Mud splashes against Dinah's dark boots as she forces her bike into a sharp curve, her teeth gritted and eyes blitzing beneath her hood.

"Anything?" she shouts against the wind. Reliably, Oracle's voice crackles in her earpiece, tight and strained. "No. I've dispatched Helena too, but..."

Dinah doesn't need to hear the unspoken dread that lingers between them. Only three of them stand against the clock, and only two can physically scour the area for your whereabouts. The weight of time presses on; memories of overhearing her parents' hushed conversations about missing persons echo in Dinah's restless mind. Each hour that passes shrinks the chances of finding you, exponentially. Dinah's stomach churns, hating how powerless she feels.

"I'll call Nightwing and Robin too," Barbara mutters.

Tersely, Dinah says, "Call anyone you've got in your rolodex, Babs." The silence on the other line tells her Barbara's mind already raced ahead, searching for solutions. Better Barbara than Dinah. It’s no baseless joke that she’s the brains to Dinah’s brawn.

They all know this job comes with its own set of dangers, and they’ve signed off on the risks. Oracle may seem like an all-knowing goddess in the virtual world, but even she can't foresee every pitfall. Missions can unravel in an instant.

The bike squeals as it skids to a stop, and Dinah leaps off, eyes narrowing at the antiquated submarine moored at the docks. Rain drums violently against its washed-out panels, water seeping through fractured fissures and pooling in its hollowed belly.

"You don't think...?" Bile nearly rises at the thought, her gut feeling heavy.

A heartbeat later, Barbara’s voice sounds in her ear. "Morbid jokes seem more like the Riddler or Joker than Blockbuster." Her tone is even, but Dinah hears the tremor beneath—they both remember their first actual meeting, Barbara nearly drowning, chased by Blockbuster and his hired guns. "You should check it out."

Dinah thunders towards the submarine, her feet feeling too heavy, her pace too slow. "I am."