This chapter took forever.
Lost access to my Google Drive and honestly, motivation was kinda a bitch when I realised I would have to type everything again.
But... yeah, hope it still turned out okay. First draft on the Google Drive obviously was way better, a master piece really, but ... we gotta take what we can get, right?
So have fun reading, and thanks for the reviews, even the ones I deleted, cause some of y'all are nasty.
There is a surprising amount of life in Gotham during the night time; sure, the majority of stores are closed, windows are barred, doors are under lock and key, but there's light everywhere, and life that scours about.
There's seedy bars, betrayal and murder everywhere, beguiling women, begging children, thieves and mobsters; then there's me stalking through the night.
Sounds almost like something out of a pulpy noir thriller, yeah?
Aight; I'll tell ya a story and maybe, maybe you'll get what I'm seeing here.
As a teenager I used to watch political cabaret and satire, mostly because humoristic entertainment was a very limited choice between middle-aged men and women dressing up like they thought teenagers dressed up, then miming their supposed slang, the aforementioned political cabaret and satire, and the ever same repeats of blockbuster movies imported from the U.S. fucking A.
Easy choice? Not at first, I admit. I watched the shit out of every big sci-fi movie. Stargate? Watched. The series that came after? Watched, and fanboyed hard on Jack O'Neill. But eventually it grew dull, you get me? The plot became predictable, the ever successful protagonists became boring. The ever present solution of enough fucking gunpower, miliary and corporate shit got boring.
So as I got older and began to find myself growing interested in what's up in the world, and lacking access to the Internet as it began to become widespread, I turned to the TV. But the news ... the news were't what I wanted. I wanted people to explain shit to me, not just throw news at me. Explain to me the complex stuff I didn't learn in school, about why society is the way it is, why people are angry at this or that politician. You get me?
I can't quite recall how I stumbled upon it, but there was this show set in a fictional mental asylum.
See, in that asylum, there was this guy who played multiple roles on stage; three of them were frequently recurring.
The first was a bit of a disillusioned retiree, member of a socialist political party whose wife recently had died; he felt rather confused and disoriented without his job. His shtick was sounding downtrodden, sounding depressed and tired of life. He was a patient.
The second was a military officer, not all that greatly versed in practical warfare as a hog of war, as he readily admitted, but more on the commanding side, with incredible anecdotal knowledge on the people serving and the enemy, and so on. He seemed ever happy-go-lucky.
The third, however, was a Prussian pensioner, sharp as a sword, cutting deep with his harsh criticism of ongoing events, and with a keen mind for injustices, perceived or real. His infamously known favorite pastime was quoting Warren Buffet. His role was that of the spokesperson for the patients.
I'm readily admitting that these three roles shaped me a lot when I grew up. I got more cynical the more I realized that what these roles mocked and pointed out was indeed happening on a daily basis, everywhere in the world and not just in my country. Rose-tinted glasses with cracks, if you will.
The first role is permeated by defeat, criticizing primarily not just his own socialist party, but all political parties of betraying foremost the workers, but generally all people, and abandoning their causes if it only meant to rule the land in a coalition and settle for some well-paid ministerial offices, all the while lamenting his personal lot in life and how it fucking sucks, but he gotta keep going, see it through until the end (which hopefully comes soon).
The second, with flowery irony and offhandedly told sarcasm pointing out that cannon fodder is a necessity of war. I don't quite remember his words on the dot, but he pointed out that there are seldom wars fought to defend liberty these days and he was very clinically cold in his assessment of the ongoing wars and what he called disposable soft targets. He wasn't fond of the U.S.A. in general, but appreciative of their efficiency in drone warfare. Make of that what you will.
The third role, the Prussian pensioner was the most memorable of the three, because finally someone put all these little bundled up emotions and thoughts that churned in my gut into words. He was a bit of a meme, though, because at every fucking opportune moment he would bring up Warren Buffet. It was predictable, it was repetitive and ... and —
And I feel reminded of that scene here and now, of how the Prussian pensioner would go on a tangent about this or that, usually the financial system when there was a crisis or a bankrupt bank that was too big to fail AGAIN and AGAIN, and he'd pull Warren Buffet out of his arse, the people would laugh and clap, all amused and go-fucking-happy, and he'd quote him, and his words would have as much meaning at the hundredth time as it would have had the first:
"There's class warfare, all right, but it's my class, the rich class, that's making war, and we're winning."
