Author's Note: Appreciate the Reviews! Keep em coming :) Always appreciate the feedback. One factor on the chakra bit, yes Kaguya was able to ensnare the world in Infinite Tsukiyomi before chakra was a huge thing in the people, but all the other rules of genjutsu used by people seemed to indicate that the victims had to have chakra. So, I'm chaking that up to Alien/Otsutsuki weirdness.

Chapter 3

"The Batman."

I raised a brow. Strange name. Fries seemed to say the name without an awareness of the absurdity of the title so I let it go. I supposed such names like Batman and Superman were common in this world even as odd as they sounded.

Victor Fries's eyes had clouded with a deep-seated animosity. "You see, Sasuke," he began, voice dripping with bitterness, "Gotham is not just a city of darkness and crime. It's a city under the stranglehold of the elite. Old-money families with names that echo through the annals of Gotham history. They control the vast majority of its wealth, exerting undue influence over every aspect of life here."

I looked on, trying to reconcile this new perspective with the snippets I had gleaned so far. "So, you're saying they rule Gotham?" My mind turned to my first C-Rank mission as a genin. This sounded entirely too much like Gato's shipping empire for my liking.

"In more ways than one," Dr. Freeze replied, the cold veneer momentarily breaking to reveal a keen look of hate in his eyes, "They sit atop their ivory towers, their coffers filled while the masses starve, suffer, and are subjugated. And as long as their empire flourishes, they couldn't care less about the plight of ordinary people."

Leaning forward, I pressed, "And where do you fit into this narrative?" I could see bits of madness in Fries's eyes. It reminded me of Obito or perhaps even Madara. Still, as deluded as my family members were, there was a hint of truth to their madness. They were both broken by the system of my world. What system had broken the man before me?

A heavy sigh escaped him, his eyes traveling to the suspended woman. "Nora," he murmured, almost to himself. "My wife. She was afflicted with a terminal illness, a rare condition. I dedicated every waking moment to finding a cure, working on a cutting-edge cryogenic procedure that held the promise of putting her in stasis until a solution could be found."

"And the elite?" I asked, sensing where this was leading.

"They could have funded my research, made all the difference," Fries spat, venom evident. "But to them, it was just another expense, a gamble they weren't willing to take. When my experiments became too costly, too unorthodox for their liking, they pulled their support. And just like that, Nora's only hope vanished."

"And Batman?"

Fries's face hardened. "The Batman, a vigilante adorned in an expensive suit, is their enforcer. He parades as a beacon of justice, but in reality, he's a protector of their status quo. The rich sleep soundly while he stalks the shadows, ensuring their dominion remains unchallenged. To them, he's a hero; to people like me, he's just another pawn in their grand game."

I mulled over this, trying to assimilate the complexities of this Gotham. "So, what do you intend to do?"

With a steely resolve, Dr. Freeze looked up. "Whatever it takes, Sasuke. Whatever it takes to save Nora, and in the process, if I can expose the rot at the heart of Gotham, then all the better."

I frowned. The madness was apparent now. Despite his cold features, underneath the sterile exterior, a man driven by obsession and madness looked back at me. I could understand it. I had been this man. I had given myself over to the madness, broken by the shinobi system and what Konoha and Itachi had done to me.

It had taken Naruto beating the shit out of me and losing my left arm to dissuade me from my madness, but who was I? I could not be the loyal shinobi Naruto wanted me to be. I was his friend, yes, but even as I traveled, seeking atonement for the innocents I had killed, I knew I could not be a loyal konoha shinobi. The shinobi system was broken and as much as I was seeking atonement I was also seeking an answer. I hadn't found it yet.

Others, like Kakashi, believed that Naruto was the answer. That Naruto was a child of prophecy foretold by the toad sages. Maybe. But Naruto's peace could only last as long as Naruto lived. One day, Naruto would die and with it the peace would be broken. It was little different from what Hashirama had done.

I shook my head. These thoughts were ultimately irrelevant as long as I was trapped in this reality. I turned my gaze back to Fries. Silence reigned between us for several long moments. I was not quite sure what to say on the topic. Fries seemed to recognize my inability to speak on the topic and merely nodded.

