Gotham Under Boogeyman Chapter 5: Reborn Armory.

Chapter 5: Reborn Armory.

-0-

John never liked school. It wasn’t the learning—he retained knowledge better than most.

It wasn’t the students—he had no interest in their social games. It was the waste of time.

Sitting in classrooms, listening to privileged kids whine about grades, relationships, and weekend parties—it was meaningless.

Normally, he stayed invisible. Silent. Unremarkable. But today? Today, he was distracted.

Carmine’s words still echoed in his head. "You’re marrying her." He gripped his pencil, holding it too tight.

Helena, sitting beside him, noticed. "You good?" she asked.

John released the pencil. "Fine."

She frowned, unconvinced. But before she could push, their teacher clapped his hands.

History class. Today’s lesson: Medieval Warfare. Their teacher, Mr. Castle, lead the class out to the field where he had set up a practical demonstration.

A moving target—a dummy on wheels—was being pulled across the soccer field.

"Archers in battle had to compensate for movement," Mr. Castle explained, holding up a bow. "Today, we’ll see how difficult it really was."

John barely listened. He kept replaying his conversation with Carmine in his head. Helena. Marriage. The Court of Owls. And even more unexpectedly, his anger had shifted targets to Carmine, his boss.

Even after all John had done for him, Carmine still insisted on treating him like his puppet. Carmine had even refused John's request to travel the world on account of Helen. All this was getting too much for him and he felt like he was about to explode.

The students took turns, each failing miserably to hit the moving target.

Only one came close—a black-haired boy with sunglasses, who loosed an arrow that nicked the dummy’s shoulder. The class murmured in mild appreciation.

Then Mr. Castle called John’s name. John almost ignored him. But the last thing he needed was attention. So he stood, took the bow, and nocked an arrow. The students chuckled. John Wick—the weird, quiet kid—wasn’t built for sports.

He exhaled. Ignore the noise. He let go, his mind briefly conjuring up Carmine's face. The arrow whistled through the air. THUNK. Dead center.

Bullseye.

The class went silent. Mr. Castle blinked, startled. The black-haired boy with sunglasses lowered his head slightly, watching.

John handed the bow back without a word and returned to his previous post.

Helena stared at him.

"What the hell was that?" she whispered. John didn’t answer. He just wanted the lesson to end.

Lunch. John and Helena walked toward the cafeteria. She was still grilling him about the archery stunt.

"You’ve used a bow before."

"Once or twice."

"That wasn’t 'once or twice.' You made everyone else look like amateurs."

John sighed. "It was nothing."

But then—a baseball came flying out of nowhere. A hard, fast pitch. Aimed right at Helena’s face. John didn’t even think. His hand shot out—SNAP. He caught the ball without looking. The weight of it pressed into his palm.

Helena’s eyes widened. Behind them, a few students stopped, whispering. And in the distance—the black-haired boy with sunglasses wasn’t the only one watching.

A red-haired girl in a leather jacket leaned against a tree, eyes narrowed. A boy in a varsity jacket with a cocky smirk whispered something to his friends. And from the faculty building, a man with a cane took a long, slow drag of his cigarette.

John cussed under his breath at having unwittingly drawn attention.

"Let's go." John gripped Helen's arm and hurried them away amidst her protests.

Barbara Gordon and Dick Grayson sat on the rooftop of a building overlooking Gotham Academy, watching through binoculars.

John Wick.

He wasn’t like the other kids. And that was exactly why Batman had given them this mission.

"All we have is hearsay," Dick muttered. "The guy’s a prodigy, sure. But so what? He’s working for Carmine Falcone. That’s enough for us to keep an eye on him, but we still don’t know what he wants."

Barbara adjusted the focus on her binoculars, watching John and Helen move through the crowd below.

"We’re not gonna find anything from just watching," she said. "He’s too controlled."

Dick frowned. "So what’s your plan?"

Barbara grinned. "Simple. We go through Helena Bertinelli."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "You think she’ll talk?"

