dc with power of digimon

Chapter 11: The Pack Hunts

The streets of Gotham were never truly silent.

Joshua stood in the shadows of a crumbling alleyway, his sharp yellow eyes scanning the streets. **Gabumon X's heightened senses picked up everything—**the distant hum of cars, the murmurs of criminals planning their next move, the rhythmic footsteps of a patrolling gang.

Tonight, he wasn't dealing with small-time thugs.

Tonight, he was hunting a gang.

---

A Den of Wolves

Joshua had done his research. The gang he targeted, The Black Talons, controlled a section of Gotham's East End. Forty to fifty members total, but only about fifteen were active at any given time. They weren't the biggest fish in Gotham's criminal underworld, but they were well-armed, well-organized, and dangerous.

They also ran a major drug operation—exactly the kind of scum Joshua had no problem crushing.

The gang's base was an abandoned factory, repurposed into a hub for distributing narcotics. His goal was simple: tear through their ranks, take their money, and send a message.

As he crouched on a rooftop, he spotted his first targets: six gang members gathered near a shipment of crates.

Time to get started.

---

The First Strike

Joshua leaped down, his claws scraping against the metal of a fire escape as he dropped into the midst of the gangsters.

Before they could react, his fist slammed into the nearest thug's gut. The force sent the man skidding back into a crate, gasping for air.

"Shit! What the—?!"

Joshua didn't wait. He spun, ducking under a wild punch and delivering a brutal uppercut. The thug's head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground.

Another lunged at him with a crowbar. Big mistake.

Joshua sidestepped and caught the man's wrist mid-swing. With a growl, he twisted—a sickening crack filled the air as the man screamed in agony.

Three down.

The last three gangsters scrambled for their weapons. One pulled a knife. Another fumbled for a gun.

Joshua didn't let them.

A burst of speed—Gabumon X's agility kicking in. He closed the distance, slamming his knee into the knife wielder's chest. The man gasped, dropping the blade as Joshua whipped around and backhanded the gunman before he could aim.

The final thug tried to run. Joshua grabbed the back of his jacket and yanked him off his feet, slamming him face-first into the pavement.

Six down.

Joshua exhaled. That was just the welcome party.

The real fight was inside.

---

The Storm Breaks

Kicking open the factory doors, Joshua walked into chaos. The remaining gang members were already mobilizing.

Shouts filled the air.

"It's him! That freak!"

"Light him up!"

Gunfire erupted.

Joshua reacted instantly. He dived behind a stack of crates as bullets tore through the air, splintering wood and sending debris flying.

Gabumon X's instincts kicked in.

He vaulted over the cover, zig-zagging through the gunfire with inhuman agility. A burst of blue energy flickered around his claws—his first real attack move.

"Blue Blaster!"

A stream of blue flames erupted from his mouth, engulfing the nearest gunman. The man screamed, dropping his weapon as his clothes smoldered.

Joshua landed in the center of the room, claws out.

The gang hesitated. They weren't used to fighting something that fought back like this.

Joshua smirked. "Who's first?"

A burly gangster rushed him, swinging a metal pipe. Joshua ducked under the swing, grabbed the thug's arm, and flipped him over his shoulder. The man crashed into a pile of crates, groaning in pain.

Two more attacked from either side.

Joshua slammed his elbow into one's throat, then kicked off the ground, twisting in midair to slam his heel into the second's jaw. Both hit the floor hard.

Four left.

One aimed a shotgun. Too slow.

Joshua lunged, twisting his body to avoid the blast before delivering a savage punch to the gunman's ribs. The shotgun clattered to the floor. Joshua stomped on it, breaking it in half.

The last three tried to flee.

Joshua grabbed a nearby steel chair and hurled it. It crashed into one's back, sending him sprawling.

The last two made it to the exit—only to find it blocked by a shadowy figure.

Joshua grinned. "Going somewhere?"

---

Aftermath

Fifteen men down.

Joshua stood among the wreckage, panting slightly. His body ached, but it was a good ache. He was getting stronger. His instincts were sharper.

But he wasn't done yet.

Walking through the ruined factory, he found a locked safe. A quick claw strike tore through the metal. Inside, cash. A lot of it.

Joshua smirked. "Consider this a redistribution of wealth."