That's how I see Gotham.
By the by, It's fuck-me AM in the morning now, still dark but the sky's gaining some color other than the blend of neon and distant, artificial lights. It's an odd sort of beauty these early hours can have. Something Ronnie James Dio sung about once or twice, if I recall correctly. Fuck cancer, by the way.
Anyway.
Imagine me looking up and sighing here, all right? Cause I honestly didn't notice it at first, but slightly above the tall skyscrapers a bunch of blimps is making rounds over the city. On their sides, large printed letters read GCDP. Occasionally one of them would spring alive, floodlights swiveling after things I could only imagine.
No idea how I missed them at first; guess it's testament to how busy my head was, or is.
See, I was tailing 'The Broker' all night, hoping that this shoddy Job would update, eventually, and I mean no disrespect to women with that, but so far Lady Fortuna seems more one of those aforementioned women offering her services, rather than a Lady.
The tailing led me 'round a merry chase through the streets of Gotham, until exactly a couple minutes ago, when Mr. Broker was driven — yes, you got that right: was driven. Fancy stick-in-the-mud has a driver — up to a walled-in property wedged between Robinson Park and an island simply called The Narrows.
The Minimap has not unlocked much of the surrounding area, only a few streets, alleys and such that I passed but it gave me enough to get a grasp on the surroundings.
I'm sure someone else who's more versed in various source materials, comics, movies, shows and whatnot, would be able to figure out in which version they're stuck in. But I don't know that stuff.
What I can tell though brings me back to what I said before, about the plight of the people, seeing as how The Narrows is basically Gotham's slum, and let me tell you, I don't like what I'm seeing here.
But if I tear my head free from the humanistic issues I encountered and am encountering tonight, it's easy to see why Mr. Broker's residing here, I suppose.
You wouldn't think of it like that, but all things considered, it's safe, surprisingly enough.
The Narrows, with the hardiest, the lowest filth on one side, most if not all of them working for the bigwigs one way or another, and on the other side, a park that, I don't know, seems ginormous. Easy to disappear in, should the need arise, yeah?
Haven't seen police presence outside of the blimps above for the most of the night, too.
He's pretty much safe from most people that'd like to do him harm, or whatever —
Yeah, he thinks. I ain't most people and Mr. Broker, fancy that, trusts into tons of surveillance tech all around his property.
There's at least a dozen of cameras, covering almost all angles, and that's just the outer walls on their own. Can't imagine the inside is any less equipped with electronics. And all of them most likely converge in a control room, manned by a team of security suits.
Dragging my eyes from the surveillance hardware to the other side of the street, I ignore the people and focus on the building itself. It's tall, the outside a mix of Dutch clinker bricks and enough dirt and fine particulate matter to tinge it into a messy dark brown, instead of the red it should be.
I walk along its length, expectation raised by movies about American buildings fueling my search and then — there! The fire escape!
Nobody bothers me as I climb the rusty, dirty metal construct until about two floors below the roof, a metal door blocks the way. Following its suggestion to PULL, I enter and find myself in a dark hallway; there's a stairwell coming up and leading to the roof, occasional light illuminating the various floors.
The door to the roof is unlocked, and that's all the invitation I need.
The roof is fenced in; slowly melting patches of snow remain, mostly everywhere but the ventilation shaft and an odd number of what I assume are climate control units. Never seen those anywhere where I used to live before. The place looks windswept, but I am not here to grow roots.
I let the door fall shut behind me as I make my way to the edge; it's a bit more windy up here, and after a quick glance around I find a better spot.
If there's gonna be anything visible from me once the sun's up, huddled in the corner, the brick wall in my back protecting me from the wind, and the ventilation shaft hiding me from view should anyone come up the fire escape, it's my damned hair. Whatever. People rarely look up, anyway.
