Chapter 64: In Blackgate Prison with Falcone
Chapter 64: In Blackgate Prison with Falcone
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Dean's video connection ended, but the Justice League meeting was far from over. If anything, his revelation had likely forced an extension of their discussion.
Meanwhile, in the passenger seat, Damian sat with his arms crossed, his sharp green eyes filled with irritation. He had listened to the entire conversation and was clearly not pleased.
"Batman never mentioned this to me."
Dean wasn't surprised in the slightest.
"Regarding the Collapse phenomenon, I doubt even the Justice League understands its true cause yet."
His voice was calm, but his words carried weight.
"This is an event that could impact the timeline at any given moment. If news about it were to spread before proper countermeasures were established, it would only create mass panic. That's why the Justice League chose to block all information."
It wasn't just Damian who had been left in the dark.
Apart from the big seven of the Justice League and a few major figures with the ability to predict the future, everyone else was equally uninformed.
There was something else Dean had not explained to Damian.
Green Lantern had specifically stated that the first Collapse occurred two months ago.
That meant the phenomenon was directly observable.
Which, in turn, meant that other cosmic forces—those with a broader scope of vision than Earth—were already aware of it.
At the very least, the Green Lantern Corps and the Guardians of the Universe (the "retarded little blue men") had some knowledge of the situation.
"Those cosmic forces must already be investigating the Collapse."
Dean thought to himself.
"Maybe they're ahead of the Justice League, already formulating countermeasures. Or maybe they're lagging behind, struggling to understand it. I have no way of knowing from an information-blocked Earth."
But one thing was certain. The entire universe was within the scope of this disaster's influence.
No one was immune. And whether the effects would be good or bad remained unknown.
Dean leaned back in his seat and muttered to himself.
"This is like being forced into a random draw… and I hate forced draws."
Just investigating the talismans had already exhausted him. More than ever, he realized that he urgently needed a team. A team similar to the Justice League—but operating in a way that suited his own methods.
Dean had already considered several potential candidates.
Poison Ivy, Orm Penguin
But his team still lacked one crucial thing—a strategic mind, a super brain capable of leading and analyzing.
His gaze shifted toward Damian. And then, he immediately shook his head.
No.
Damian might be Batman's son, but he hadn't inherited Bruce's patience, discipline, or strategic mind. Despite their time spent together, Damian was still stuck at the stage of trying to spy on Dean with hidden monitors.
Where was his so-called "Anti-Dean Plan"?
Had it achieved anything at all?
Look at Batman—by now, he had probably updated his Anti-Dean measures to version 3.0.
Damian noticed Dean shaking his head at him. A flicker of annoyance flashed across his face.
"Why do I feel like you're underestimating me?" Damian's tone was sharp, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Dean sighed.
"No, it's not that. I just think it's unfortunate. Some things aren't about talent—they require time, experience, and maturity to develop." His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel as he added,
"You're still too young, Robin."
There was a slight pause.
"And so am I."
For a brief moment, Damian seemed stunned by Dean's words. Then, before he could respond, the engine roared to life as Dean restarted the police car.
"Where are we going?" Damian asked.
"Blackgate Prison," Dean answered.
"There are some questions that only older men can answer."
---
In Gotham City, criminals typically had three possible fates:
Death
Imprisonment
Insanity
To accommodate these fates, Gotham had three specialized institutions:
The Crematorium → For the unlucky souls who ended up dead. Gotham's crematorium never had a day off.
Blackgate Prison → For "sane" criminals who could be locked up.
Arkham Asylum → For those whose crimes were deemed "mentally unstable."
Dean's position as an officer meant he had direct influence over Arkham Asylum. But Blackgate Prison was an entirely different story. The process of gaining approval to meet a specific prisoner was long and tedious. It took hours to fill out all the necessary paperwork, and by the time he was finally granted clearance, the sun had already set.
Even then, there was one final condition: No written records of the meeting would be allowed.
---
Inside Blackgate Prison.
Dean was escorted through layers of security checkpoints. Finally, after a final search for weapons, the prison doors opened. Inside, waiting calmly on the sofa, was an old but powerful figure.
Carmine Falcone.
The prison guards exchanged glances with Falcone before stepping back without a word. Falcone watched them leave before turning his gaze toward Dean.
A small smirk appeared on his lips.
"I knew you'd come to me sooner or later, Dean."
With an almost bored motion, he picked up a cup of whiskey from the table and casually took a sip. The smell of alcohol was unmistakable.Falcone spread his hands apart and straightened the handcuffs on his wrists.
"Surprised?" he asked, amusement dancing in his voice. "It doesn't feel like I'm imprisoned at all, does it?"
Falcone deliberately showcased the level of luxury and privilege he still enjoyed in prison. His prison uniform was clean and freshly pressed. His hair was neatly trimmed. And most importantly—his entire demeanor was one of complete control. Falcone did not look like a prisoner meeting with an officer.