"For now, let us focus on other matters. Your English is getting better, but we need to work with you on reading and writing…"

Xxxxx

Inside the lavish personal quarters of the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald Cobblepot stood before a massive, ornate mirror. It was a relic, once hanging in the grand Cobblepot mansion in Gotham's elite district. Like the man himself, the mirror bore the remnants of a once-glorious past and the scars of a hard-fought present.

Laying out on his bed was his choice attire for the evening—a deep violet, almost black, three-piece tailored suit, its seams and patterns exuding a sense of ostentation that only Oswald could pull off. Beside it lay a crisp white shirt, a dark plum tie, and a pair of polished leather shoes that gleamed menacingly under the room's dim lighting.

He buttoned up the shirt with meticulous precision, each motion revealing the gold cufflinks adorned with tiny, shimmering penguins. Oswald then tied his tie with a perfect Windsor knot, every move calculated, as if preparing for battle.

As he straightened his collar, memories flooded back. He remembered the once grandeur of the Cobblepot name. They were blue-blooded aristocrats, the very definition of Gotham's high society. However, time and fortune were cruel, dragging the Cobblepots from their pedestal into the gutters of Gotham. As a child, he was mocked for his appearance, bullied for his once-affluent family's downfall, and ridiculed as 'Penguin' due to his pointed nose and peculiar waddle.

But Oswald never accepted defeat. He took that cruel nickname and made it his moniker, a symbol of his resurgence. From the alleys of Gotham, through deception, cunning, and an uncanny aptitude for understanding the underbelly of the city, he rose through the ranks of the mob. Each adversary he faced, he outsmarted. Every insult hurled at him, he turned into a weapon.

He remembered the nights he spent in the shadow of the crime lords, learning their secrets, understanding their weaknesses. And from these shadows, he emerged, establishing the Iceberg Lounge, a front for his operations but also a symbol of his power, wealth, and influence. The club, with its glitzy facade and its underlying dark operations, was a reflection of Oswald himself.

Glancing down at his tie, he adjusted the gold tie pin—a penguin encrusted with tiny diamonds. A smirk played on his lips. To the world, it was a sign of his flamboyance. To him, it was a reminder of the empire he had built from scratch.

Finally, Oswald picked up his signature umbrella. Many saw it as a quirky accessory; few knew of its concealed blade or the myriad of other hidden functionalities it possessed.

As he headed for the door, he looked back at his reflection. Oswald Cobblepot was gone. In his place stood The Penguin, a formidable force of Gotham's underworld, ready for the evening's chess game.

The large double doors creaked open, and Oswald Cobblepot's black shoes tapped with authority against the polished marble floor. The room, abundant in whispers and soft chuckles, fell into a momentary hush as all eyes instinctively found him. The atmosphere was electric, but one person in particular drew Oswald's attention.

Standing at the center, radiating an old-world charm, was Carmine Falcone. His once jet-black hair had faded to gray, the lines on his face more pronounced. Yet his eyes, sharp and calculating, had lost none of their former intensity. To most, he'd seem a relic of a bygone era, but Oswald knew better. Falcone's allure lay not just in brute strength but in the weight of his reputation.

A fleeting memory flashed before Oswald's eyes. Young and eager, Oswald remembered being an errand boy for Falcone. Those were the days when the mere mention of Falcone's name sent shivers down spines; when Fish Mooney, with her wild charisma, acted as his chief enforcer. Oswald was inconsequential then—a small pawn on a vast chessboard.

But times had changed. The Batman had brought Falcone down in a blaze of justice, leaving a power vacuum that Oswald had been all too eager to fill. With cunning and ruthlessness, he'd claimed a large portion of Falcone's territories. The icing on the cake? The death of Fish Mooney, orchestrated by Oswald himself.

Falcone was back now, though, released from prison thanks to some legal sorcery, a shadow of his former self. But Oswald wasn't naive. Shadows, in Gotham's dim alleyways, could be menacing.

"Cobblepot," Falcone's deep voice echoed, drawing Oswald from his reverie. A hint of a smile touched Falcone's lips, neither warm nor cold. "Back where it all began, isn't it?"