If I wasn't sitting on a roof in the motherfucking middle of Gotham I'd be feeling super excited now, cause this is one of the most fun parts in the game: scoping my target, hacking into their system, harvesting whatever information or digital assets I can get my grubby cybernetic fingers on, or in other words, acting like a bona fide netrunner.
Somewhat comfortable with the position I sit in, I flick the mental switch and the wonders of cybernetics do their thing; a click like that of a camera shutter sounds in my head and I get to work.
First things first, like a good deckhead I begin with the good old Breach Protocol, and follow it up with Ping!
Dunno if I explained it already, my memory's a bit woozy after the past few hours, but Ping, the Quickhack basically does what you think it does. It's in the name. It pings all units connected to the same network. It's usually, after Breach Protocol the most important step you want to engage a mostly unknown target with. Let's you get a feeling for what or who you are dealing with, and helps with the next few steps.
The Breach Protocol, is a bit more complex than the previous ones, but still nothing posing any difficulties; windows open and disappear, like in the most generic [hacker scene] you possibly might find in any random TV series, movie or whatever.
Unlike previously, I do not go for the option of Big Sleep daemon this time, instead its ICEpick, a daemon that lowers the cost of using RAM by up to 3 units for the next Quickhack is flashed; I forgo the other options and then I'm in, and I swear I'm not grinning when I utter these words.
Ping! — runs and I get a dozen 'Polos' for my digital 'Marco', each springing alive a multitude of dark neon-red miniature cameras, computers, televisions and some more gizmos that somehow are connected to the network; amongst the absurd amount of surveillance and entertainment tech, a couple of wired guards pound the beat, and two more sit in front of what I reckon are screens, watching the live feed.
The amount of cameras, covering each and every angle, including a laptop and a webcam mounted to a television, from the looks of it, and the guards sure as fuck means that nobody is gonna get inside without being seen.
Luckily, I don't need to take a single step inside to get a good view.
I open the Quickhack menu and select Camera Control —
"Let's see," I mutter to myself as I activate it.
My view of the street and the building is replaced by the interior of a well-lit room. That's... a bit jarring, I admit.
My heart stumbles stumbles, and I have to force myself to breathe in and out through pursed lips in an attempt to shake off that feeling of distress as I try to remember how playing a VR game works. Can't accidentally take a step, right? Would defeat the purpose of scrambling to find my way through all of this (shit).
The breathing technique Nurse Dorothea taught me, and the focus on gaming do the trick and I finally get a good look of the inside.
The room I'm seeing is empty. A turn of my head doesn't move the camera; could mean the camera is fixed in position? Yeah, probably.
Strangely enough, while the room's empty, I can still see the neon-red 'Polos' of my digital 'Marco' linger in my line of sight, and that could just mean one thing: I can hop cameras straight, like in the game.
I proceed to do just that; I see stuffy furniture, expensive art, a kitchen that probably smells of chlorine. Nothing important, I guess, especially not the person I'm looking for.
The last camera is the interesting part, though that ain't exactly hard what with every other being a bust. The last is the laptop, which, funnily enough is taped shut. Mr. Broker clearly knows at least the gist of basic cyber-security; should have thought two steps further and disabled the mic too.
There's the distinctive sound of typing happening; occasionally it stops, something is picked up, placed down, and every now and then that something is something to drink: the sounds of slurping and swallowing are a good indicator for that.
After a few seconds I transition back to seeing the house again from my position on the roof; the connection remains, however, and I can hear everything.
Something clicks and finally I hear something of worth being spoken.
"Note: Fee negotiation with 'Stud Muffin' complete. Send Max to liberate gridlocked keys from previous owner."
He returns to typing. After a few minutes a phone rings.
"This is the Broker speaking," he says, "how may I be of service?"
I hear a second voice, quiet, but distinctively male; my Cyberware's already in the process of pulling it out of its shell and making it audible.
The chair creaks, presumably as Mr. Broker leans back, drowning out what's being spoken through the phone.
"Certainly Victor. That is no trouble at all. There are some properties as you describe that should be available."
There's some scratching of a pen on paper, which then is ripped out.
"Standard fee?" the male voice asks through the phone, voice rough and distinctively unpleasant to listen to.