"She has every reason to hate John," Barbara said. "The Falcones wiped out her family. And now she has this guy shadowing her, making sure she doesn’t step out of line. If anyone would want to give up dirt on him, it’s her."

Dick thought about it, then nodded. "Alright. So how do we get her alone?"

Barbara pointed at him. "That’s where you come in boy wonder."

-0-

John moved through the hallways of Gotham Academy, heading toward the principal’s office.

At least, that’s where he thought he was going. A student—someone he didn’t recognize—had told him the principal wanted to see him. John knew it was a lie. He followed anyway.

They climbed the stairs to the rooftop. John stepped through the doorway—THUNK. A shuriken embedded itself in the doorframe beside his head. John stopped. The student in front of him straightened his posture, his casual demeanor shifting into something more practiced.

Dick Grayson.

John sighed. "A shuriken? Really?"

Dick shrugged. "It easy to hide and aims better than a dagger. Besides, did no one teach you not to follow someone to a secluded area without knowing their intentions?"

John tilted his head. "If you wanted to kill me, you would have tried it on the stairs. The higher elevation would make it hard for anyone to effectively dodge."

Dick’s smirk didn’t waver. "And what if I did?"

John looked him in the eyes. "Robin doesn’t kill."

For the first time, Dick faltered. "What did you just say?"

John stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "I said, Robin doesn’t kill."

Dick’s eyes sharpened. "You’re not supposed to know that."

John shrugged. "I know a lot of things I'm not supposed to."

Dick clenched his jaw, trying to keep his cool. "Then tell me this—how’d you figure out I was Robin?"

John didn’t blink. "Experience."

Dick felt his grip tighten. This guy wasn’t normal.

John took another step closer. "And I also know why you’re here."

Dick kept his lips shut.

"You’re the distraction," John said. "So your colleague can get to Helena."

Dick tried to hide his reaction, but John saw it.

"Batgirl to your Robin, right?" John continued. "Makes sense. She’s the type to go for an indirect approach."

Dick exhaled. "Alright, smart guy. So what are you gonna do about it? Reveal our secret identities? It will be your word against ours."

John closed the distance between them, stopping just a foot away.

"I have a message for Batman," he said quietly.

Dick tensed.

"Tell him to leave Helena and me alone."

Dick narrowed his eyes. "Or what?"

John leaned in slightly. "Or next time, I’ll be the one paying him a visit."

Dick swallowed. John wasn’t bluffing. And that? That was a problem.

Helena Bertinelli didn’t need company. Especially not goody two shoes Barbara Gordon.

She turned on the sink, washing her hands as the redhead leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"You don’t have to talk," Barbara said. "But I know John Wick isn’t just some bodyguard. And I know you don’t like him watching over you."

Helena dried her hands and met Barbara’s gaze through the mirror.

"I don’t have to tell you anything," she said flatly.

Barbara sighed. "Look, I get it. The Falcones killed your family. Now they have you under their thumb. But maybe if we work together—"

CRASH! The stall doors burst open as masked figures leaped out, knives flashing.

"League of Shadows?!" Barbara barely had time to react before a bladed fan from a slim woman in a green dress and a white neko mask, sliced toward her throat.

Barbara ducked, narrowly avoiding Cheshire’s lethal strike.

Helena twisted, aiming a kick at the nearest assassin, but two more grabbed her arms before she could fight back. "Let go!"

Barbara moved to help—but Cheshire was already on her. A kick to the ribs. A strike to the jaw. A dagger slicing toward her stomach.

Barbara deflected what she could, but Cheshire was faster. More skilled.

Barbara blocked a high kick—only for Cheshire to spin and slam her elbow into her temple.

Barbara staggered.

Another assassin grabbed her from behind, twisting her arm. A knife gleamed. She was about to die. Until—

The bathroom door exploded open. Dick dove in first, launching a flying kick at the assassin holding Barbara. John was right behind him. And he wasn’t holding back.

