DC: I Became A Godfather

The officers didn't take Edward Nygma's rants too seriously.

They never did.

Gotham's finest had long grown numb to tirades, complaints, and conspiracy theories. Nygma was just another eccentric genius in a city overflowing with them. Most of their attention was focused on collecting statements.

And their reports weren't exactly models of professionalism.

"So… let me get this straight," one officer muttered, pen scratching lazily across a half-torn notepad. "About an hour ago, a masked waiter pushed a dining cart into the rooftop restaurant? Had balloons tied to it—colorful ones. Looked like a damn circus vendor?"

The victim's relative nodded vigorously. "Yes! He started making jokes—really bad ones, too. Then he shouted something about exclusive hotel giveaways and asked some women to come up front to collect prizes."

"Right. Right. Then the free balloons came out. No red flags there, huh?" the officer grumbled. "And when your wife grabbed the teddy bear—poof—green smoke everywhere?"

"Y-yes, sir. At first, we thought it was just a novelty. Then she started laughing. She couldn't stop. Her face—"

"Alright, alright, I got it," the officer snapped, cutting the man off mid-sentence. "You think this is a goddamn novel? Trying to beef up the word count? Just give me what I need. Did you see where the waiter ran off to?"

The man blinked. "He… vanished. After handing out the bears, he just… disappeared."

The officer rolled his eyes and scribbled something down without care.

"Alright then. Looks like an escape." He turned to his team. "Scene's not sealed yet? Come on! This one's going to the feds. Let 'em know we're calling this a terrorist incident. Gas attack, rooftop, yada yada. Let them deal with it."

He sighed, then barked lazily:

"Nobody in or out. Full lockdown. Take prints, get statements. Follow the script."

The reaction from the guests was immediate and furious.

Nobody wanted to stick around. Not after getting caught in a Joker-style gas bombing. These were wealthy patrons, Gotham's elite. The kind of people who measured danger by how fast they could run away from it and soak themselves in grapefruit baths afterward.

Adam stood to the side, watching it unfold with a sinking expression.

They're treating this like a joke.

In his mind, the first step should've been immediate evacuation. A full sweep of the hotel. Check every corridor, every vent, every suspicious object. But these officers… they weren't acting out of caution.

They were stalling.

Adam could see the game.

By keeping the doors locked, they were waiting for bribes.

With this many rich men and women trapped in one spot? It was like surrounding a herd of golden sheep. Sooner or later, someone would pay to be let out.

And the officers? They'd just sit back and collect.

Disgust twisted in his chest.

It was Gotham, after all.

"Sir—please," Deadshot—Floyd Lawton—stepped forward, his voice tight with urgency. "My daughter needs medication every six hours. She's due now. I'm begging you—let us leave."

The officer glanced at him, lazy and cruel.

"Oh, really? What's next—you chasing your wife to the airport 'cause she ran off with your yoga instructor?" He smirked. "Spare me the sob story."

The jab hit deeper than expected.

Lawton flinched.

Divorce—real divorce—was a scar he carried beneath that military composure. But right now, he couldn't let pride get in the way of his daughter's health.

"Please," he said, forcing a smile. "My kid—she's not well."

The officer's eyes narrowed.

"Awfully eager to leave. Got something to hide?" he said, voice rising. "Or maybe you're one of them. Part of the bomb plot. Funny how quick you wanna run."

Before Lawton could respond, the officer raised a small retinal scanner and pressed the trigger. A red light blinked once, then scanned his eye. A beat later, data popped up on the screen.

The officer's grin widened.

"Well, well, what do we have here… Floyd Lawton. U.S. Marine Corps. Dishonorably discharged for killing his own squadmates. Tsk. So you are a murderer."

Floyd's face darkened.

His fists clenched at his sides, but he didn't move. He was trembling with fury.

"They weren't soldiers," he said, voice low and cracking. "We were stationed in a Russian village. They… they used the mission as cover to assault a girl. In front of her mother."

His voice faltered.

"I killed them. I don't regret it."

The officer laughed. "Oh? So now you're some kind of righteous killer? Or maybe you're a sleeper agent for Russia? What, you gonna tell me you love borscht too?"

He turned to his men.

"Book him. Looks like we found our scapegoat."

Panic flickered in Lawton's eyes.

"Wait! You can't be serious—I saved people!" he shouted, turning toward the victims' families. "They can vouch for me. I helped their loved ones. I helped—"

But they didn't speak.

They didn't move.

The people who had been thanking him just an hour ago now stood still, eyes cast downward like children caught in guilt.

No one looked him in the eye.

No one dared.

Adam felt something twist inside him.

This was Gotham.

This was how it worked.

Even heroes were disposable here.

Thomas Wayne had spent his fortune building heating systems for the homeless, offering free clinics to the poor, and working every day to restore hope to a broken city.

Look, where had that gotten him?

A bullet in the chest. His wife was dead beside him. His child—Bruce—left screaming in the rain.

Shot by the very people he tried to save.

And now, Floyd Lawton was watching it happen again.

Only this time, he was the one being thrown to the wolves.

His jaw clenched. His knuckles cracked. A tide of rage surged through his veins.

He could hear his daughter's voice in the background, faint, pleading. But it was drowned beneath the roar of memory—of betrayal, of missions gone wrong, of justice denied.

The officer kept pushing.

Kept sneering.

The pressure built.

A single thought screamed in Lawton's brain:

Kill him.

BANG!

A shot rang out.

All heads snapped toward the sound. The crowd dropped instinctively. The cops crouched, weapons raised.

But Floyd didn't move.

He knew what that shot was. Small caliber. Controlled trajectory. A warning. It wasn't aimed at him.

Adam stood still, heart racing.

That wasn't Deadshot's bullet.

No... that came from someone else.

Someone who still had authority here and had just entered the scene.

Someone who wasn't afraid to pull the trigger.