Chapter 81: A Confession Letter Under the Bed
The blood sample was successfully retrieved.
After an analysis using advanced equipment, the data confirmed that it was indeed different from the vampire virus present in Eric's body.
"Strictly speaking, the virus carried by newly transformed vampires exhibits inert characteristics. It is inferior to mature viral cells in all aspects, making it possible to reverse-engineer the cells through multiple approaches," Lillian explained while adjusting her frameless glasses.
Of course, whether the reversal serum could be successfully developed remained uncertain.
"I've granted you access to the supercomputer for model simulations."
Biological engineering heavily relied on data modeling, and fortunately, Bruce had a specially designed computer linked to eight private satellites in space, constantly monitoring global activities.
Additionally, the Justice League's early warning system was powered by his equipment, with Cyborg handling system integration.
"We should have results soon."
If the theoretical approach turned out to be unfeasible, Lillian wouldn't be able to help much—after all, she was a plant specialist, not a biotechnology expert.
Allen peered into the microscope, studying the viral cells in deep thought.
But let's not forget—Allen was an alchemist, and his skill set included pharmacology and pharmaceutics.
"I see now. I've already thought of a solution."
He quickly wrote out a list and handed it to Bruce. "Get these materials ready."
"You understand biochemistry?" Bruce asked, intrigued. He glanced at the list—none of the items were expensive, so he didn't reject the request outright.
"I'm an alchemist. Knowing some biology is perfectly reasonable," Allen said smugly. "Even the Super Soldier Serum went through my refining process. A mere vampire virus is hardly a challenge."
Alchemist!?
In Bruce's understanding, alchemists were pioneers in science, obsessed with immortality and transmutation.
If they dabbled in magic at all, they wouldn't have veered so far into chemistry.
Just then, Alfred sent a message: "A cargo ship is arriving tonight, but it's carrying an entire shipment of potatoes."
Damian pulled up Gotham's import records. "This quarter, Gotham's potato reserves are already sufficient to last six months. It seems highly unusual."
"Allen, I need you to check it out."
Bruce turned to Allen, and they locked eyes for a long moment.
"Bat-boy, if you want to get rid of me, just say so. Honestly, hanging around you guys has been getting boring," Allen muttered, pouting. "I'm done playing with you. I'm forming my own superhero team to save Gotham."
"You misunderstand, I—"
Bruce started to explain, but Allen raised a hand to cut him off.
"Say any more, and it'd just be rude. After all, I'm a mental patient. Being discriminated against is normal—I'm used to it."
Hunching his shoulders, Allen turned and walked toward the door.
"I wasn't discriminating against you," Bruce said helplessly.
Without turning back, Allen replied, "I should just waste away in Arkham Asylum."
As Allen disappeared through the door, the base fell into silence.
It almost felt cruel to treat a mentally ill person like that.
"Should we call him back?" Damian asked, feeling a little guilty.
Even though they bickered often, Allen was still considered a comrade.
"He'll come back on his own."
Bruce didn't believe for a second that Allen would stay quietly in Arkham. Give it a day at most, and he'd be breaking out again.
Right now, the priority was tracking down Frost's stronghold and eliminating the hybrid leader to neutralize the threat—not worrying about a lunatic's mental well-being.
---
On the way back to Arkham Asylum—
Allen gripped the handles of a shopping cart, resting one foot on the lower rail while pushing off with the other.
The electric scooter was out of power and charging, and he hadn't taken Dean Quincy's bicycle when he left. So, he simply grabbed an abandoned shopping cart from a homeless encampment as a makeshift ride.
The recent vampire abductions had left many shopping carts abandoned in the streets. Allen figured he wasn't stealing—just repurposing.
"Feel the wind! Yeehaw!"
He leaned low into a turn, accelerating madly until the cart's four wheels began to smoke.
"If I slow down, I'm a coward! Woohoo!"
BANG!
A slight miscalculation sent Allen tumbling into a roadside ditch.
"Must've been the cart's fault. I refuse to believe it was me."
The cart lay twisted and deformed. Allen glanced at the Arkham Asylum entrance in the distance and decided to walk the rest of the way.
The guards didn't even bother stopping him.
It was clear that Allen had made Arkham his home—no matter how wild things got outside, he always came back. There was no need to worry about finding him.
Suddenly, a hulking figure blocked his path, staring him down with a menacing glare.
Most of Arkham's inmates had grudges against Batman, so naturally, someone dressed like him would be a target of hostility.
"You like playing Batman?" Killer Croc sneered.
Allen tilted his head. "I'm Bateman, not Batman. No need to pretend to be Batsy. And right now, I'm the Comedic Bat."
"I don't find you funny at all. Let me help with that."
Killer Croc reached out with his razor-sharp claws, intending to teach Allen a lesson for his choice of attire.
From the second-floor security station, guards raised their weapons, wary that Croc might take things too far.
CRACK!
In a flash, Allen twisted Croc's fingers backward and snapped at him, "Am I funny now?"
"OW OW OW—okay, okay! You're funny! Let go! My fingers!"
Despite his words, Croc's other arm lashed out in a sneak attack—proving he wasn't being sincere.
CRACK!
Allen grabbed his other hand and twisted it the same way.
"Ahhh! No, no, no! They're gonna break! I give up!"
The surrounding inmates fell into stunned silence.
Killer Croc was more than twice Allen's size, yet he had been subdued in just two moves.
Croc struggled, but any effort to use force only resulted in searing pain. He couldn't fight back at all.
"Say I'm handsome."
"You're handsome."
"Say I'm handsome and funny."
"You're handsome and funny."
Satisfied, Allen let go and swaggered away toward his bed, leaving Killer Croc trembling with both hands.
After showering and changing into a fresh hospital gown, Allen lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
"...Something's poking my foot."
Feeling a hard object under the sheet, he lifted it to find a white envelope hidden beneath.
"Could it be… a love letter from a secret admirer?"
Allen grinned. "Being this handsome is just too much trouble sometimes."
He eagerly tore open the envelope and found a single line inside:
Storage Room, third row, second compartment. Knock three times.
"Ooh, this is exciting. A secret rendezvous in the storage room?"
Tossing the letter aside, Allen rushed off.
The moment he left, Riddler and Penguin approached his bed, picked up the note, and read it.
"You wrote this?" Penguin asked, suspecting his partner of setting up another one of his infamous riddle traps.
"It wasn't me," Riddler admitted. "I wouldn't be able to fool him anyway."
"That makes things interesting. Let's follow and see."
"Agreed."
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