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Catwoman's mind raced as she studied the stranger before her.
In all her years operating in Gotham's underworld, she had never heard of someone like him.
He moved like her, fought like her… except only better, and stronger.
Was he just another inmate caught in Bane's purge, or was there something more to his presence here?
As he took a step closer, her muscles tensed instinctively, her body shifting into a defensive stance.
Allen stopped dead in his tracks and flashed a grin that was equal parts charming and infuriating.
"Look at you, all riled up and cautious. What's the point? You can't beat me in a fight, you sure as hell can't outrun me, and let's be real—where exactly would you hide in this concrete shoebox? Besides, you're the one who attacked me" He spread his arms wide.
Silence.
"Relax. I just got here. All I want is to talk, and figure out what the hell's going on in this place."
Silence.
Allen's eyebrows shot up.
"Seriously? Nothing? You do know how conversations work, right? It's this crazy thing where one person talks," he pointed at himself, "and the other person," he pointed at her, "responds. Like this—are you Catwoman?"
He paused dramatically, then answered his own question in a higher-pitched voice:
"'Fuck you.' See?"
"Then I'd say, 'So you're Selina Kyle then?' And we'd be off from there!"
The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.
'This bastard knows exactly who I am.'
Not only did he recognize her as Catwoman, but he knew her real identity—something only a handful of people in Gotham could claim.
"Still not getting it? That's okay, I'm a patient teacher." Allen continued cheerfully, completely undeterred by her stony silence. "Here, let's try an easy one. If I ask, 'Where is this place?' you'd say—Gotham. I ask you about Batman, you say-"
"Batman is dead."
The words slipped out before she could stop them, sharp and bitter on her tongue.
'So, this really is Gotham.'
Allen's smirk faded slightly as the implications clicked into place.
Gotham… where the streets bled corruption, where Arkham's walls couldn't contain the city's madness.
And now, with Batman gone...
'Now is not the time for this' Allen got back his focus.
"Now you're getting it! See? You're a natural at this whole talking thing." The grin returned full force.
"Batman's dead, huh? What about Bruce Wayne? Also, dead?"
"How the hell do you know that…" Catwoman cut herself off, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
Gotham's billionaire prince, and the Dark Knight—two identities that shouldn't connect.
She'd only recently pieced that particular puzzle together herself.
But this guy seems to also know that.
She found herself asking the same question for a while now. Who was this guy?
"I'm not sure," she admitted grudgingly.
"But if he's not dead yet, he might as well be. He went up against Bane."
'Went up against Bane?' Allen's mental gears turned.
'So, The Dark Knight Rises timeline.'
Bane was a monster, no question, but Batman? That stubborn son of a bitch had more lives than a whole alley full of strays.
He'd be holed up somewhere right now, recovering and plotting his dramatic return like some brooding, cape-wearing vampire.
Which meant Bane was currently running Gotham into the ground.
Just like in the movies.
"This is Blackgate Prison, right?" Allen asked, already knowing the answer.
"You don't even know what prison you're in?" Catwoman's voice dripped with contempt.
Allen shrugged, the picture of nonchalance.
"Knowing when you'll die doesn't make living any more fun. I prefer to take things as they come."
Catwoman's glare could have melted steel.
Was this guy incapable of a normal conversation?
Completely unfazed, Allen strolled over to his bed and flopped down like he didn't have a care in the world.
The casual display made Catwoman's frown deepen as she studied him more closely.
He couldn't be older than twenty, with that fresh-faced look and messy hair.
Dressed in normal street clothes instead of prison garb, he looked more like a college kid who'd taken a wrong turn than a hardened criminal.
"What's your name?" The question escaped before she could stop it.
"Allen Robinson." No dramatic titles this time, just facts.
She tested the name silently. Nothing rang any bells.
Watching him lounge there like they were at some damn beach resort, Catwoman felt irritation bubble up.
"You really plan on just sitting here? Bane's turned Gotham into his personal playground. No one knows what that monster will do next—level the city, burn it to the ground..." She gestured sharply at their surroundings.
"We've got a window to get out. Wait too long, and that window slams shut."
Allen rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow.
"What if we teamed up for this grand escape of yours?" One leg dangled off the cot, his foot swinging lazily back and forth like a metronome.
"Team up?" Her eyes flicked to that moving foot, then back to his face.
What the hell was his deal?
"Hm." The foot kept swinging.
Catwoman's fingers twitched with the urge to grab that ankle and yank him off the damn bed.
Just as she opened her mouth to snap at him, a quiet chuckle escaped his lips.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing." Allen shook his head, amused by his own private joke.
Not quite the same as dangling a string for a kitten, but close enough.
"Forget teaming up," he continued, sitting up smoothly.
"I've got my own exit strategy. But if you're itching to leave, I could lend a hand."
"How?"
In one fluid motion, Allen pushed against the bed with his hands and then he was on his feet and at the cell bars.
He ran his fingers along the cold metal, measuring the gap between them, then glanced back at Catwoman with a glint in his eye.
"Don't tell me you're actually planning to—"
Before coming to this world, Allen's strength had been thoroughly average.
Even Catwoman's enhanced physique—the product of years of training—had its limits.
But Allen had done his homework.
His power didn't just mimic—it stacked.
And stacked. And stacked…
In theory? Infinite stacking meant infinite strength.
He was far from that level for now… but he could try something.
Gauging his current capacity, Allen murmured under his breath:
"Tenfold"
Power flooded his muscles like liquid fire.
His hands closed around the bars, fingers biting into the unyielding steel.
With a grunt of effort, he pulled.
The metal screamed in protest, the sound echoing through the cell block.
Before Catwoman's disbelieving eyes, the inch-thick bars bent outward like taffy, warping until the gap could comfortably fit a person.
Allen stepped back to admire his handiwork, then—as if dissatisfied with the aesthetics—gave the bars a few precise adjustments until the opening looked almost intentional.
Turning back to Catwoman, he executed a mock bow and swept his arm toward the exit.
"Ladies first."
Catwoman stood frozen, her usually sharp mind struggling to process what she'd just witnessed.
The bars—solid steel, meant to hold Gotham's worst—had yielded like wet clay under his hands.