Chapter 30

A month. Just one month. Yet Gotham seemed to breathe fully for the first time in a century. The city, once steeped in the smog of despair and the soot of crime, had blossomed—literally. Vines wove over old brick walls, not as weapons but as vibrant decor. Rooftops sprouted lawns and mini-gardens, while along the wide, gleaming streets, Floravita Industries' vertical farms thrived. These weren't sterile hydroponic towers but living, breathing walls of fruit-bearing plants, tended by people. Many people. Unemployment, Gotham's eternal curse, melted away. Jobs in farms, new parks, and urban flora maintenance were plentiful for anyone willing.

Safety? It hung in the sweet, floral air. Guardian plants, woven into the city's fabric, could ensnare a mugger or worse with paralyzing vines in seconds. And if anyone—cop or civilian—thought to offer or take a bribe… Dr. Ivy's mandatory monthly "truth serum" awaited. The procedure was relentless, unforgiving, and effective. Police corruption went extinct like a dinosaur.

But the most striking change was overhead. The sky. Once low, choked by a filthy yellow haze of smog and clouds, pressing on shoulders, draining hope. Now… it was boundless blue. Clear, without a single cloud. Real, warm, golden sunlight flooded the streets, glinted off skyscraper glass, danced in water droplets on leaves. The old factories' choking smokestacks were gone, replaced by Floravita's quiet, clean biotech plants. The air tasted good.

The only "revolution" that sparked grumbling was the total ban on internal combustion engines. Electric only. But Floravita handled it masterfully: a massive trade-in program swapped old clunkers for affordable electric cars or public transit subsidies (now silent and eco-friendly). Most were appeased quickly. The discontented muttered, but their complaints drowned in the chorus of satisfaction.

For Alex, life settled into a calm, almost routine rhythm. Mornings meant reports. Days brought obligatory gaming sessions with Kara (who still crushed him in racing sims but fell to his strategies). Evenings were spent with Pamela in the greenhouse or lab, discussing new plant strains, or with Harley, whose "evening roleplays" ranged from absurd improv theater to board games with chaotic rules. It was warm. Peaceful. Unsettlingly good.

Into this idyllic calm, like a stone shattering a pond's glassy surface, came a rabbit.

First question: how? How did it get here? Floravita's base, especially the inner living quarters, was guarded not just by plants, motion and heat sensors, but by Pamela's biometric scanners, tuned to authorized DNA. A stray fly shouldn't have slipped through.

Second: its appearance. This was no ordinary rabbit. The size of a large cat, its fur was flawless white, not a speck of dirt. On its head sat a tiny, impeccably tailored black top hat. In its right eye—a gleaming monocle. It stood on its hind legs in the middle of the living room, calmly surveying the space, its pink nose twitching delicately.

"Ooooooh! Bunny!" Harley's squeal hit like a siren. Sprawled on the couch with a comic, she vaulted across the room with a grace and speed Bane would envy. "Mine! I'm catching him! He'll be mine! I'll name him… Courtesan! Perfect!"

Her arms closed around… nothing. The rabbit didn't leap or dodge—it vanished. No sound, no flash, just gone. The question of its entry answered itself. Teleportation? Phasing? Unclear.

"Hey! Where's my Courtesan?!" Harley spun, indignant.

"There," Alex said dryly, pointing to the dining table. The rabbit had reappeared, sitting nonchalantly on the polished surface. With the poise of a gentleman about to perform a trick, it removed its top hat and plunged a paw inside.

What followed was pure surrealism. From a hat far too small for its contents, the rabbit pulled:

- A massive, spiked mace, thudding heavily onto the table.

- A juicy, oversized carrot, set aside with care.

- Rusty, three-pronged garden forks.

- Finally, after rummaging a moment longer, it produced what it sought: four tickets. Not ordinary ones. Printed on thick parchment, adorned with intricate silver filigree of cards, wands, and flowing capes, they read: "Zatara Zatanna. Evening of Illusions and True Magic. Exclusive Performance. Tomorrow. 20:00. Theater of Mysteries."

The rabbit placed the tickets before Alex with precision. Then, with uncanny grace for a rodent, it stood, bowed deeply and theatrically, replaced its hat, adjusted its monocle… and vanished as silently as it appeared. Left on the table were the tickets, mace, carrot, and forks.

Silence reigned. Even Harley fell quiet, staring wide-eyed at the artifacts. Pamela, entering just as the rabbit vanished, froze in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. Kara, drawn by the noise, peeked out from the next room, munching an apple.

"What…" Pamela began.

"…the hell…" Harley continued.

"…just happened?" Alex exhaled, lifting the parchment tickets. They were real, smelling of something ancient and dusty.

Harley snapped out of it first. She lunged for the table, grabbed the carrot, and bounced excitedly. "Magic! Real magic! With a top hat and monocle! And tickets to Zatanna! So cool!" She bit the carrot with a crunch. "I'm going! Who's with me?!"

Alex's gaze shifted from the tickets to the forks, to the mace, to the ecstatic Harley, to Pamela's baffled expression. His usually sharp mind was stamped with pure, unadulterated confusion. This wasn't an enemy. Not a threat. It was… absurdity. Pure surrealism invading their orderly green utopia. And four tickets to that surrealism lay in his hand.

"Looks like," he said slowly, "the routine's over. Something weird's starting. Very weird."

Gotham's peaceful month was done.

---

The Theater of Mysteries the next evening was… underwhelmingly shabby. Tucked in an old industrial district untouched by Floravita's "evergreen hand," its peeling paint, cracked steps, and faded poster—Zatanna's half-erased profile next to an ad for "Beer & Bowling"—screamed neglect. Harley bounced with impatience, Pamela pursed her lips skeptically, Kara scanned the area with x-ray vision, alert. Alex felt a chill of foreboding creep up his spine.