"Ah, straight down to the nitty-gritty. I'm afraid time sensitive requests are slightly more expensive than my usual — "
"Money is no issue. Just need it soon, Broker. You are reliable, worked out good last time. Nobody found me until I left. Was a good place, loved the tiles. Made it easy to clean up the blood."
I can hear the Broker swallow audibly.
"That will be no problem at all, Victor. My people are already on it, oh, and thank you for the praise. About the price —"
The amount of money he's talking has me wish I could walk up to a terminal, chip in and get some of that scratch. Become a real dough boy. Wouldn't that be great?
But this isn't the time to fantasize about getting rich. It's hard to make out what exactly is happening now, but I reckon he stood up after hanging up and is moving around. Would explain the shuffling, the moving of things and how the sounds grow more distant.
There's a mumble of words; faint, but the Cyberware cranks the volume up automatically, making it audible, however distorted and noisy it sounds.
"It's just business," he mutters; a click sounds. "Note: New request for V. Looking for an abattoir, fully functional; no neighbors. Possibly old factories on west side of the river."
Click.
Silence follows, and a few minutes later soft steps, barely audible and only noticeable thanks to the visualization in my HUD return and the cranked up volume.
"Just a job, Sherman, just a job."
Fabric rustles and wood groans briefly; I recognize the sound immediately. It's familiar and comforting tone I sorely miss now that I'm still half wet, slightly freezing and tired as fuck on a roof in the middle of fucking Gotham. Then a relaxing sigh sounds.
No kidding, I'm so fucking jelly right now.
Then, over the next couple minutes the breathing evens out.
My fingers play along the rim of the brick wall; a piece of the red brick breaks off and I squeeze it between my fingers until nothing but wet powder remains. Fuck. Me. What rotten luck can I have, seriously.
I lean back, eyes on the street, ears on the even breathing —
Next thing I know, I wake with my face pressing into the leather on my forearm. There's a small patch of drool where my lips rested on, and I taste a bit of dirt and leather on my tongue. Could be worse, I guess, 'cause there's a fat load of bird shit next to where I was resting. Imagine waking up to that in your face. Right? Right?!
Got no idea for how long I've been snoozing, but dawn seems about to break and nothing eventful seems to have happened, 'cause the audio is still turned up to the max, and all I hear is steady breathing and occasional shifting of fabric.
The Broker dude's out like a light, in a comfy bed, from the sounds of it. Lucky fucking bastard.
Despite myself, and knowing it would just ruin my mood, I chance a glance at the corner where the Job tracker sits, and yeap, nothing changed. Fuck me and my impatient ass.
Suddenly I pick up noises. The sound doesn't correspond to the visualization inside my HUD, and I quickly realize its origin.
Turning away from where I'm staring, I keep myself still as I watch how the door of the roof bursts open, thundering against the brick wall it's joined with.
Headed by a big-nosed girl with dirty hair and ripped denim clothes, a group of young male teenagers, ranging from morbidly obese to anorexic awkwardly make their way through it.
Their strange movement explains itself quite quickly: I see 'em dragging a skinny boy after, kicking and pulling at where he's kept by them, fists pulling at his dirty, thin shirt. Still; there's winces and stifled curses whenever his limbs connect, which are retaliated for by quick and mean punches.
A real band of misfits, and from the looks of it, they are used to getting their way; headed for a great criminal career, no doubts about it.
Before I can decide what to do, the show keeps moving on. Ain't like a game, with cutscenes and all that, after all, where you can decide your course of actions through dialogue and whatnot. The side stories in Gotham never stop.
"Here!" spits the girl, pointing at one of the large climate control units.
The group, all eager beaver to get rid of the troublesome cargo, shouting at each other in an attempt to coordinate, manages to push the boy to where their leader pointed.
"Ach ~Jezzas!" — "Urgh" — "F-fucking b-b-b-bastard m-my b-b-alls!"
None of these is his voice, mind you.
I hear a chuckle; it's got a slight wheeze to it, and if I lean my head a bit to the side, I can catch a glimpse of the boy. He's got a slightly red, but satisfied grin on his face, but otherwise looks wound up like a rabbit, ready to spring into movement any second for a quick attempt at escape.
