Chapter 4945

"Holy shit?!"

Deathstroke couldn't help but exclaim: "Where the hell did you get this thing?!"

Although Deathstroke also knows that Gotham City cannot be compared to other cities—even if the GCPD is merely alive, it must at least have the firepower level of the Afghanistan War—but is a tank still a bit too excessive? How could Batman possibly allow...

Thinking this, Deathstroke slapped his forehead. There's no Batman here!

Batman definitely wouldn't allow anyone in this city to privately hoard heavy weaponry—not even the police department. Because this is indeed too dangerous. No one can imagine what it would look like if Bane drove a tank rampaging through the city. Moreover, in this city, whenever there's something, it's bound to be snatched by villains.

But but, this universe simply has no oversight. The Gotham Police Department's firepower has expanded infinitely. No wonder Gordon just now recalled that going to the Gotham Police Department to explore would be so exciting—there really are good things.

Besides, there are lethal quantities of rocket launchers, various models, and crate after crate of hand grenades and land mines. Just looking at the total amount of explosives, even if Batman came, he couldn't immediately tell who's the Joker.

As for how those gangs could have such strong firepower—turns out they're the Hidden Dragon and Phoenix Chick right here! Are you guys having an arms race?

I didn't expect that when Gordon recounted the origins of this equipment, Deathstroke listened to the development process and it truly sounded like an arms race—except, it's the arms race between the Gotham Police Department and all the gangs. Precisely because of this, the weapons here are abundantly stocked to an unbelievable degree.

Of course, there's also a main reason: the Gotham Police Department has always been well-funded. Besides the Wayne Group's sponsorship, the GCPD has indeed received substantial funding from the Twelve Families.

Correct, much of the weaponry here is funded by gangs, even including that tank, which was obtained through the gangs' smuggling channels. This sounds unbelievable, but in reality, it's quite logical.

The police target those gangs that don't follow the rules. For example, if someone insists on setting fire in the commercial district, the police naturally mobilize fully, suppress them with firepower, and then arrest everyone and take them back to the station.

But actually, setting fire in the commercial district also doesn't serve the Twelve Families' interests, since most of the properties there belong to them. Damaging them means their loss. Using police to suppress allows them to stand on the moral high ground without losing their own manpower—they naturally welcome it.

The captured gang members might be from other gang families, but these families can also pay to bail them out. America's bail system exists precisely to facilitate this. Even if they're later sentenced, in prison they won't suffer much hardship.

Police are tools in the gangs' game. Tools also need maintenance and upkeep. So the Gotham Police Department gets considerable money from the gangs and can also obtain equipment that money can't buy.

"Tsk tsk," Deathstroke said while looking, feeling moved, "It's hard to imagine what kind of days you people in this universe used to live. What are all these hand grenades even for throwing?"

"It's precisely because they're rarely thrown out that we've stockpiled so many." Gordon shook his head and said, "Most of the time we just toss a few onto empty ground to hear a bang, not really using them to blow people up. And these are also..."

Deathstroke looked toward the direction of his finger—there was actually a large pile of cluster bombs there, and on the rack behind stood a huge fuel-air explosive. Deathstroke even dared not approach.

You know, these explosives do have certain storage requirements. But now they're just sitting openly in the basement, even covered with a layer of dust. Deathstroke fears that if he walks over and touches one, it'll detonate directly.

Behind that, there's also a lot of standard police equipment—mostly batons and shields and such. But in the innermost part of this equipment depot, Deathstroke actually unearthed a miraculous thing—the Bat-Signal.

"So you guys still have a Bat-Signal." Deathstroke said somewhat surprised.

"We do have it," Gordon nodded and said, "but it's been a long time since we last used it, and even if we used it, it might not necessarily summon Batman."

Gordon and Deathstroke lifted the huge Bat-Signal out. Deathstroke connected the power to the lamp, and the next second a oily green bat appeared on the wall. Deathstroke asked somewhat puzzled: "Why is it green?"

"Oh, this is made from a traffic light." Gordon patted his head, "No, no. Was it later changed to a traffic light? I don't remember."

Deathstroke was somewhat speechless: "Where would you need such a high-powered traffic light?"

"You wouldn't understand this," Gordon said, "When we came over, you saw that big turntable, right? It's used there. Without that much power, Gotham's drivers wouldn't care what kind of light it is."

Deathstroke can roughly imagine. Because turntables like this are universally known as anti-human. If it appeared in the city center, it would be a disaster. Fortunately, the Gotham of the main universe doesn't have this.

"Who designed the turntable?" Deathstroke couldn't help but ask.

Gordon shook his head, indicating he also didn't know. But he did seriously think about it. Logically speaking, it should have been designed by those old Gotham families back then. Maybe they had no experience at the time and just thought the turntable method was most convenient, so they used it.

