever find out about this, they might use it to start a riot. I mean, once most of the high-risk offenders are injected with the serum,” Tim laughed slightly. “Why are you looking at me like that? Even Batman wouldn’t save the Joker if there wasn’t some ‘choose one’ game involved, and especially if the Joker hadn’t died right in front of him.”

Tim handed the piece of glass to Vivi with a complicated expression, almost as if passing on a burden. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The young man rarely showed hesitation. “Vigilantes don’t use implanted bombs to control prisoners, because we’d never press the detonation button. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here in the first place. The way vigilantes handle things is different from how wardens—or others—handle them…”

He seemed lost in thought before he continued, “Vivi, the path you’re on might not be the one we’ve all walked. Batman doesn’t kill, and neither do I, because we don’t have the right to take a life. But you’re surrounded by people like the warden and the mayor. You might be destined to walk a different path from the rest of us—not Gotham’s ‘Nightwatch.’”

He added, “—I’ll be watching you.”

Tim wouldn’t let Mr. C lure Vivi into darkness, nor would he let Gotham destroy her. But he realized she wasn’t following the same route he and others had chosen. He’d be there, keeping an eye on Poison Ivy and the other criminals’ “rehabilitation,” but as long as it wasn’t within his responsibilities, he wouldn’t interfere.

Robin launched a grappling hook and flipped through an upper window, spreading his cape as he glided silently through the night sky. Vivi stared at the air duct, murmuring to herself, “It’s time to change the ventilation system—block off any places where people can sneak through.”

Hopefully, this time, Robin wouldn’t be sent home by the gargoyles.

As Vivi headed toward the exit, Poison Ivy smirked at her, reaching out to pinch Vivi’s cheek with the smoothness of a serpent. “You really are a crazy little knight, asking me to plant flowers. Did it ever occur to you that I might poison those plants?”

Poison Ivy wasn’t called “Poison” for nothing. She could not only control plants but also extract deadly toxins from them. Even her breath could be lethal. She was Gotham’s notorious “thorny rose.” But Vivi grabbed Ivy’s wrist and wrapped an evil-willed flower around her arm. “I’d prefer if you poisoned your workers—the ones from Arkham. I wouldn’t shed a tear if they died. Murderers should always be prepared to face death.”

“When I killed the man who experimented on me, I was ready for this, kid,” Poison Ivy’s expression turned bored at Vivi’s response. “So, have you prepared yourself?”

Vivi glanced at her.

—What should she prepare for?

—She’d already been killed once.

…

At five in the morning, several vehicles rolled out of Blackgate Prison. The drivers were tense as if they were transporting dangerous monsters instead of prisoners.

Vivi checked her main quest log. After adding the talents from Arkham, the estimated completion speed had greatly increased. Soon, roses from Rose Manor would bloom throughout the streets of Gotham.

After acquiring the manor, the Coin Shop had practically turned into a botanical garden, offering various plant seeds. Vivi flipped through her calendar and started buying items in bulk.

These plants would grow normally after being transplanted, but when grown in the manor, they’d reach full maturity within three days. Poison Ivy had remarked, “My little darlings don’t respond to me. What did you do?”

Of course, they didn’t respond to her—they were seeds produced by the game’s system, growing in the system’s Rose Garden. If they suddenly started following Ivy’s lead, now that would be unnatural.

However, with the effects of the items, the East End would become a more suitable environment for growing roses. Vivi wondered what exactly this “more suitable” environment would manifest as.

She pondered this for a moment, her eyes sweeping over the Evil-Willed flower—a flower that doesn’t require soil to grow. The one wrapped around Poison Ivy’s arm, much like the roses, wasn’t keen on responding to her, though she seemed to be fond of this peculiar plant and carried it everywhere, making it convenient for Vivi to keep tabs on her. Vivi’s gaze then moved to another type of tree produced by the system.

With a grand gesture, Vivi purchased a thousand [Colourful Street Trees].