"Sorry Mary," the boy forces out, putting an odd emphasis on the name. "It's not going to work between us. It's not you, it's me."
I smile despite myself. Classic line.
The Mary-girl snarls, then moves in to deliver a kick. The teen clenches his teeth through he pain and then grins. "Never mind," he grunts, voice sounding like he was doing that pursed lip breathing that I did earlier. "It's clearly you, you insane bitch!"
With a harpy-like screech Mary, clearly not the virgin mother of Christ in this case, descends upon the teen again, kicking and stomping at him with unholy rage.
All right. This went on long enough.
A thought has the Inventory open, eyes flickering through the rows of items and heartbeat later I feel weight sag into my pockets.
I pull out grenades, one in each pocket and grin.
These models don't come with pins to secure, that you could pull out with your teeth in best Hollywood fashion -
My thumbs press down on the levers and I throw both at the group. Didn't really aim, but I hit by dint of luck. For lack of game mechanics in this reality, outside of my own (naturally), the girl does not suffer 2 Damage, but will probably have a slight bump on her head in a couple hours.
"What the fuck?!" is all the leader gets out as she begins to turn, then the grenades flash alive with a plastic whirring sound right out of a cheesy sci-fi b-movie.
A small-scale laser light show begins as the grenades split open and blue light beams shoot out, rotating in place and touching upon everything within about a meter or two of their proximity.
They are proximity grenades, duh.
The feedback from the grenades appears as 3D highlight visible in my HUD, but that's right down unimportant.
The crew explodes into panic, curses and shouts leaving them as they scramble toward the door they came from. Small scale assholes running small scale stampede, truly fearsome creatures.
I get up in one smooth motion and glower at the bunch cowering in the doorway. The girl is hiding by the fatso, the fatso is hiding behind the wisp of a boy, who in turn is trying to shield himself from whatever harm he's expecting to befall him.
I hope my eyes are doing their orange glow thing as I watch the kids over.
"Piss off!" I growl, voice still bit rough from resting my eyes afore.
The band of misfits looks mighty afraid now; I get a Side-Job prompt, but I ignore it in favour of keeping control of the situation. Wouldn't do giving 'em a chance to grow some balls, would it? That's how people get shanked and I don't fancy finding out how well my mods hold up to a knife attempting to get intimate with my back.
I take a step forward, eyes firmly on them.
"The fuck's your problem?!" Mary's all charm, but I don't care to explain myself.
Revealing the gun resting just underneath my clothes they finally get the idea and leave, though not without uttering a few curses and cusses at me, not that I care. The door is pulled shut with a loud crash as they leave.
"All right there?" I ask, sliding between the climate control units until I can fully see the teen, as well as the door.
He's huddled in on himself, arms thrown above his head for protection. Peeking out from between them I can see that his face is a bit bloody now, but he's breathing and conscious, based on the gimlet eyes he's observing me with.
Suddenly tires screeching is followed by what I can only guess is a car crashing into another.
A soft snort sounds in my ears and fabric moves as I hear wood groan.
Takes a second for me to realize that it's from the feed I'm still connected to.
But of course the Job hasn't — my eyes flicker briefly to the Job on the right side of my HUD despite knowing it hasn't updated — what? It's updated.
Are you fucking kidding me? How did I miss this happening?
The objective is shown as successfully completed, checkbox and green colour and all.
The green text of the Job blinks, then is replaced by a new line of text, with an odd dozen of extra objectives; odd, though, that none of them have text. A bug? Again.
[Strike a deal for information]
Okay. No use clenching my jaw until I get a headache from it. Instead I focus briefly on turning off the audio connection I still receive. Got all I could from that source, anyway; might need to check whether there isn't some port I can chip in, anyway.
The teen still sits on the roof, jeans by now soaked through, shirt looking equally damp. Unhealthy skin colour too, probably hypothermia. Gee, kid.
"Asked whether you all right," I say. "Got hit in the head?"
The teen doesn't reply right away. He stares at me instead, and so I take a few steps back. Only then does he relax, letting down his guard and sacking a little in on himself.
"Just a few scratches," he says, as though proud of the fact.