But crossing the threshold of the weathered double doors flipped reality upside down.

Darkness. Absolute, velvety. Then—a flash. Not light, but color. Billions of shimmering particles swirled upward, forming a spinning galaxy overhead. The air filled with an impossible scent: old parchment, jasmine. Silence shattered with a trumpeting roar.

From the shadows to their left materialized a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Each step shook the floor, its hot breath reeking of rotten meat. Harley squealed in delight. Kara didn't flinch, stepping forward to shield the others, chin raised, eyes blazing with cold defiance, fists clenched for a fight. The T-Rex turned its massive head, a yellow eye the size of a car headlight locking onto her. Its dagger-filled maw opened… and snapped shut with a loud CLICK! Nothing happened. Illusion? Yet Kara felt its hot, foul breath, saw saliva drip to the floor and vanish. The beast snorted, almost laughing, and passed through her, dissolving into the wall like smoke. Kara huffed in irritation, brushing her chest where she'd felt the heat.

"Tangible illusion…" she muttered.

"Look!" Pamela pointed upward.

A massive blue whale glided through the "sky" of the galaxy, its fins slicing through glowing clouds. It rolled lazily… then dove straight at them! Its maw, big enough to swallow a ship, gaped. Kara merely raised an eyebrow, unmoving. Harley yelped, ducking. Alex flinched back instinctively. The whale crashed with a deafening BOOOM! But instead of destruction, a freezing deluge of salty spray drenched them! They shuddered from the shock and cold, feeling real ocean water on their skin, hearing the roar of imaginary waves—before the illusion faded, leaving them… dry.

"Wow," Harley gasped, wiping nonexistent water from her face, eyes wide. "That's… wet wow!"

They were led through a maze of wonders. They walked a ringing rainbow bridge spanning a starry abyss. Glowing unicorns galloped past on cotton-candy clouds smelling of strawberries. A giant in a checkered vest swung an enormous axe at… time? Shavings of clocks and calendars scattered everywhere.

Finally, they reached the auditorium. Small, cozy, with velvet seats, it was empty save for four front-row chairs clearly meant for them. On stage, a single candle burned in an antique candelabrum. Hypnotic, unfamiliar music floated in the air.

Then, in a swirl of indigo smoke, she appeared. Zatara Zatanna. Her sultry magician's outfit hugged her form: a black velvet corset cinching her waist, a short, shimmering silk tutu, fishnet stockings, and high heels. Her dark hair cascaded, framing a face with amethyst-glowing eyes. She was seductive, powerful, and… daring.

"Good evening, my dear, exclusive guests," her voice, low and velvety, filled the hall effortlessly, with a playful lilt. Her amethyst gaze swept over the four, lingering on Alex with a faint, knowing smirk. "Tonight, in this intimate temple of the impossible, you won't just see tricks. You'll see True Magic. Illusions that bite. Dreams that bruise. And truth disguised as lies. Prepare to be amazed. Prepare to believe the unbelievable. Your night has come."

She snapped her fingers. The candle snuffed out. Three cloaked figures ran onto the stage, juggling… their own heads. The heads laughed, winked (especially at Harley and Pamela), and sang a bawdy tune in chorus. Harley cackled until tears streamed; Pamela watched, entranced yet slightly embarrassed by the absurdity. Kara smiled, shaking her head. Alex sat like a statue, but his eyes were razor-focused, pupils darting, scanning the stage, the hall, Zatanna herself.

- Holograms? No projectors. No light sources for that level of detail and physical interaction (spray, breath).

- Air distortion? No. Too real.

- Nanobots/micro-drones? Trillions would be needed for such vivid, tangible images; their energy signature would be detectable.

- Psionics/telepathy? Mass-projecting such complex, unique sensations (Kara felt heat and smell, all felt spray) for four people? Unlikely. No signs of mental intrusion; everyone seemed normal—Harley genuinely gleeful, Pamela puzzled, Kara relaxed but vigilant.

- Advanced chemistry/aerosols? Inducing precise, varied hallucinations simultaneously? Implausible. No chemical traces in the air.

- Drugs? Impossible. No delivery method, no matching exposure timing.

Each new act drove another nail into the coffin of his logic. Zatanna pulled an endless stream of colored scarves from her vest pocket. She dropped a glass orb that shattered, sprouting a giant sunflower that released a swarm of glowing fairies. One zipped past Alex's nose; he felt the breeze of its wings and heard its tiny laugh. She caught a beam of light in a silk scarf, squeezed it—and three silver moon hares leaped out, chasing their own tails, leaving trails of lunar dust.

Alex leaned back in his chair. His face remained stoic, but a mental storm raged within. Every rational explanation was built and systematically dismantled by the phenomena before him. Only one conclusion remained—mad, absurd, defying his entire being. A conclusion irrefutable in its illogic.

Magic. Real magic.

He looked at the stage, where Zatanna, smiling at his silent shock, now seemed to juggle the laws of physics themselves, making a scarf float unsupported and hares vanish into and reappear from her top hat. Harley gasped in awe, Pamela watched spellbound, Kara observed with open curiosity, her wariness gone.

Alex took a deep breath. Admitting logic's defeat was a bitter pill. But denying the obvious was the ultimate foolishness. Into their meticulously crafted world of science, biotech, and pragmatic brutality, something ancient, chaotic, and utterly inexplicable had stormed. And that "something" stood meters away in form-fitting velvet, toying with reality like a ball.

Fine, he thought, resigning to the inevitable. We play by new rules. However idiotic and unfair they seem.