He looked like a host welcoming a guest.
The law cannot punish true power. This was his way of telling Dean that Gotham was already beyond saving.
But Dean?
Dean's presence alone was a challenge to that philosophy. Even in a city as corrupt as Gotham, he stood as proof that new blood could still rise, that fresh branches could still sprout from the rot. The old man and the young officer had opposing views, yet they sat together now.
Dean without responding, he leaned down and examined the floor. Then, without hesitation, he plucked two tiny hidden bugs from the carpet and crushed them under his heel.
The soft crack of destroyed surveillance devices echoed through the room.
Falcone raised an eyebrow.
Dean finally sat down, reaching across the table to pick up the whiskey glass. Without drinking, he simply tossed it into his system inventory, effectively confiscating it. Then, he knocked on the table and spoke evenly.
"I'm confiscating your contraband for the prison guards first."
Falcone blinked. Then, a booming laugh escaped his throat.
"Interesting response. I'll admit defeat on this one." He grinned, flexing his fingers. "Just don't use your giant fists on me—I'm an old man, and my body isn't what it used to be."
"I've known it for a long time, Falcone. Even though Robin and I sent you to prison, you have been operating in Gotham for many years and it is impossible not to have an escape plan. There are also your people in the prison."
Dean pointed out: "But can you ensure that those are really just your people?"
"I know what you mean, don't worry, they are trustworthy."
Falcone no longer treated Dean with the attitude of a superior. His eyes were filled with relief: "I saw the news in the newspaper a few days ago. I knew you would come into contact with them sooner or later. I didn't expect it to be so soon, and performed so well."
He set his whiskey glass down. He reached into his prison jumpsuit, pulling out a folded newspaper. It was days old, slightly wrinkled from being read over and over. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the table between them.
Dean glanced down. The headline was in bold print, unmistakable.
"IS THE COURT OF OWLS REAL?"
"YOUNG POLICEMAN TAKES THEM DOWN SINGLE-HANDEDLY!"
Beneath it was a mugshot of himself, alongside dozens of confiscated white owl masks. Falcone's fingers tapped against the newspaper, his eyes filled with satisfaction.
"The most gilded parts of Gotham are also where the filth runs deepest. The Court of Owls? They've been a poisonous tumor festering in this city for generations."
His grip tightened around the paper.
"If it weren't for them, my plans would have been fully realized ten years ago."
Dean studied the way Falcone's fingers curled around the newspaper. There was something obsessive about the way he held it.
"You really hate them, don't you?"
Falcone let out a slow breath. "They forced my hand. When they took power, they disrupted everything I built. They robbed me of what was rightfully mine."
He leaned forward. "Tell me, Dean. Why are you here?"
Dean crossed his arms, his voice lowering slightly.
"Because tomorrow at noon, the Court's members will be processed and transferred to Blackgate Prison."
At those words, Falcone's breath hitched ever so slightly.
Dean continued.
"But we both know how capital works. They'll post bail within hours and be walking free before sunset."
Falcone heard the words and clenched the newspaper tightly, and then loosened it: "I know very well how quickly they will be released on bail. Thank you for telling me, otherwise I will miss this excellent opportunity for revenge, but this is not for free isn't it, what do you want me to do?"
Dean said thoughtfully: "You only need to ask them, "Who have the HORSE?" " and then asked "Where is the horse?" ""
"What?" Falcone narrowed his eyes in confusion, his fingers tapping lightly against the side of his glass.
Dean leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Don't ask too many questions. It's for your own good. You saw what happened to Ra's al Ghul. He made a deal with the devil, and in the end, it turned him into a madman."
Falcone's grip tightened slightly around his whiskey glass, but he remained silent. He had crossed paths with the Demon's Head before and knew all too well how deals with devils tended to end.
Dean continued, his voice calm but firm. "You only need to ask them two things: 'Who has the horse?' and 'Where is the horse?'"
The weight behind those words made Falcone pause. He had been in the business long enough to know that the simplest questions often had the most dangerous answers.
At the mention of the devil, he exhaled through his nose, abandoning any idea of pressing further. His mind drifted back to the Court of Owls, to the shadows that had once dictated Gotham's fate from behind their masks.
Falcone nodded, finally speaking. "Those bastards really do operate like a cult. I understand. Kill the chicken to scare the monkeys, and the rest will fall in line."
His meaning was clear. Even if they talked, none of them were getting out alive.
Dean's expression remained indifferent. "I don't need you to kill them. I need them to receive the punishment they deserve. If the prison can't hold them, then make sure there's nowhere in Gotham they can hide."
Falcone let out a dry chuckle. "Heh. That's a poetic way of saying the same thing."
The underworld father and son duo—Falcone and Penguin—would handle the Court of Owls in a way that the justice system never could. And in return, Dean had what he needed—the location of the Horse Talisman.