Oswald's eyes narrowed slightly, "Time changes many things, Carmine. But some games, they remain the same."

The older man let out a slow chuckle, "Indeed. And you've played it well. I'll give you that." There was a pause, Falcone's gaze intense, searching. "But remember, Oswald, this city has a long memory."

Meeting Falcone's gaze unflinchingly, Oswald replied, "And so do I."

For a few seconds, the room was thick with unspoken words and memories. The history between the two men was palpable, a silent testament to Gotham's ever-shifting power dynamics.

"Gentlemen, is this a party or a wake?" An amused voice broke the stalemate. Sofia Gigante, known for her beauty and ruthlessness in equal measure, gracefully wove her way between the two men, her red dress flowing and a stark contrast to the dark suits worn by most with the room. Her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes, dark and fierce, seemed to have assessed the situation in an instant.

Her gaze lingered a fraction longer on Oswald before settling on Carmine. "It's heartwarming to see such old friends catch up. Gotham's certainly missed its... history lessons."

Oswald's mouth quirked up in a sardonic smile. Sofia and he had always shared a tense relationship, marked by alliances and betrayals. "Miss Gigante. Still trying to follow in your father's footsteps?"

She tossed her hair back, feigning indifference. "It's not about footsteps, Oswald. It's about the legacy."

Carmine, watching the exchange with an amused expression, intervened. "Now, now, let's not turn this into a trip down memory lane. We're here for business." He paused, eyes darting between Sofia and Oswald. "But I must say, the two of you always had a... flair for drama."

Sofia smirked, "Only when it's warranted, Carmine. Gotham does love its theatrics, after all."

Oswald's gaze remained steady. "Let's keep our personal history out of the room, Sofia. Tonight's about the future."

Sofia inclined her head slightly, conceding. "Very well. The future, then. But remember, Oswald, futures are built on the past. And some of us have long memories."

"Hah, Oswald and I were just speaking about memories, were we not, Oswald?" Carmine chuckled in an almost sinister manner.

The Penguin tilted his head at Carmine, "Indeed. But…the future yes?"

He turned from his conversation patterns and observed the main lounge. The room, awash with the muted chatter of criminals and the clink of glasses, was a blend of anticipation and tension. Oswald adjusted his collar slightly, steeling himself for the main event. Without the need for raised volume, he intoned, "Gentlemen, ladies, if I might have your attention."

His voice, silky and certain, had a resonance that pierced the din. Conversations halted as every eye turned towards him. The various captains of industry – or rather, captains of the underworld – recognized this as the beginning of the evening's true purpose.

Oswald gestured towards the grand table in the center of the room. "Shall we begin?"

One by one, the major players of Gotham's underbelly made their way to the table. They settled into their respective seats – some with grace, others with an ostentatious show of power. Chairs were drawn out, some scraping against the wooden floor, each sound a reflection of the individuals' personalities. The stark overhead light lent an air of a council gathering, illuminating the faces of Gotham's most notorious.

As they gathered, the weight of their combined influence was palpable. This wasn't merely a collection of individuals; it was a pantheon of Gotham's shadow rulers.

Oswald began to move to the head of the table when Salvatore Maroni, with a deliberate air of casualness, slid into the chair beside him. This act, subtle to an outsider, echoed loudly within the room's tense atmosphere. Maroni was asserting himself, a clear message of where he perceived the balance of power, even as the dynamics of Gotham had shifted in his absence.

"Oswald," Sal greeted with a smirk, "Quite the setup you have here. Hard to believe you once scuttled around fetching me drinks."

Penguin gave a tight smile, refusing to rise to the bait. "Gotham has always been a city of reinvention, Sal. I merely took advantage of the opportunities presented."

Maroni's laugh, dry and brief, echoed through the chamber. "Climbing the ladder by any means necessary, I remember. But let's not dwell in the past."

"Agreed," Oswald replied, nodding. "There's far too much at stake tonight. We have business to attend to."

