Seven kilometers above Gotham, where the air was thin as crystal and cold pierced any armor, an invisible quinjet hovered—a perfect perch for murder. Below, no one suspected the steel phantom aimed at the city's heart. Through the viewport, like a deadly monitor screen, City Hall Plaza teemed with people. The epicenter of an imminent assassination. The target: Pamela Isley.
A.R.G.U.S. had passed judgment. Poison Ivy was no longer a manageable threat. Her uncompromising war for a "green" Gotham, her growing, terrifying mastery over nature, and—most critically—her absolute defiance of control made her the state's top enemy. Someone high up, whose name Deadshot wasn't privy to, had signed her death warrant. And he, the man who never missed, was the executioner.
The plan was precise as a mathematical death equation. Three sniper nests on skyscraper rooftops formed a perfect triangle, with the podium as the focal point. Five kilometers—a distance to drive ballistics experts mad—was merely an engaging challenge for Deadshot. Those shots were a loud prelude, a decoy for the true finale he'd deliver himself.
Below, the plaza buzzed with a spirit of change laced with unease. Pamela Isley ascended the podium, the embodiment of nature itself—dangerous, irresistible. The plants around her stilled in reverent attention. Her voice, melodic yet commanding, rolled over the crowd:
"Today, we gather not just for a ceremony but for the start of a new chapter—one of hope, rebirth, and strength." She raised a massive, antique key. "This key I hold is not merely a symbol of power or recognition. It is a promise. A promise that Gotham, this city of shadows and struggle, can be more than survival. It will be a home where nature and humanity merge in harmony."
Deadshot's earpiece crackled with his own emotionless voice:
"Control, interference. PowerGirl identified on-site. Repeat, Kara Zor-El is present."
Amanda Waller's reply was instant, sharp as a blade:
"I don't care, Lawton. Commence the operation. Now."
A cold wave of protest, quickly smothered by the icy reality of disobedience's cost, washed through Deadshot. The unseen bomb in his neck—Waller's ultimate leverage. Defiance meant death. Professionally, without emotion, his finger pressed the remote trigger.
THUM! THUM! THUM!
Three shots, muffled by distance, merged into a single drone. From three points in space, death-charged bullets tore through the air at supersonic speed, their trajectories converging relentlessly on Pamela Isley's chest.
For Kara Zor-El, the world slowed to a crawl. Sounds stretched, movements turned syrupy. Three bullets hung in the air like venomous dragonflies. A job's a job, she thought coldly. A flash of red and gold—she was airborne, moving at the speed of thought. Click. Click. Click. Three light taps in her palms—the deadly rounds were caught. But relief didn't come. A deeper unease stirred.
The true threat descended from above. Seven kilometers up offered the perfect vantage for the final strike. Deadshot shifted to his primary weapon—a sleek, humming cylinder emitting an ominous crimson glow. A.R.G.U.S.'s latest: a quantum-focused atmospheric laser. It didn't shoot bullets; it incinerated.
Target: the crown of Pamela's head. Directly below.
"We've walked through darkness—corruption, cruelty, indifference," Pamela continued, her voice ringing over the plaza. "But every one of you, every voice raised for change, every step toward light, has brought us to this moment. I stand before you not as a victor but as a guardian of this future…"
Deadshot pulled the trigger.
No beam fell from the sky—an apocalyptic crimson pillar did. A meter-wide column of concentrated plasma sliced through the evening haze with a deafening roar of split air. It descended with the inevitability of divine wrath, blinding, incinerating, aimed precisely at Poison Ivy's skull. The crowd froze in silent horror, blinded by the hellish glow. Pamela instinctively looked up, her emerald eyes reflecting the descending doom.
But PowerGirl was ready. Her faint smirk vanished, replaced by a soldier's cold focus. Her usually bright blue eyes flared with blinding, crushing white light. She didn't just meet the beam—she unleashed the full fury of a Kryptonian star. Two torrents of unimaginable energy—descending blood-red technological hell and ascending sun-white rage—collided meters above Pamela's head.
The air screamed in agony. Space around the clash warped, boiling with waves of scalding distortion. A whistle, hum, and crack of torn atmosphere deafened the plaza. The light duel lasted a heartbeat. White won. PowerGirl's focused, unrelenting beam cleaved the laser like a molten blade through water. The crimson light exploded into a shower of sparks, dissolving into harmless energy droplets that evaporated before hitting the ground. Above Pamela, only a shimmering, heat-warped haze and the sharp scent of ozone remained.
In the quinjet's cockpit, Deadshot didn't flinch. Fact: target alive. Fact: Kryptonian protector in full combat mode. Fact: further pursuit guaranteed failure and implant activation. His fingers danced across the control panel.
"Control, target not neutralized. PowerGirl interference critical. Withdrawing per Alpha protocol."
His voice was dry, dispassionate. The quinjet, invisible and silent, turned and melted into the darkening sky.
Kara Zor-El shot upward, scanning the heavens where the deadly beam originated. Rage burned in her—who dared? But her mission was clear: Protect Pamela Isley during the ceremony. Her place was here. Swallowing the urge to pursue, she hovered, eyes sweeping the crowd and sky, primed for the next threat. She saw Pamela below.
Pamela Isley stood motionless. No trace of fear. Only icy, all-consuming fury blazed in her emerald eyes—and absolute clarity. Her gaze met Kara's in the sky—a brief, electric exchange of unspoken acknowledgment. Then, with regal dignity, Pamela turned to the crowd, still gripped by panic and awe. When she spoke again, her voice, amplified by her plants or her indomitable will, rang with new, steel-sharp, ice-laced force, drowning out whispers and cries:
"…The strength given to me by nature," she resumed, her tone transformed, "is not a gift for me alone but a tool to heal these streets, to bring life back to their hearts."
She paused. Her eyes burned with cold green fire.
"Even despite this," her voice cut like a whip, her hand slashing toward the sky where the deadly clash had unfolded, "despite the pathetic cowards hiding in shadows, trying to stop me—I will go on!"
The crowd stilled. Applause died. Her words hung heavy, dangerous.
"From this day, Floravita Industries dedicates itself not just to restoring Gotham but to transforming it!" She emphasized the word, pouring her power into it. "We will plant forests where ruins of fear stood! Raise gardens of life where despair's emptiness reigned! We will prove that even in this city's darkest corners, unbreakable hope can bloom!"
She raised the key again, now less a symbol, more a weapon.
"This key is not the end but the start of a new era. And I swear," her voice thundered like distant storm, "every one of you, every Gothamite, will be part of this rebirth! A strong part!"
She paused, letting the words sink into their hearts. The air crackled with intensity. Her tone softened, but not her conviction:
"Let us build a Gotham worthy of our boldest dreams! Thank you… for your faith in me." Gratitude carried a warning—believing in her meant going all in. "From this day, we move forward…"
She extended her hand, not to the crowd but to the city's very spirit.
"Hand in hand…"
Her fingers clenched into a fist.
"Step by step, to the light!"
The final word was no wish but a command to fate. The plaza erupted in applause, laced with joy, awe, and a tremor of fear before the unstoppable force before them. Pamela Isley wasn't just speaking. She was declaring war. War for her Gotham.