There were no good shifts as a police officer in Gotham. That was a fact of life that every inhabitant of the city beyond a certain age understood intuitively. Between plain old regular criminals and mobsters, the criminally insane denizens of the city that belonged to Batman's rogues' gallery, the super-powered and/or super-tech-wielding criminals that weren't all that notable or even Gotham natives that popped up once in a while, and even the occasional alien invasion, being an officer of the law in Gotham was a mostly thankless task.
It was even worse if you were an actually law-abiding officer of the law, refusing to fall into the tangled web of corruption that pervaded Gotham's legal system. Not to say other places didn't have dirty dealings, but Gotham truly was something else altogether. Everybody with a bit of money, be they celebrities, politicians, mobsters, or any combination of the three, had at least a few police officers in their pocket, and maybe even a judge or two.
The only place that could be pointed to as immediately and evidently worse than Gotham was Detroit.
(Gotham was bad, no doubt about it, but the people of Detroit must've pissed in God's cereal bowl or something in order to warrant being born in that hellish place.)
Renee Montoya was aware of this even before she had first joined the force, and she stayed aware of this through every step she took as a member of the GCPD. She had stuck to her morals while fighting her way up from the lowest rank of police officer up to her current rank as a First Grade Detective in the Organized Crime Division, something that took hard work, determination, grit, and many a sleepless night, either working on a tough case or tossing and turning while trying to push away the memories of some of the horrendous sights her profession had exposed her to.
Considering the types of people that tended to form gangs in Gotham, there were many things that Detective Renee Montoya expected to see on the stacks of files she had to parse through on a daily basis.
"...Is this a joke?"
What she didn't expect to see was a clear-cut case of self-defense falling under the authority of her department.
"These are the orders from upstairs, Detective Montoya," Arthur Rembrandt, one of Renee's peers, said before placing a hand atop the file on her desk for emphasis, "Regardless of what our personal opinions on the situation may be, the fact of the matter is that two organized armed groups engaged in a firefight within the city limits."
The woman pursed her lips and nodded at that. The situation did indeed fall under the aegis of her department, and with the status of one of the parties in the altercation, it was not abnormal for the case to get dropped into her hands.
Just another instance of the less… Morally upstanding elements in the forces' administration dropping the hot potato into the hands of the 'uppity clean-nosed cop who refuses to play ball'.
And what a hot potato it was indeed. Michael Irons, heir of the Irons Corporation, with the sort of wealth and status that easily matched that of high government officials, or even royalty of other governments, was placed under preventive arrest pending further investigation into the circumstances of the firefight he had been engaged in.
Well, it just so happened that someone forgot to give either him or his butler their customary calls before locking them up, and the arrest records got lost, meaning that the person or people behind this got away scot-free, and she, the person in charge of the case, would be the one to directly interact with him, and, consequently, bear his outrage at his treatment, as well as any possible attempts at future retaliation from his side.
"Hah…" The woman sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, "I'll just get this over and done with in one go."
She made her way to the doors of the interrogation room she'd told her subordinates to direct him to the very moment she was informed of the situation, halting with her hand on the knob and taking a fortifying breath before opening the door and striding right in.
Her composed demeanor almost wavered at the sight she was met with the moment she entered the room.
Renee knew, intellectually, that Michael Irons was big. His file did state his height to be 6'6 and his weight 250lbs after all. Still, being directly faced with a young man who, barely having turned 18, was almost as tall as her standing height while sitting down, with such a powerfully-built muscular body that she wouldn't be remiss in comparing his shoulder width with her torso length… It was a rather striking experience.
The Detective took in the young man's other features - Mediterranean-like, olive-toned skin, bright green eyes, a pleasantly smooth slope for a nose, chiseled jawline, squarish chin, and rich-looking lips with a naturally upturned corner, all of this topped with a head of glossy black hair pulled into a back-length ponytail - all in a single look, before seating herself across from him and speaking up.
"Good evening Mr. Irons. I am Detective Renee Montoya, and I am the person in charge of your case. Please allow me to extend to you an apology on behalf of the entirety of the GCPD for the lack of focus or propriety in the way your situation was handled."
"Oh," The corner of the young man's lips quirked upwards, "You mean the fact that Officer Jeffries, badge number 1024, neglected to Mirandize me and allow me my state-mandated call or any form of contact with an attorney of law before throwing me behind bars?"
The Detective had to grit her teeth in order to stem the flood of expletives she wished to direct toward her coworker. She knew who Jeffries was, an officer about as clean as a crack den's bathroom, believed to be on the take from the Carmines, the Falcones, Bane, and whoever else needed a favor from a man in a uniform, though nothing could ever be clearly proven.
'Jeffries wouldn't act in such a brazenly career-endangering manner for no reason, so why did he do it? No, better yet, who paid him to do it, and why?'
