The storm hit Gotham like it meant to tear the city apart. Rain slammed the rooftops, thunder shaking the buildings, the kind of night when criminals crawled out like insects. The Batfamily moved through the alleys with practiced silence—until Nightwing froze, staring down at a small figure slumped against a wall.
“Uh, guys? We’ve got something.”
The girl lay in the gutter, soaked through, trembling. Her blonde hair was plastered to her skin, her clothes shredded, bruises blooming across her body. She looked half-dead, but when Tim pressed two fingers to her neck, he exhaled in relief. “Pulse. Weak but there.”
Jason scanned her. “No weapons. No implants. She looks normal.”
Damian frowned. “No normal person survives wounds like this. Something happened.”
Batman said nothing. He simply picked her up, cradling her carefully. She was too light, too cold, too perfectly still.
“Bring her home,” he ordered.
No one argued.
They named her Lilly because she didn’t remember anything—no name, no address, no past. Just flashes of running, metal, and something burning. She was quiet, polite, strangely precise in her movements. Her green eyes sometimes flickered with a faint glow, but no one noticed except Bruce, who watched her a little too closely.
Two weeks later, during a raid against Lex Luthor’s covert Gotham lab, the family moved like a single machine. Nightwing disarmed drones. Robin cut down turrets. Red Hood blasted through armored guards. Batman pushed forward through the chaos. Lilly stayed behind Tim, cautious but alert, following every movement with uncanny accuracy.
Then Lex Luthor stepped out of the smoke, wiping dust from his suit like the battle bored him. “Well. Gotham’s little heroes. I was expecting you.”
Jason raised a pistol. “Shut up and—”
Lex stopped listening. His eyes drifted past them, sharpening with recognition.
“Oh,” he breathed. “There you are.”
Lilly froze as if struck. A sound deep inside her—too soft for human ears—whirred to life. Bruce stepped in front of her instantly. “You know her?”
Lex laughed. “Know her? Batman, that isn’t a her. That’s property.”
Lilly’s eyes flickered. Green. Red. Green.
Tim stepped between them. “What did you do to her?”
Lex smirked, raised his hand toward Lilly, and said the words like they were a prayer he’d been dying to speak:
“Unit Zero. Activation phrase: Crimson Protocol.”
Lilly jerked violently, like a puppet pulled by invisible wires. Her breath hitched, then stopped entirely. Her pupils contracted to pinpoints. Her irises flooded with a violent, glowing red.
“No…” she whispered, voice cracking like static. “Please—don’t—”
Her tone cut out mid-syllable.
When she lifted her head again, her expression was empty.
“Directive acknowledged,” she said in a perfectly flat voice.
Dick stepped forward. “Lilly, listen to me—”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even breathe. She turned toward Lex with cold precision, awaiting orders like a machine rebooting.
Jason swore. “She’s a robot? She scanned human!”
Tim shook his head, terrified. “Luthor must’ve built synthetic readings—she fooled every test—”
Lex chuckled, delighted. “Of course she did. She’s my masterpiece.”
Bruce moved slowly toward her. “Lilly. Fight it. Look at me.”
Her head snapped toward him. Recognition flickered—pain, fear, something almost human—before the red swallowed it whole.
“Identity confirmed,” she said. “Target: Batman.”
Jason stepped in front of Bruce. “Like hell!”
Lilly raised her hand. Electricity crawled up her arm, gathering in her palm. Her voice was soft, robotic, merciless:
“No interference permitted.”
Bruce didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. “You are not Zero.”
Her fingers twitched. The red flickered—unstable, glitching—but then hardened again.
“Zero online,” she said.
Lilly stepped forward with lethal precision. Lex smiled like a proud parent watching his child take her first steps. Lightning split the sky. And the Batfamily braced for impact.