Unlike the other talismans, which could be activated instantly, the Horse Talisman required a trigger—it only worked if the user was already injured or sick.
Dean frowned slightly at the thought. Could it cure mental damage, too?
If not, then the Court of Owls likely hadn't figured out how to use it yet. The only reason they hadn't stolen the Tiger Talisman was because they had been tricked by its effects.
The weight of the moment lingered as their meeting neared its end. But before he left, Dean had one last question.
He folded his hands together, studying Falcone.
"As the godfather of Gotham's underworld, I imagine you've spent years choosing a worthy successor. Tell me—who are they?"
Falcone didn't answer right away. He took a slow sip of whiskey before raising an eyebrow at Dean.
"And what exactly do you plan to do with this information?"
Dean shrugged, his tone neutral. "I don't plan to do anything. I just want to know who might be useful."
Falcone chuckled, shaking his head. "If you're looking for advisors, I have plenty of names for you. But if you're looking for a true decision-maker? Then I can't recommend anyone to you."
He leaned forward, his gaze sharp.
"Other people can give you advice, Dean. But in the end, the decision is always yours."
His words hung heavy in the air.
He continued, his voice slow and deliberate. "There's an old saying: It's better to rely on yourself than to seek help from others."
Dean remained silent.
Falcone had spent years searching for a true successor—someone capable of seizing control of Gotham's underworld and making the hard choices necessary to rule it. But in the end, he had never chosen anyone.
Not because there weren't candidates.
But because the kind of power Falcone wielded couldn't be inherited.
It had to be taken.
A sharp knock on the door broke the silence.
The prison guard stepped in, tapping Dean's shoulder. His time was up.
Dark clouds stretched across the Gotham sky, swallowing the moonlight as if the city itself rejected the idea of illumination. Waves crashed violently against the jagged rocks below, spraying mist into the cold night air. Standing on the edge of the cliff, Dean stared out over the endless black ocean.
Beside him, Robin's cape fluttered in the wind, his small frame tense with irritation.
"Well?" Robin shouted over the roaring waves. "Did you get what you needed from the old man?"
Dean didn't immediately answer. He reached into his coat, pulling out the confiscated whiskey glass from Falcone's private stash. He turned it slowly in his hand, watching the way the dim reflection of Gotham's skyline danced across the smooth surface.
He thought about the conversation he had just finished, the pieces slowly falling into place. Then, with a swift motion, he tossed the whiskey into the ocean.
Robin raised an eyebrow. "What was that for?"
Dean exhaled. "A reminder."
Robin crossed his arms. "A reminder of what? That Falcone's still living like a king while we run around doing the dirty work?"
Dean finally turned to face him. "A reminder that I can't afford to wait for anyone else to fix Gotham."
Robin frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Dean's gaze was steady. "I've been doing this alone for too long, Robin. And it's not enough."
"You're not alone. You have Batman."
Dean shook his head. "Batman has Gotham. I need something bigger."
Robin's arms tightened around his chest. "Tch. Don't tell me you're about to start another 'hero club.' We already have the Justice League."
Dean smirked. "I don't need a club, Robin. I need a team. A real one."
Robin scoffed. "Yeah? And what's this 'real team' of yours supposed to do that Batman and the League can't?"
Dean turned back to the ocean, watching as the waves devoured the glass.
"We're going to stop waiting for permission."
Robin fell silent. For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic crashing of the waves below.
Finally, he sighed.
"Alright, fine. I'll bite. What's this 'team' of yours supposed to be called?"
Dean's lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
"The Nightborne Cabal."
Robin made a confused noise. "What?!"
"You'll understand when you meet the others."
Robin gave him a deadpan stare. "Dean. That name sounds like a bunch of villains that got together for a book club."
Dean shrugged. "It fits."
Robin scoffed, shaking his head. "Whatever. Just don't expect me to put that name on a t-shirt."
He paused. Then, more seriously, he asked, "Who else is on this 'team' of yours?"
Dean's smirk grew. "Someone you know. And trust me, they're not easy to deal with."
Robin's expression darkened slightly, his competitive nature kicking in.
"Hah. There's no one I can't handle."
"Oh? Even Poison Ivy?"
Robin faltered for half a second before scoffing again. "Like I said—there's no one I can't handle. Just give me enough time."
Dean extended a hand.
"Then consider yourself recruited."
Robin eyed the hand suspiciously, then shook it—reluctantly.
"Let me state for the record—I'm not doing this because I trust you. I'm doing it to keep an eye on you."
Dean grinned. "Sure, sure."
Robin narrowed his eyes. "I mean it, Dean. If you cross a line—"
"Then I'll have you to stop me."
Robin didn't answer, but the way his grip tightened just slightly around Dean's hand spoke volumes. Finally, Robin sighed, pulling his hand back.
"Fine. I'm in. What's the plan?"
Dean's smirk turned sharp.
"I need you to die."
"...huh?"
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