"Mhm." Suddenly have the urge to smoke; I quit fifteen years ago, though. I flick with my fingers, trying to shake the feeling of wanting to roll a cigarette between them, gesturing at him. "You are freezing."
"No shit?" He rubs at his arm; looks like he has goosebumps like 40 grit sandpaper. "You a doc, or something? Or just a smart ass?"
Cute. Can see now why Mary wanted to give him a few love taps.
"Oh? Should I bring back your girlfriend to warm you up?"
I could say I'm only helping him because of the job, but that's an excuse that rings hollow. Always did feel the urge to help people that were in shit situations, when I could. Like... I didn't donate for some far away catastrophe, or shit 'cause it got blasted over the news over and over again, telling us how fucking dramatic and blah blah blah, and there'd be a fuck-ton of other hands holding out their palms, taking off the money I'd send'em.
No, but if I saw a hobo or whoever walk around with ripped pants, or broken down shoes, and I knew I had some less worn spares at home, I'd tell'em to come pick'em up. You know? That type of stuff. I always figured I ought to help when I can, because I'd want people to help me when I need it.
Some people would probably give me heat for handing out my empathy selectively, almost sparingly like that, but I'd argue that donations aren't equal to empathy, yeah? It's up to every individual to do as much as they can, when they can. If I'm flush with cash, I donate. If I only got a fucking pair of boots to give, I'll give that.
Here it's the same. I know I can help. I should help. Especially after tonight, I want to help. Doesn't cost me anything except a few minutes of my time, and the added benefit is, it will help me get on with this shit show. One fucking step into the right direction.
The teen doesn't reply; he keeps observing me warily through between his black hair that's mopped to his forehead, as though I might jump forward and attack him any given moment for his cheek.
From the street the sound of light bulbs popping sounds. At first its a single, then a dozen and more, all in quick succession. Takes me a second to place it, but then I realize it's gunshots I'm hearing.
My eyes slip off the teen, who seems wholly unconcerned. Right; keep forgetting, but this is Gotham. It's probably super normal for a kid from the Narrows. But for me it ain't.
I walk back to the edge and get a good look for a bunch of gooks having a shootout with whoever crashed the car. Fucking idiots, shooting indiscriminately at anything that moves within the proximity of the cars.
I look up, then down the street to either side. No blimp, no police cars.
I turn around, plonk down with my back to the wall and sigh, rubbing my hand over the shaven sides of my head, dragging it down over my face.
"So you trying to rob the place?"
Looking up I find the teen standing; there's still some climate control units between us.
I blink, slowly, and not just because I'm feeling like a balloon that's been inflated past its breaking point. "What?" I ask flatly.
He shrugs. "What 'what'? Totes looks like you were scoping the place on the other side of the street out."
I shake my head, and speak before I can think better. "No! It's the opposite. I got hired to find a thief."
The boy nods, arms crossing close to his body. "There are a few professional thieves in Gotham," he agrees.
"A stupid thief," I add.
"The list just gotten longer," the boy says, sounding amused, though his teeth clatter a bit. "There's a fuck-lot of stupid criminals everywhere in the world."
I huff. "Ain't that the fucking truth."
Shaking my head, I push my hands into my pockets and pull a bunch of snack bars from them, inventory be thanked. Unpacking one, I stuff it into my mouth and offer the other one to the teen. He only takes it after I throw it upon the unit between us.
"So you're a private investigator, or something?"
I deny the accusation after taking a bite, speaking with my mouth full. "Not at all. I'm just a guy that got saddled with a fucking job he never asked to do. The guy who sent me is Powerful. Capital P. Mountain sized P."
"Then why not ask Batman or another Super for help?"
I can't quite keep the scoff out of my reply. "And add a psychotic minder to the owner that has me by the scruff? Fat chance."
The boy frowns as hew chews, but then nods in understanding. "Makes sense," he says, then he smirks, teeth stained brown from chocolate. "Want my help?"
You know what? I'll take it. Fuck this mainstory.
"Yeah, whatever kid. Might as well take any help I can get."
He scowls. "Don't call me kid! You pay me in food and stuff, deal?" He rubs his arms, universal sign of 'am fucking cold'. "Don't have much clothes, y'kno?"
