CHAPTER THIRTEEN: WEB OF LIES

Taylor sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, the malfunctioning device from Penguin’s warehouse laid out carefully on a tattered blanket in front of her. The cylindrical device looked innocuous enough, but the faint scorch marks on its exterior and the warped metal casing hinted at the raw power it held—and the instability that had nearly killed its owners.

Her fingers worked carefully, using a cheap set of tools she had cobbled together over the past few weeks. A scavenged screwdriver, a pair of needle-nose pliers, and a chipped magnifying glass were all she had to pry open its panels and examine the device. But even with limited resources, it didn’t take long for Taylor to realize she was out of her depth.

The inner workings of the weapon were a marvel of engineering, far more advanced than anything she’d encountered in Gotham so far—though it paled in comparison to some of the tinker-tech of her world. Wires coiled neatly into modular compartments, each piece seemingly designed for easy replacement or upgrade. The power source seemed compact and efficient in its housing, its faint blue glow steady and unnervingly quiet.

There were no manufacturer’s marks, no serial numbers—nothing to indicate where it had come from or who had made it. The Calculator certainly didn’t want it traced to him.

Modular. Taylor frowned, her brow furrowing as she leaned closer. Despite how it seemed, these weren’t mass-produced weapons meant to flood the streets in bulk. They were prototypes—tools designed to be tested, refined, and perfected in real-world conditions. The gang war wasn’t just a battle for territory; it was a proving ground.

Taylor set the tool down and leaned back against the wall, her stomach twisting as she recalled her earlier assessment in the warehouse:

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.

Someone was using Gotham as a laboratory, and the gangs were their unwitting test subjects.

She could imagine the logic behind it—what better way to refine experimental weapons than to put them in the hands of desperate criminals? Gotham’s underworld provided the perfect environment for field tests: unpredictable, violent, and unregulated.

But why? And for whom?

. . . . .

Elsewhere…

The room was bathed in the soft glow of computer monitors arranged in a semicircle, their screens displaying schematics, shipment manifests, and live surveillance feeds from all over Gotham—courtesy of hidden drones hovering overhead.

The Calculator sat at the center of it all, leaning back in his chair as his fingers danced deftly over a keyboard. Lines of code scrolled across the screens as he monitored the latest shipment reports.

On one screen, Penguin’s men unloaded crates into a dockside warehouse. On another, Black Mask’s enforcers tested an energy rifle in an abandoned building, its blue arcs of light briefly illuminating the shadows.

“Efficiency is up by 12%,” he muttered to himself, making a note in the corner of one screen. “But reliability under sustained fire remains an issue.”

He toggled to a diagnostic screen, reviewing performance data from the weapons used in the most recent skirmishes.

The energy rifles were performing within acceptable margins, but the failure rate on the sonic disruptors was higher than expected. That was troubling. If the weapons couldn’t hold up under real-world conditions, the entire operation would lose credibility.

A soft chime interrupted his work. The Calculator swiveled his chair to face another monitor, where a secure line opened. A shadowy figure appeared, but the screen distorted the image, keeping the figure’s identity hidden. Only their voice came through clearly—deep and commanding.

“Progress?”

“The field tests are proceeding as planned,” the Calculator replied, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Both Penguin and Black Mask are deploying the weapons across the city. They are performing well, but I’ll need to refine a few designs before ramping up production. Thankfully, the data we’re collecting makes this easy.”

There was a pause before the figure spoke again. “Time is a luxury we do not have. Gotham needs to be pushed to the breaking point.”

The Calculator’s fingers tapped idly against his desk. “I understand. I’ll accelerate the timetable. But if we push too hard, the Bat will intervene. He’s already sniffing around the edges of this operation.”

“Let him.” The figure’s voice grew colder. “By the time he understands what’s happening, it will already be too late.”

The line went dead, the screen cutting to black.

The Calculator sighed, leaning back in his chair. He reached for the cup of coffee on his desk, now lukewarm, and took a sip as he turned back to his monitors.

“Push Gotham to the breaking point,” he murmured. “Easier said than done.”

But his lips curled into a faint smile. There was no challenge he couldn’t solve. No equation he couldn’t balance. Gotham was just another variable in the grander scheme. And if there was one thing the Calculator excelled at, it was finding the solution.