CHAPTER TWELVE: TESTING THE WATERS

The warehouse was an unassuming structure on the docks, one of many rusted buildings lining the Dixon Docks on the Gotham River. At a glance, it looked abandoned; its corrugated metal walls streaked with rust and graffiti, its windows dark. But as Taylor crouched behind a stack of shipping crates, she could see the faint glow of security lights inside and hear the occasional thud of boots against concrete.

She had spent the past few nights staking out this location, watching as Penguin’s men moved crates in and out. From what she could gather, this was one of his key supply depots. Trucks came and went at irregular intervals, carrying shipments of weapons to bolster his forces in the escalating gang war, plus crate after crate of the contraband needed to fund it. Tonight, she hoped to find out more as the activity had lulled just enough to make it worth the risk—quiet enough to slip in unnoticed, but not so quiet that a lone figure would draw suspicion.

These docks smelled of saltwater, oil, and decay. The scent tugged at memories she’d rather forget: Brockton Bay, her home, its coastlines similarly burdened with industry and neglect. No doubt why the Penguin had picked these docks and this area of the city. She shook it off, focusing on the van pulling up to the loading dock. A group of enforcers emerged, carrying crates marked with unassuming labels. The men moved quickly, unloading their cargo with practiced efficiency. Taylor’s eyes lingered on one of the crates, its lid slightly ajar, revealing the faint gleam of advanced weaponry.

She adjusted her makeshift mask and checked her baton. She couldn’t take on a group this size, not head-on. Instead, she would wait, watch, and look for an opportunity to gather information—or, if she was lucky, something more tangible.

The opportunity came sooner than expected.

Taylor noticed the loading dock door was left partially open, carelessly unattended as the men focused on the new shipment. Get in. Gather information. Get out. She repeated the plan silently, gripping the baton at her side as she slipped through the gap.

Inside, the warehouse stretched wide and high, its interior dimly lit by flickering overhead lights. Crates were stacked haphazardly against the walls and each other, some marked with cryptic symbols and others marked with the logos of major manufacturers. Crates of mundane weapons and ammo slated for resale to lower-level gangs. Pallets of stolen high-end electronics. Stacks of cardboard boxes smuggled cigarettes from nearby states with low tobacco taxes. From cheap knock-offs of Glock handguns to new-in-the box LexBox Infinity game consoles, they were all to fund the Penguin's war with Black Mask.

Taylor  moved cautiously—her footsteps as light as she could make it as she moved deeper into the building—her eyes scanning the area for patrolling men or anything out of the ordinary.

It wasn’t long before she found both.  

In the center of the warehouse was a group of men standing around a table piled with sleek, futuristic-looking devices. They were too preoccupied with the gleaming weapons laid out before them to notice her approach; one of them even held a cylindrical object about the size of a thermos, its surface gleaming with faint blue light. He turned it over in his hands, muttering something to the man beside him.

Taylor crept closer, keeping to the shadows. She could hear snippets of their conversation.

“This the new shipment?” one of the men asked.

“Yeah,” another replied, nodding toward the table. “Non-lethal, my ass. This thing could knock someone’s teeth out from twenty feet away.”

The man with the cylinder whistled appreciatively. “You sure it won’t blow up in my hands?”

“It’s from the tech guy,” the second man said with a shrug. “He says it works, it works.”

Taylor’s stomach tightened. The weapons weren’t just advanced—they were experimental. And the way they talked about the supplier was telling. They didn’t fully understand what they were dealing with. But it wasn’t Tinkertech. They looked mass-produced; not handcrafted. She had clearly underestimated the technology level of her new world.

None of that was good.

But before she could process further, the warehouse doors burst open with a loud crash. A second group of men stormed in, guns drawn and faces obscured by masks—ranging from cheap Halloween-style disguises to more grotesque or intimidating ones. Black Mask’s crew.

“What the hell are you doing here?” one of Penguin’s men demanded, reaching for his gun.

The intruders didn’t answer. Instead, gunfire erupted, the deafening sound ricocheting off the warehouse walls. Taylor stayed low, pressed herself against a stack of crates, her heart racing as a shoot-out unfolded around her. Taylor covered her ears.

Bullets and energy projectiles whizzed through the air, sparks flying in all directions, as both sides used the environment around them for cover. She saw a blaster bolt obliterate a crate of WayneTech smartphones. Small fires were starting across the building. The noise was deafening, the air thick with smoke and the whirring sounds of esoteric tech—energy rifles that sizzled on contact and grenades that went pop. 

Then it happened.

Amid the pandemonium, the man holding the cylindrical device seemed to panic, fumbling with the controls on its side. A low hum filled the air, followed by a sudden, violent BOOM as a wave of concussive force rippled outward. Several men were thrown off their feet, crates toppled, and weapons scattered across the floor.

The device had incredible power, but it was unstable. Taylor, unaffected by the noise, could see the way the glow flickered erratically, the hum rising and falling like an unsteady heartbeat.

“Shit!” the man holding it shouted, fumbling with the controls. “It’s malfunctioning!”

The device seemed to emphasise his words as it emitted another concussive blast, this one smaller but no less disruptive, throwing the room into further disarray.

“Damn thing’s busted!” the man shouted again, dropping the device to the ground in panic. It clattered across the floor, coming to a stop a few feet from where Taylor crouched.

Her eyes locked on it. This was her chance.

Thankfully, the guards and intruders were too focused on each other—or scrambling to recover—to notice her as she darted forward, keeping low. Taylor snatched it up, her hands trembling slightly as she cradled it carefully against her chest. The casing was warm to the touch, a bit warped from the heat, and its glow pulsed irregularly, but it still seemed intact enough to study.

“Hey!”

The shout came from one of Penguin’s men, his weapon already rising. Taylor’s stomach dropped as she realized she’d been spotted.

Get out, she told herself. Now.

She turned and bolted, retracing her steps through the maze of crates as the sound of footsteps pounded behind her. A shot rang out, hitting the metal frame of a nearby crate, and she ducked instinctively, her heart racing.

The side door she had entered earlier was still open, and she darted through it, using every ounce of her training to stay ahead of her pursuers. She darted behind corners, vaulted over debris, and slid into narrow spaces too small for the larger men to follow.

Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she didn’t stop. She kept to the shadows until she was far enough away from the warehouse to catch her breath. Within seconds after stopping she was breathing normally, her pulse returning to normal.

In the distance, she could still hear the faint shouting and the occasional gunshot. 

She had the device. But, as she started the long walk back to the Narrows, Taylor knew the bigger problem: her interference hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Not this time.