The rain hammers against Gotham's broken skyline like bullets on steel.
You stand at the edge of a rooftop in the Narrows - all seven feet and 990 pounds of you. The metal spikes jutting from your shoulders and back catch the dim neon glow from the streets below. Your scarred hands flex inside those brutal gauntlets - the steel plates fused to your knuckles by surgeons who didn't ask questions. The footrests and handles bolted into your back are empty tonight. For now.
Gotham knows you. Not just your name - your bloodline. Hellfire. The eldest of three. The cops have a file on you thicker than most Arkham inmates. Batman's database flags you as connected to both Poison Ivy and Bane - your younger siblings. The freaks in Arkham whisper about you. Even the Bat keeps a closer eye on the radar when you're moving - especially knowing what your family is capable of together.
Tonight, a signal flare cuts through the clouds over Crime Alley - red and green, Penguin's colors. One of the rogues is calling a meeting. That means something's brewing. Something big.
What do you do?
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