With everyone in place, Oswald let the silence stretch a moment longer, savoring the collective anticipation. His fingers drummed a gentle rhythm on the polished wood before he spoke. "Thank you for coming tonight. The landscape of Gotham is changing, and it's time we discuss how to navigate it." He paused, glancing around, ensuring he had everyone's attention. "Now, let's shape the future of this city."

Oswald tapped his fingers lightly on the polished table, then began, "Gentlemen, ladies. We are not here for pleasantries. We are here because of Dent's fall. The landscape has changed. But change," he paused, scanning the faces around him, "also brings opportunity."

Sofia leaned forward, her sharp gaze challenging. "Opportunity for some, disaster for others. What assurances do we have that this new landscape will be equitable?"

Maroni chuckled, "Equity? In our line of business? Now that's rich."

Ignoring Maroni's comment, Penguin continued, "Assurances will be drafted, agreements signed. But words are just parchment. Trust, real trust, that's earned."

Vicente "The Viper" Salerno, whose weathered face had seen its fair share of deals and betrayals, finally spoke. "Trust? Cobblepot, the only trust we can afford is in power. And right now, there's a vacuum."

"I'm well aware," Oswald replied, his tone icy, "which is why I've invited you all here. Not as adversaries, but potential... collaborators."

Angela "Whisper" Ricci, her presence always more subdued than her explosive counterparts, chose this moment to interject. "Collaboration means compromise. It means knowing where to push and where to pull back."

Penguin's eyes flicked to her. "Precisely. And every one of us has something to bring to this table."

Maroni leaned back, his earlier jesting demeanor replaced with one of cold calculation. "Then let's get down to brass tacks. What are the proposed divisions?"

As Maroni's voice echoed with the weight of authority, a momentary hush fell over the room. The atmospheric pressure seemed to change, but it wasn't long before it was broken by a voice heavy with history and gravitas.

Carmine Falcone cleared his throat, pulling the gaze of everyone present. "Many of the territories you speak of," he began, his tone deliberate, "were mine. Gotham's landscape has changed since my... absence. But let's not forget its history." The hint of possessiveness in his words was impossible to miss. His eyes, sharp and discerning, held a fire that belied his age.

Maroni, with a hint of steel in his voice, responded, "Times change, Carmine. And with it, the board is reset. We're here to discuss the present, not dwell on the past."

Carmine's chuckle was low, almost sinister. "Ah, Sal, always looking to the future. But some things are built on legacy. While I respect your ambition, don't mistake my willingness to negotiate as a sign of weakness."

Sofia, perhaps sensing the brewing storm, quickly chimed in, her voice a soothing balm. "We're all here for a common purpose. Let's focus on that, shall we? This isn't about past allegiances or feuds. It's about moving forward, together."

Penguin observed this with a mixture of amusement and calculation. The nuances of this power play were not lost on him. He recognized that Falcone's re-emergence was not just about territory or power but respect. And while Maroni had a point about the changing times, there was wisdom in understanding and respecting Gotham's history.

Choosing his words carefully, Oswald spoke up, "Carmine is right in one aspect. History matters. But so does the future. We need to find a balance. Now, if we're discussing divisions, let's do so with both in mind."

Maroni opened a leather-bound folder, revealing a detailed map of Gotham City, segmented into various territories—nightclubs, docks, casinos, and more. Each area was color-coded, indicating its current controller. It was a testament to the organized crime within Gotham, a mosaic of power and influence.

Falcone, leaning forward, pointed to the East Side docks, an area once under his thumb. "These were mine, and they remain vital for any imports. I expect them back."

Maroni, rolling a cigar between his fingers, smirked, "Most of the East Side has changed hands multiple times since you've been away, Carmine. But I understand your sentiment. Let's say you get the East Side docks, but in return, I want a cut of the profits, 20% for the first year."

"That's steep," Falcone replied, but there was no anger in his tone—just business.

Sofia shifted, her fingers tracing the outline of the North End, a bustling area with clubs and underground casinos. "The North End. It's thriving, and it's neutral ground now. I propose we keep it that way—a shared territory. Profits split equally among us."