They came out of the arms depot. Deathstroke thought for a moment and said: "We can't possibly use all this ourselves. Let other squads come over to help move it."

Gordon nodded, looked toward Charles. Charles quickly relayed this message to the other squads. But everyone else was also busy.

Put plainly, whoever can survive in this city and make it through the dark ages—who doesn't have some stash?

The main universe's Robin followed behind Harley. The group was advancing through pitch-black sewers. Nightwing, walking in front, asked: "How much farther?"

"Soon," Harley said, "I hid it rather remotely. But after walking a bit more, we'll get there."

"Why would you..." Red Hood paused, then continued asking, "When did you hide it?"

"For a period of time, I and other Harley Quinns were in the arms trade, you know." Harley said, "Of course I'd keep some good stuff for myself, just in case. But after Brainiac arrived, these things have never been put to use."

"Then why didn't you take them out earlier?" Damian asked.

"I didn't think they'd be useful," Harley said, "and it's not like they're usable now either. But when we previously entered the sewers and discovered traces of the Court of Owls, I was afraid they'd take them if I didn't."

"Did Brainiac also let you hide them?" Red Robin obviously knew more about this universe, "No matter how you say it, it's still a liability. He actually allowed it?"

"Compared to arms, my madness is an even greater liability." Harley smiled and said, "Under normal circumstances, Brainiac doesn't want to provoke us. If we want to hide something, he also pretends not to see it. Even including the Joker's explosives and the Scarecrow's fear toxin."

"Aren't you afraid we'd take these things to use against him? Or that others might take them and use them to cause destruction?" Nightwing asked.

"Your concern is very reasonable," Harley sighed and said, "Rulers always make such choices. Weigh pros and cons, then pick the lesser of two evils. Obviously Brainiac thinks it's more important to let us stay in good spirits."

"But for you, these things are probably useless now." Red Hood pointed out, "Why keep them all this time?"

"Looks like you're optimistic," Harley said, "but I always think, perhaps one day the dark ages will return. You're right—these arms might not be useful to me. But if darkness returns, they could let you and your companions ride out the storm surge without having to just hide in dark, cramped basements waiting to die."

Red Hood fell silent. He knew these words weren't meant for him, but still felt a momentary stir. "I truly didn't expect you to be this kind of person."

"What kind of person Harley Quinn is depends on what kind of Joker she's met." Harley laughed, seemingly recalling something amusing, then composed herself and said, "He makes me always appreciate those with astonishing revolutionary qualities."

Red Hood still wanted to say something. Harley suddenly spoke up: "We're here."

Before them was an underground warehouse, looking like an abandoned cold storage. According to the map, this place is indeed remote, nearly reaching the suburbs, and also the end of the indoor underground water system. This cold storage doesn't seem to be used often, but once opened, the sight inside stunned everyone.

Inside were rows and rows of Soviet-standard equipment, some even still brand new—never used since leaving the factory—and the models aren't even old.

Nightwing opened his mouth, then Red Robin also opened his. Finally Red Hood said: "Shouldn't we not be asking where these things came from?"

"You certainly can ask," Harley said after walking in, "Did you forget where you got that big bomb from earlier?"

Red Hood touched his face. In this regard, they indeed have no right to judge each other. After all, in this world, only that one place dares to let such things flow out freely.

"Wait," Red Robin said, "Has the Soviet Union in your universe not dissolved?"

"It doesn't hinder them from holding a clearance sale." Harley shook her head and said, "Actually, this is nothing compared to what you guys got. Just spend a bit more money. I think we don't need this much—we can move part of it out."

"If only I'd known Pamela was coming," Nightwing said, "this stuff isn't easy to move. Not that we don't want to exert effort, mainly it's a bit dangerous."

"She also has her own things to go dig for," Harley said, "Everyone's been mixing in Gotham—who doesn't have some old capital?"

At the entrance to the underground lab of the Biology Building at Gotham University, Ted said somewhat nervously: "What exactly is it that we two need to retrieve?"

"It's all Brainiac's fault," Pamela said, "The seeds won't sprout, and he didn't say so in advance, making me waste half a day's effort in the backyard. If I'd known, I'd have come straight to get the ready-made ones."

"So you're here to get plants?" Ted asked, "Then you just come yourself—why drag me along? No need to make a big fuss over a few potted plants..."

He hadn't finished speaking when a green shadow flashed past. Only a "bang" was heard, and when Ted came to his senses again, he found himself already slammed against the wall.

Ted fell to the ground, grimacing as he propped himself up, and looked up to see a cabbage over two meters tall standing at the laboratory doorway, waving its fist-shaped leaves at him.