I get to my feet, an idea of how to fix that issue on my mind. "Sure, whatever." I glance behind him. "Oh what's that?"
Lame? Not if it works.
As he looks away, shoulders and arms tense and ready to defend himself, I pull a hooded jacket of uncommon rarity out of my inventory and hold it in front of me, trying to keep it as far away from me as possible.
"What? There's nothing!" he says, turning back.
I smile. "There, that should keep you warm for now."
He doesn't give a verbal reaction, but the look on his face is good enough.
After a few seconds of staring at the... delicate design he angrily rips the offending object from my hand and slips it on, then pulls the hood down over his dark mop of hair. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, studiously ignoring the blinking, glittering letters printed over the front. Hehe, Cyberpunk fashion isn't for everyone, that's for sure.
"So," I say and get myself another piece of snack bar.
"So?" he asks.
After fiddling with the packaging, that for the life of me I can't seem to get to open, I just bite a piece off and spit the plastic wrapping out. Mhm, crunchy peanut butter protein bar.
"So," I repeat. "You know the city better than I do, yeah?"
He gives an affirmative.
"Then who would you put on a list for me?"
He frowns and has to stop himself from speaking immediately.
"It's a long list," he says. "So if you want me to guess, I can do that."
I hum, glancing at him. That makes sense, though a tiny bit of me can't but voice that he of course has a vested interest in making this business association last as long as possible if he wants to get paid in-kind.
"You want more information then?"
"Need, not 'want'. Narrowing down the circle of possible suspects. That's how cops do it, don't they?"
I concede the point around the mouthful of protein bar.
We stare at each other in moderate silence while I think on how much I can tell him. Trust is a rare, and valuable good in a city like Gotham, that much I know. Giving it freely to a stranger I just met isn't done, no matter how well equipped I am.
After stuffing the rest of the protein bar into my mouth, I offer him my fist.
"V," I say around the food I'm chewing on.
He stares at the seamlessy grafted cevlar parts on my fist, thinks a second, then gives it a knuckle cracking bump.
"J," he says.
Huffing a laugh, I shake my head. "Sure, let's go with abbreviations."
'J' shrugs. "Whatever man. So what's it gonna be?"
"To put it bluntly," I say, gesturing with my hand between the two of us, "I don't trust you."
He doesn't react at first, but then he smiles. "You'd be fucking stupid if you did."
"That being sa—"
"Yeah, whatever," he says, "don't care for your lifestory. Probably some poor ass sob story, anyway. Boohoo, life sucks. Get over it."
Takes some force of will not to glare at the little shit.
"Just put the list — doesn't even need to be a real damned list, just get me names and where I can find'em," I say with a sigh that turns into a full fledged yawn, eyes pressing shut and all that. Damn. "I'm on a time limit."
Walking towards the small door that leads down into the house I hear a scoff from behind me.
"Don't bother," says my new friend. "I checked. Mary's locked it when they ran. There should be a ladder down that way." He points to the right side of the door, where I indeed can make out two rusty bits of latter poke up at the side of the building.
I scoff and punch through the door. The lock offers basically no resistance to my fists, door opening easily. No problem at all.
"Ready to go?" I ask. He nods.
"'Psychotic minder'?" J says after second or two.
I grunt, but don't elaborate. Finally taking note that my Job apparently updated while I wasn't paying attention. It reads a single line again.
[Leave the building].
We're moving down the stairs, passing by doors that don't close properly or in some cases outright don't exist. The floor and walls are worn enough that I can see multiple layers of paint and material.
Honest, I didn't think it would look that bad on the inside when I stood in front of the building, but then again, I don't know what I expected from a slum.
Going further down, on one level, I can't say which, 'cause I didn't count, there's a flickering light showing a table with a kid and two elderly people, grandpa and grandma, from the looks of it.
A gallimaufry of noise turns into coherent sentences as we pass by it.
" — its breakfast time! I don't wanna eat soup again!" exclaims the kid, unhappily, shoving what I guess is a spoon at the inside of the bowl in front of him. Finally he pushes it away none too gently; liquid sloshes out.