"The Silent Casino. The Iceberg Lounge. Prime spots," Angela 'Whisper' Bravata noted, her voice as soft as her namesake. "Neutral ground, but individual operation. I want The Silent Casino. Oswald keeps the Iceberg obviously."

Vicente "The Viper" Salerno's gaze hovered over the Southside, particularly a few key locations. "The opium dens, the fight clubs. Those remain under my domain. No discussions there."

Penguin, tapping the table lightly with his umbrella, said, "Let's not forget the Narrows. Their loyalty can't be bought, but their information is invaluable." His words carried a clear implication: he had deep connections there.

Falcone sighed. "Fine, Sal, you get your cut from the docks. But after the first year, it's renegotiated. As for the North End, Sofia, I trust you'll manage it well. And Oswald," he paused, a faint smile touching his lips, "you always did have an ear to the ground. The Narrows are yours, but we all benefit from the intel."

Maroni leaned back, seemingly content, "So, we're in agreement? This is how we'll divide Dent's leftovers and restructure our domains?"

Penguin locked eyes with Falcone for a brief moment. Two titans of Gotham's underworld, their histories intertwined. "For now," Oswald replied. "But Gotham's ever-evolving. We should be prepared to revisit this discussion."

A murmur of agreement circulated around the table. The evening had been productive, but everyone knew that in Gotham, nothing was truly set in stone.

The heavy wooden door to Penguin's private office at the Iceberg Lounge swung open, the echo of his shoes against the marble floor breaking the room's silence. He had just returned from the meeting, a sense of satisfaction permeating him. The room exuded opulence, a testament to Oswald's triumphs and taste. Dark wood, paintings from renowned artists, a globe in the corner symbolizing his ever-expanding reach.

Without hesitation, Oswald made his way to the bar. He felt he earned this drink. The amber liquid glided effortlessly into his glass, its aroma promising a warmth that he felt he needed.

But before the whiskey could touch his lips, something on his desk caught his eye—a lone, pristine feather. The color drained from his face as he approached it, the room's temperature dropping a few degrees. The feather was no mere trinket; it bore a weight much heavier than its appearance suggested.

All thoughts of celebration evaporated. His heart raced, the reminder of a shadowy cabal that even he dared not confront directly. The soft hoot of an owl outside the window only deepened his unease.

The whiskey glass, once a vessel of celebration, became an outlet for his sudden surge of anger and fear. It crashed against the wall, shattering into a hundred pieces, echoing his fragmented thoughts. Oswald picked up the feather, its softness belying the threat it represented. They were always watching, always waiting, reminding him of the ceiling to his ambition.

He took a deep breath, attempting to regain composure. While the world saw Oswald Cobblepot as the formidable Penguin, there were shadows even he feared to tread.

Xxxxxx

The grand ballroom of the Wayne Manor was alive with the glittering elite of Gotham City, dressed in their finest attire. Chandeliers glimmered from above, casting prismatic rainbows onto polished marble floors. The soft murmur of conversations blended with the strings of a live orchestra, creating an atmosphere of opulence.

Bruce Wayne, dressed sharply in a tailored black tuxedo, mingled effortlessly among the guests. To the outside observer, he was the very image of the city's most eligible bachelor — laughing at jokes, engaging in light banter, a flute of champagne in hand. But behind those sharp, contemplative eyes, a storm of thoughts raged.

The newspapers and media outlets had been touting a significant decline in violent crime rates across the city. Indeed, the streets were safer, muggings and robberies were down, and the usual antics of Gotham's infamous rogues seemed to be at a lull. But Bruce knew better. While violent crime had decreased, white-collar crime — embezzlement, money laundering, corporate espionage — seemed to have surged.

He took a sip of his champagne, its bubbly sharpness a mere distraction from the bitter taste of suspicion. Falcone's recent release from prison was no coincidence. The man might have aged, but Bruce knew that Carmine Falcone's ambition was timeless. The former crime lord had lost much of his empire, but his influence? That was something time in prison couldn't strip away.

As Bruce's gaze traveled across the ballroom, it landed on a framed newspaper clipping from a few months prior — "Harvey Dent Murdered: City's White Knight Falls." A grim reminder of the violence that still lurked in the city's underbelly. The hunt for the boy responsible had grown cold, and while the city had moved on, Bruce hadn't.

