As the saying goes in Gotham: if you show off too much, expect a bolt of lightning on your way out. And right now, Adam had just stepped into the storm—head held high and eyes on the horizon.
After making headlines with his televised takedown of the rioters, Adam ordered all arrested gang members to be brought back to Arkham District instead of the downtown precinct.
Why not send them straight to Central Command? Simple—Central had washed their hands of the chaos early. The on-site commander booked it the moment things settled, ditching the mess without offering so much as a thank-you. That left Arkham, once again, handling the dirty work.
Soon enough, the small holding cells at the branch were packed to bursting. With no choice, even Adam had to roll up his sleeves and help interrogate suspects.
At first, it was mind-numbing—names, aliases, bluffs, repeat offenders. But as he flipped through case files, something caught his eye.
A hulking man sat slumped in one of the chairs, steel pipe still tucked under one arm. Big frame. Calm, even sleepy demeanor. No bruises. No blood. No signs of having fought at all.
Adam raised an eyebrow. "Who booked him?"
The beat officer down the hall scratched his head. "Funny story. We found him asleep in the middle of the riot—literally passed out, peacefully hugging that steel pipe. Everyone around him was swinging for their lives, but this guy just snored through the whole thing. We basically walked over and cuffed him like a toddler at nap time."
Adam paused, tapping his pen twice against the table.
That rang a bell.
There was a minor Gotham villain—barely mentioned in comic footnotes—nicknamed "Mr. Sleep." Not exactly top-tier rogue material, but reliable muscle. Immensely strong when awake, absurdly stubborn, and loyal if treated right. Based on the name and behavior, this could be him.
And right now, Adam was looking to expand his roster of enforcers. Having someone like Mr. Sleep around wouldn't hurt.
He made a mental note: get this guy separated from the general population, no "welcome rituals," no guard hazing.
"Put the sleeper in a single cell," Adam told the officer. "And no games. I want him healthy—we'll talk later."
"Got it."
Just as Adam was turning back to his desk, a commotion broke out at the next interrogation bay. A wiry, nervous man with a definite flair for dramatics was protesting loudly.
"I'm from Central City!" he shouted in a weird accent, voice full of shaky confidence. "That means I get... special legal statute protection or something! Diplomatic status! You can't lock me up! It's unconstitutional!"
One of Arkham's older officers scoffed. "Yeah, sure. And I'm Superman's godfather. Sit down before I write you up for public melodrama."
That voice—and those ridiculous claims—prompted Adam to look up again.
Central City? Australian background?
Even the accent was trying too hard.
"…No way," Adam murmured. His gaze narrowed, and after a few seconds of listening closely, he was convinced. He made his move.
"Hey," Adam said, lightly tapping the officer on the shoulder. "Take a break. I've got this one."
The officer glanced at him—then recognized Adam as the guy at the center of half the department's watercooler buzz. Rumor had it he might be next in line for Arkham's directorship. That, plus the televised unrest takedown made sure no one could argue.
"Right then," the officer shrugged, backing away.
Adam sat down slowly in front of the suspect, giving him a good once-over.
Sharp cheekbones. Awkward side part. Triangular, shifty eyes.
The man had that cartoonish look of someone who thought he was the clever one in the room—but had never actually won a chess game in his life.
"What's your name?" Adam asked casually.
"You already have it in your file. Ask better questions," the man shot back, folding his arms. "Besides, you people can't even pronounce it right."
Adam raised an eyebrow. He wouldn't have pegged him for racist—but the "you people" tone was clear in his condescension.
He closed the notebook and leaned forward.
"How about this then, Mr. George Digel Hackness?" Adam said slowly. "Or should I call you... Captain Boomerang? What's a second-rate Flash villain doing in Gotham instead of selling toy boomerangs in Central City? Bad habit relapse? Or did Melbourne finally kick you out?"
The man froze, eyes wide.
"W-What?! How the hell—who told you that? Has word of me really spread here too?"
He was stunned. His posture went from arrogant to defensive in seconds. He had clearly expected Gotham's cops to write him off as just another goon, not to get recognized for his... illustrious criminal backstory.
Adam gave a dry chuckle.
"Word? Oh please. The only thing I've heard about you is your toy mascot days—and the fact that your own dad used you for cheap product placement at his factory."
At that, the Captain's face drained of color. He shifted uncomfortably, like someone had punched him in the gut harder than any real fight.
Because Adam was right.
Back in Central City, Hackness—alias Captain Boomerang—was little more than a boomerang-wielding joke, roped into his father's toy company to be the cheap costume mascot for some gimmick-laden sling toy. When sales tanked, so did his relevance.
He'd disappeared after that.
And now here he was—in Gotham—for reasons Adam was still trying to understand.
In canon, Captain Boomerang never had much luck elsewhere. So why now? Why here? That question lingered as Adam sat back, silently processing the newest wildcard to land in his territory.