Crack. John caught a League assassin’s wrist, snapping it like a twig before stealing their blade and plunging it into their throat.

"Stop killing them!" Robin yelled at John, while using eskrima sticks to cracked skulls.

"Oh and brain damage is better?" John questioned moving with deadly precision.

Bodies dropped. But—Too late. Helena was already being dragged through the broken window. John lunged, reaching out—Gone. Helena Bertinelli was gone.

John turned sharply, grabbing Dick by the collar and slamming him against the wall.

"WHO WERE THEY?" John growled.

Dick grimaced but didn’t flinch.

"The League of Shadows."

At that, he remembered Batman's warning.

John’s grip tightened. "Where did they take her?"

Barbara, still gasping for breath, wiped blood from her lip and held up her wrist.

"I—I put a tracker on her," she said.

John ripped her phone from her hands before she could protest. The map blinked. A red dot—moving fast.

John clenched his jaw. Without another word, he turned and walked out. Robin and Batgirl exchanged a glance. Then hurried after him.

It didn't take long to get to the location Helena had been taken.

The old amusement park was a graveyard of laughter. Rusting rides loomed like broken skeletons. The Ferris wheel creaked in the wind, swaying against the gray evening sky.

And standing in the center of it all, surrounded by several shadows—Talia al Ghul. Beside her, Deathstroke. And in his grasp—Helena Bertinelli, bound and gagged.

John stopped walking.

Behind him, Robin and Batgirl tensed, but John only had eyes for Talia.

"You wanted my attention," John said coldly. "You have it."

Talia smirked. "It seems the only way to get it, after all the letters you ignored, was to take something… important."

John's expression didn't change. He did recall a bunch of mail that he never got around to opening.

His hand flexed at his side. "Let her go," he said.

"Join us," Talia countered. "The League of Shadows has use for a man like you, John Wick. Your skills are wasted on Gotham's filth. With us, you could become more than a mere assassin. You could become a force of nature."

John's silence was his answer. Talia sighed. "But if you refuse?"

"Then we fight." John stated as a matter of fact.

Her smirk widened. "Not quite. You can walk away with the girl… but first, you'll have to prove you're worthy. Defeat the League’s best in combat."

Deathstroke released Helena, letting her slump against a crate. Then he stepped forward.

"That'd be me, kid." he said, voice gravelly through his mask.

John glanced at Helena. Alive. Breathing. His gaze shifted to Talia. "Fine."

A circle formed. Shadows in black moved silently, creating a makeshift ring around the two fighters.

Robin stopped John. "Don’t. Deathstroke isn’t just some merc—"

John held up a hand. Robin fell silent.

Deathstroke cracked his knuckles. "Time for your funeral."

Talia stepped between them. "Choose your weapon. Armed or unarmed?"

John didn’t hesitate. "Armed. Blades."

Deathstroke chuckled, "Bad choice. I'm particularly handy with blades."

One of the assassins stepped forward, offering John a katana. John ignored it. Instead—Two long blades materialized in his hands. Sleek. Deadly. Nodachi swords. The shadows stirred in confusion. Robin and Batgirl’s eyes widened.

"Where the hell did those come from?" Robin muttered.

Deathstroke’s amusement faltered and even Talia’s smirk vanished.

John took a deep breath and slowly let it out. No one had ever seen this ability and lived to tell about it.

John never talked or thought about what happened after his first death. But in that strange limbo, between the last breath of his old life and the first breath of his new one—he had discovered something.

Every weapon he had ever wielded. Every gun, every blade, every tool of death. All of it had been reborn with him.

Not in this world, but in a pocket dimension.

A personal armory, attached to his soul. He was never unarmed. He was never without a weapon. And now, for the first time infront of a crowd—he had revealed it.

John spun the Nodachi blades in his grip, the long steel catching the creeping moonlight, his skill was effortless.

Deathstroke watched him carefully.

Then he reached behind his back and unsheathed his own sword.

"Well, well," Deathstroke murmured. "This just got interesting."

Talia raised her hand. "Begin."