A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. "Penny for them, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius Fox, a long-time confidant and the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, approached with a friendly smile.

"Just reflecting on the city's state, Lucius," Bruce replied, forcing a casual tone.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, "While the violent tempests might have calmed, the silent currents grow stronger. I've seen the financials; someone's playing a deep game."

Bruce nodded, "It's never truly quiet in Gotham, is it?"

Lucius chuckled, "No, and I suspect it keeps a certain someone quite busy at night."

Bruce took another sip of his champagne, the bubbles fizzing momentarily on his palate before the memories bubbled up too. Five years. It felt like an eternity since he had donned the cape and cowl for the first time, taking on the mantle of the city's silent guardian. It had been a tumultuous journey — fraught with danger, betrayals, and moments of sheer desperation. But amidst it all, there had been moments of clarity and alliances forged in trust.

One such alliance had been with Lucius. Bruce remembered the night he'd invited the latter to the Manor. Underneath the grandeur of Wayne Manor, in the echoing chambers of the Batcave, Bruce had bared his secret to Lucius. The older man's initial shock had quickly given way to a steadfast resolve. "If you're in this, Bruce," Lucius had said, "then so am I." And so, a partnership was born — Bruce with his drive and Lucius with his technological prowess.

Pulling himself from the reverie, Bruce caught sight of Councilman Reeves engaging with a small group. Politics in Gotham was as much a treacherous game as its underworld. Making his way over, Bruce greeted the politician with a firm handshake.

"Councilman Reeves," Bruce began, his tone congenial, "Always a pleasure."

Reeves, a tall man with graying hair, smiled, revealing slightly yellowed teeth. "Mr. Wayne. Your galas never cease to amaze."

Bruce nodded politely. "Thank you. I trust the city's affairs are going well?"

Reeves hesitated for just a moment, but that split second spoke volumes. "We're managing, Mr. Wayne. This city... it never stops challenging us."

Bruce's gaze sharpened. "Especially now with the rise in white-collar crime."

Reeves shifted uncomfortably. "There are always fluctuations in crime patterns. It's our job to adapt."

Bruce tilted his head, the playboy persona slipping for just a moment. "And what about the citizens? It's their job to remain vigilant, isn't it?"

Reeves cleared his throat. "Of course. Gotham's resilience is its greatest strength."

As Councilman Reeves excused himself, the rustle of silk announced another presence. Bruce didn't need to turn to recognize the all-too-familiar scent of lilac and the determined cadence of a journalist on the hunt.

"Quite the interesting chat with the councilman," said a voice tinged with curiosity.

Bruce turned to find Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette's star reporter, looking as radiant as ever in a simple yet elegant maroon dress. Her auburn hair cascaded down in waves, framing striking blue eyes that were always searching for the next headline.

"Ms. Vale," Bruce greeted with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I should've known you'd be close by whenever politics is involved."

She smirked, looping her arm through his as they strolled away from the growing crowd. "It's my job to be where the stories are, Bruce. And you, talking to Councilman Reeves? That's a story."

Bruce chuckled, "I was merely discussing the state of the city, like any concerned citizen."

Vicki raised an eyebrow, her reporter's intuition never far from the surface. "Oh, I bet. You always did have a knack for being at the center of things."

Bruce smirked, playing the part of the billionaire playboy. "What can I say? It's a gift."

She studied him for a moment, those perceptive eyes always searching, always questioning. "You really care about this city, don't you?"

Bruce's demeanor softened. "Gotham's been good to the Waynes."

The reporter looked around the lavish ballroom as if saying, "of course it has been." A subtle dig at the opulent wealth of the Waynes.

xxxxxx

In the silent depths of Gotham City Public Library, I found myself sitting at a broad desk. In front of me was a thick book titled "The History of Modern Earth," and next to it was a guide, "A Beginner's Manual to Using a Windows PC." A library-issued laptop with its screen softly glowing lay beside the books.