The grandma looks like skin and bones in her worn clothes. With shaking hands she pushes it back. "Eat," she begs. "Grandpa hasn't eaten in three days. Eat please. You are a growing boy. Please?"
"Eat!" the grandpa demands, voice hoarse.
We keep moving and then they are out of sight. I feel my eyes burn, and I fucking can't.
Suddenly everything feels too much, like the events of the past day are crashing down at me at once, and I'm being swallowed up by it. There's a loud buzzing on my ears, and I feel dizzy. I feel like throwing up, like shouting, like sitting down and crying; like everything of that, and more.
I'll— I'll tell you something in very clear, concise words. I don't fucking care if you don't like to hear it, I don't fucking care if I lose track of my goal for a moment here. All right? It's on my mind right now, and I just can't. Bear with me, because getting angry sure as fuck helps with panic attacks.
It's fucking important:
To suffer hunger is a dehumanizing situation. It is the most elementary, abject misery.
You can be sick but know that there's medication, that there's a ray of hope to be seen amid the brown stain of shit that's staining your fucking present. But the kind of helplessness that is tied to hunger is dehumanizing. It gets you down to a level where you do not know how to survive, and where you will do anything to get a bite of anything, and it is a badge of shame to any society that suffers its existence; more so when there's abundant wealth to prevent it.
And let me tell you, I've passed small shops, grocery stores, and some of these very American megastores as fucking huge as this building ten times over!
And know what? There's food in fucking abundance! The stores and shelves are stocked to the fucking brim! There's so much that it's thrown away when it's got just a small blemish. There's so much food available that the not-perfect shit is thrown away at the end of every fucking day and the fucking garbage bins are locked away behind bars to stop people from dumpster diving.
And now this. I just fucking can't.
The acid reflux that I can feel burn in my guts at my tightly controlled rage is a welcome reminder that I am indeed not fully machine yet, that there's still feelings that can rouse my rage at the bullshit the world has an equal abundance of.
Fucking hell... It's like Silverhand said, back then in that scene outside of the motel, sitting on a park bank in front of that junctioned dirt road, "You still don't see it. But you will one day."
Yeah, I fucking see it.
A distorted picture caped crusader flashes before my inner eyes. It's a mix of all the versions I can somehow recall the designs of. But instead of a cowled hero, it looks like the hat man to me. That sleep-paralysis demon with its dark trench coat, high collar and huge hat, that stares at you from the dark and consumes your terror.
Filled with disgust and rage as I am, I gotta say: I don't think Batman's a hero. He's a thug, an enforcer for the Status Quo, of which his alter ego Wayne profits off, and I wish I could fucking do something bout all of this shit. But no, I'm a pathetic little low life who's too afraid to find out what happens when his timer runs out, too fucking weak, even died once already —
Fuck me.
I rub at my eyes.
This isn't leading anywhere.
I glance at my new companion and then back. He is chewing on a piece of jerky, looking wholly unbothered, except maybe for that blue eye that's developing.
Guess I'm a hypocrite on top of being a coward. Help one kid, but not these guys, and all the others whose fate isn't so in-my-face right now. I could do it, though, couldn't I? Could be the change I always wanted to be. Got the power now, don't I?
The idea of drowning that protein bar with alcohol suddenly seems very alluring, despite the reflux.
"Gotham sucks." J says, as though sensing my mood.
Glancing down at my new friend. He's staring stolidly ahead, down the stairs, still, and I find that have to correct my earlier statement. I don't hate this city, I fucking loathe it.
"Yeah," I agree., swallowing around that lump of incoherent anger for which I'm lacking words to express.
But — and I can't justify how much of an excuse it sounds — is not the right time or place. Gotta bury the hatchet with Gotham for now; there might come a time where I pull it back open and find its a battleaxe I sorely need.
Maybe when I get this Job done. Maybe.
Added 27/08/22
Been a while. I underwent an unexpected surgery, but the anesthesia together with the surgery itself fucked my right over. I'm still recovering and honestly, between the pain and minor panic attacks cause breathing is hard I just couldn't piece together more than a few words.
So, sorry to have no good news or story updates.
Hope to return to writing soon, until then.