Grabbing as much as he could carry, he left.

Tonight had been a success.

And Gotham was starting to notice him.

---

End of Chapter 11

Chapter 12: The Commissioner's Dilemma

Commissioner Gordon's POV

Mornings in Gotham were never peaceful.

James Gordon had barely taken a sip of his coffee before his desk was flooded with reports. Crime scenes. Witness statements. A night of chaos.

But this? This was something else.

Five different gang operations. Five separate locations.

All hit in a single night.

No fatalities, but dozens of gang members hospitalized. Witnesses described the same thing:

A monster.

Gordon rubbed his temples as he skimmed the reports. He had seen a lot in his years as a cop—mob wars, costumed lunatics, even the occasional supernatural freak show. But this was different.

This wasn't random.

This was surgical. Deliberate. Precise.

And worst of all—nobody knew who or what the hell they were dealing with.

---

Crime Scene One – East End

Gordon stepped out of his squad car and adjusted his coat. The air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and burned fabric.

A group of officers had already secured the area, setting up perimeter tape around the abandoned warehouse that once served as a drug distribution center.

The moment he stepped inside, he knew this was no ordinary gang hit.

Crates were smashed. Tables overturned. Bullet holes riddled the walls—but the only blood belonged to the gangsters.

And then there were the bodies.

Some were still conscious, groaning in pain as paramedics tended to them. Others were completely out cold.

One officer approached him. Detective Bullock—disheveled as always, chewing on an unlit cigar.

"This wasn't just some turf war," Bullock muttered, flipping through his notepad. "Whoever did this wasn't playing around. These guys got taken apart."

Gordon knelt beside one of the injured gang members—a man with a broken arm and deep claw marks across his chest.

"You," Gordon said. "Tell me what happened."

The thug groaned, barely able to focus. "It… it was an animal… No, not an animal. It talked. Moved like a man but fought like…" His breath hitched. "Like a damn demon."

Gordon frowned. "Did it kill anyone?"

The thug shook his head. "No… but it might as well have. It—it knew what it was doing. Took us apart, one by one." He swallowed hard. "We didn't stand a chance."

Gordon exchanged a glance with Bullock. That was what troubled him the most.

This wasn't chaos. This was strategy.

---

Crime Scene Two – Burnley

The second crime scene was worse.

Here, the attack had been even more precise. Every single gang member taken out without a single wasted movement.

One officer walked up with an evidence bag. Inside was a bullet casing—melted, warped beyond recognition.

"We found this near a body," the officer said. "No sign of a gunshot wound, but… look at the edges. It's like something burned it."

Gordon narrowed his eyes. Burned? That didn't fit with what he had seen before.

"Flamethrower?" Bullock suggested.

"Too controlled," Gordon said. "And the wounds on the bodies—those are claw marks, not burns."

The forensic team confirmed the theory minutes later. Something had used a concentrated burst of heat—almost like a stream of fire—to disable one of the gunmen.

That narrowed things down.

Batman didn't use fire.

This wasn't some random gangland execution.

This was something new.

---

GCPD Headquarters – The Puzzle Forms

Back at the station, Gordon stood before a whiteboard covered in photos, notes, and reports.

Five locations. Five attacks. The same M.O.

Highly trained combatant.

Capable of disabling multiple armed targets.

Claws? Fire?

No known alias.

One thing was certain—whoever this was, they weren't a common criminal.

"Could be some new vigilante," Bullock muttered, dropping a folder onto Gordon's desk. "You know how these nutjobs pop up in Gotham. One day it's some guy in spandex, next it's a guy in a bat suit."

Gordon sighed. He had considered that.

But this wasn't just some wannabe hero running around picking fights.

This thing—whoever it was—wasn't just cleaning up crime.

It was making a statement.

A quiet but unmistakable message to Gotham's underworld:

"You're not safe anymore."

---

Final Thoughts

Gordon sat in his office, staring at a single grainy image pulled from a hidden security camera in one of the warehouses.

It was blurry, dark, but unmistakable.

A creature. Wolf-like. Reptilian features.

Yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

Gordon exhaled, rubbing his temples. Another damn mystery.

He reached for the phone and dialed a number.

"Batman," he said the moment the line connected. "We have a problem."

---

End of Chapter 12