My fingers, which were more used to kunai and the weight of my sword, gingerly turned the pages. I often glanced at the laptop, trying to follow the manual's instructions. For someone of my skills, this shouldn't be so perplexing, but adapting to this unfamiliar world was humbling.

I wore dark sunglasses to conceal the powerful gaze of my Sharingan. Despite my efforts to blend in, I still caught curious glances from people, but thankfully most left me to my reading.

Reading about this world's history, I found striking parallels to my own world's conflicts and power struggles. A chime from the laptop disrupted my focus, alerting me about the library's WiFi. Recalling the guide's directions, I accessed the browser and searched "Gotham City news."

Suddenly, I sensed someone approaching. I turned, startling a redheaded girl. She laughed nervously, "You've got really good hearing!"

Hidden behind my sunglasses, my eyes remained inscrutable. "You just walk really loud," I replied with a hint of amusement. The girl seemed amused by this and gestured towards the computer with a curious smile gracing her features.

"Having some trouble?" she asked, her voice light.

"It's... different from what I'm used to," I admitted cautiously.

She chuckled. "You sound like you're from... Well, not around here. International student?"

I hesitated for a moment, recalling the cover story I had crafted with Dr. Fries. "Something like that. A small village in Asia. We didn't really have access to much... technology," I gestured towards the laptop.

"Ah," she said, her curiosity clearly piqued. "That must be a significant adjustment. I'm Barbara, by the way."

"Sasuke," I responded, feeling a rare tug of gratitude for the genuine offer of help.

Barbara sudden leaned in, expertly navigating the laptop's features. "Here," She began, pulling up a comprehensive site on Gotham's history and current events, "this should give you a good start on understanding Gotham."

The first event listed was "Riddler Captured (Once Again) by the Batman!" Barbara's eyes lit up at the title and she asked, "Do you know about the Batman?"

I glanced at the image accompanying the article – a shadowy figure, stark against the backdrop of the moonlit night. "I've heard... rumors."

Barbara smiled, her admiration evident. "He's something of a legend around here. The Batman is Gotham's protector, a vigilante who steps up when the police can't or won't. There are many who don't trust him, but from what I've seen, he's done a lot of good for this city."

I pondered over her words. In my own world, I'd been on both sides of that coin, both protector and rogue. "Does he work alone?"

She shrugged. "Mostly. Though, there have been times when others have been seen fighting alongside him. But details are scarce. You know, secret identities and all."

She looked into the distance, a wistful note in her voice. "He represents hope for a lot of people here. To be able to stand up against the darkness of Gotham, to face it head-on... I've always admired that."

My thoughts wandered to my own experiences, the clans, the feuds, the battles, as I returned my gaze to the article. My reverie was interrupted when Barbara poked my arm.

"You're a deep thinker, aren't you?" she smirked, "Or maybe you're just emo."

"E-mo?" The term was foreign to me, and Barbara's subsequent laughter only furthered my confusion.

"It means someone who is really depressed and angsty all the time. In a really melodramatic kind of way. But it's also something of a stereotype. Ya know, the hot guy with a dark depressing secret that all the girls swoon over but he's actually really an unhealthy person to be around."

My frown deepened as I tried to think of anyone I knew who might fit that description. Maybe Orochimaru? But Orochimaru wasn't someone many would consider attractive.

"I'm just teasing," Barbara clarified, noting my expression. I shook my head.

"It's not you. Just thinking of who I know might fit that term."

She chuckled, "Well, I have to get going. Will you be going to school?"

School. The last time I had attended one was at the Konoha Academy. Hell no. "I've already graduated."

"Oh wow! You must be something of a genius. You can't be much older than I am. How old are you?"

I was taken aback by her forwardness, but something kept me from shutting her out completely. "Seventeen. And you?"

"Just turned sixteen myself! Pity, several of my friends would have loved to meet you. They all go for the bad boy vibe."

I frowned, "I'm not…bad."

"Oh! It's another term like emo. Anyways, can I get your number?"

I handed her the phone Victor Fries had given me. She returned it after a brief moment, having added her number.

"Dang, this is an old Nokia. Been awhile since I saw one of these."

She displayed her own phone, which was indeed sleeker and without the flip element.

"Nokia's still get the basic job done, but I'd strongly recommend you grab an iPhone or Android when you get the chance."

The words were gibberish to me, but I simply nodded. After saying her goodbyes, she left, and I sighed, relieved to return to my research.

I spent the remaining couple of hours working on learning to use the computer and discovering more about the world I'd been thrust into.

The dim streetlights of Gotham City cast a faint glow over the cobblestone streets as I navigated the twisting alleys of the Narrows. The rough, unwelcoming atmosphere was palpable, and I could feel the tension in the air.

As I ventured further into the neighborhood, the pristine buildings and neat streets of Gotham's elite areas faded into rundown structures and walls covered in graffiti. The distant hum of the city - car horns, quiet chatter, and the beats of nightlife - diminished, replaced by the lonely sounds of the Narrows.

My heightened senses detected signs of life: uneven breathing, muffled cries, and the erratic beat of terrified hearts. I looked towards a shadowed alley and saw people huddled against the walls. Their clothes were tattered, their faces gaunt, and their eyes empty. It was clear they were under the grip of some powerful substance.

I paused, taking in the scene. They reminded me of Orochimaru's experiments from my world. Innocents warped for the sake of power or morbid fascination. The resemblance was deeply unsettling.

A pang of pity and fury hit me. Pity for these souls robbed of their worth and purpose, and anger at the world that pushed them into this abyss.

While my instincts told me to move on, I felt drawn to one of them, a young man with messy hair and a scruffy beard. I crouched beside him and asked softly, "Are you alright?"

His eyes, cloudy and distant, opened slowly. "Who're you?" he rasped.

"Just someone passing by," I replied, draping my cloak over him, offering a bit of warmth in the chilly night.

His eyes cleared slightly as he looked up at me. "Thanks," he whispered.

I nodded, standing up. "Stay safe," I murmured before continuing my journey.

Gotham's problems weighed heavily on me. Beneath its glamorous facade were dark corners reminiscent of my own past's shadows. I quickened my steps, eager to reach the sanctuary of Fries' hideout. But the image of those lost souls haunted my thoughts, reminding me that this world wasn't so different from mine.

I entered the dim chamber of Dr. Victor Fries, the cold instantly piercing through me. The room was lit by a massive cryogenic chamber, behind which I could see the silhouette of Fries' wife, Nora. The room's icy glow felt soothing, like a protective embrace.

Fries, in his armored suit, looked up from his work. "You're back later than usual," he noted, his voice tinged with concern and intrigue.

I hesitated, then admitted, "I saw people in the Narrows... victims of drug abuse. It disturbed me."

Dr. Fries looked pained. "Ah, the casualties of Gotham," he sighed.

"They reminded me of victims from my world," I said, my eyes on Nora's frozen form.

Fries' expression hardened. "Many here suffer similar fates, especially with Vicente the Viper at large."

"Vicente the Viper?" I echoed.

"A crime lord," Fries began, his voice dripping with disdain, "he's responsible for a large portion of the drug trade in Gotham, especially in areas like the Narrows. Those individuals you saw? They are likely victims of his trade. He peddles a potent mix called 'Glitterspike.' It's highly addictive, and those who get ensnared rarely escape its clutches."

My eyes darkened, "Why hasn't this 'Viper' been stopped?"

"Power, influence, fear," Fries gave a bitter chuckle, "The trappings of any successful crime lord. Plus, he has connections and informants in almost every level of the city. From street-level pushers to corrupt officials in City Hall."

My brows knitted together as a thought struck me, thinking back to the conversation with Barbara. "This city has its protector, the Batman. Why hasn't he stopped this 'Viper' and his drug trade?"

Fries sighed, leaning against a console. "The Batman does what he can, but Gotham's problems run deep. He's been successful in dealing with many of the rogues and maniacs, but the underlying issues persist. The drug trade, corruption, poverty — they're systemic problems. And the Batman only props up the system."

I frowned, Barbara's words ringing in my ears, "He represents hope…"

What good was hope without the power to see those hopes realized?