"Psychological warfare."
The woman's focus turned towards the young man when he said those words, causing the smirk on his face to grow in size even as he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back into the uncomfortable, undersized chair he was seated in with the same level of ease and grace as if it were a throne, and spoke.
"People were sent after me to either kidnap me, or accelerate my meeting with Jesus, but that plan failed, so whoever is behind the hit is trying to pressure me through their means. They're all but telling me to be afraid since their reach comes all the way into the precinct and its people.
"It's a warning for me to either give up on doing business in the city and leave, or to try and join the game already running by entering the team of one of the big boys. Some people consider anything with the slightest possibility of disrupting the flow of their business to be utterly unacceptable, never mind the fact that nobody even knows what my plans for the Gotham branch of the Corporation are."
The woman's other eyebrow rose at the nonchalance in the young man's tone.
"You seem rather relaxed for someone who's gone from participating in a firefight into being a victim of malfeasance by a police officer within the span of a few hours."
"That's because I am. The hit got thwarted, we won't get charged because the evidence points toward a clear-cut case of self-defense, and the fact that the extent of the poor treatment I suffered was not having my rights read to me or being allowed to make a call rather than a beating or shanking proves that whoever is behind all this is wary of the possible consequences of being connected to my death, so instead they're playing some rather basic mind games in an attempt at convincing me to just leave.
"The other side is acting out of fear, Detective Montoya, and I can see that as nothing other than entertainment."
Renee was about to speak up in response only for a knock to sound on the door before a blond head of hair poked inside.
"Detective Montoya, Chief Stone would like to have a word with you."
The Detective didn't allow her irritation to show, giving the young man seated across her an apologetic look before following her coworker out of the room.
-POV: Michael Irons-
I could barely suppress my laughter at the sight of the Chief of Police, Matthew Stone, wiping copious amounts of sweat off of his forehead and trying his best not to shit himself while my lawyer, Julius Rosenblat, tore him a new one over the multiple infractions committed against my person.
Officer Jeffries was behind the overweight Chief of Police, his face as pale as if he had seen a ghost, while Detective Montoya stood a few feet away from him, her posture conveying a certain degree of satisfaction.
"You've been looking at Detective Montoya a good bit, sir. Should I expect to find her sneaking out of your bedroom window by next week?"
I turned a mildly amused gaze towards Alexander, before shaking my head.
"As much as the mental image may be appealing, I'm afraid Detective Montoya and I aren't well-acquainted enough to jump straight to doing the horizontal mambo. I'm just admiring her almost-platonically, Alexander. I think that among the GCPD, other than Commissioner Gordon, Detective Montoya is one of the few people with a strong enough set of morals to not get drawn into the whirlpool of corruption of this city." I stopped, before mumbling under my breath, "Maybe Detective Bullock as well, but his past is a bit checkered, so Montoya is my best bet."
"Sir?"
"Just thinking out loud, but that's not important. What's important is that as amusing as the sight of the Chief getting dressed down is, we still have places to be."
"Of course sir."
Alexander sketched a figure-perfect bow, drawing the eyes of more than an officer around us as his recently reattached holster came into view, something he for sure did on purpose since his ability to keep his weapons hidden is second only to his ability to brew good coffee, before making his way to Julius and saying a few words. The lawyer nodded at Alexander and traded a few words with him, shooting off one last scathing remark at the Police Chief before making his way into one of our company cars, which peeled off the parking lot shortly after.
I turned my focus away from Alexander to something floating in the upper left corner of my field of view.
KARMA SYSTEM Ver1.112
REGISTERING KARMIC CHANGES
ESTIMATING LONG-TERM REPERCUSSIONS
CALCULATING POINT GAIN
+2 KARMA POINT EARNED
+2 SKILL POINTS EARNED
I knew that coming to Gotham was a good choice. Less than 24 hours spent in the city, and I'd already earned 3 Karma points and 2 Skill points, all of this from one interaction with Batman, and one with not-quite-yet-Question Renee, since Vic Sage was still up and running.
Also, note to self: Convince Vic Sage to get checked out.
'Upgrade Menu'
The words on my screen faded away before new ones materialized into view.
SKILLS:
ATHLETICS - RANK 1
FIREARMS - RANK 5
MARTIAL ARTS - RANK 2
SEDUCTION - RANK 5
RIDING - RANK 1
TECHNOLOGY - RANK 3
HACKING - RANK 3
AVAILABLE SKILL POINTS - 7
The system I was saddled with was rather… Peculiar. Usually, gamer systems give the user a panel full of numerical values for every aspect of their life, from their physical health to their stamina, and their abilities, all of which can be raised through either grinding stats out the hard way, or investing stat points earned via quests, level ups, items, and so on and so forth.
Mine didn't do any of that.
As the name suggested, my system was based upon the concept of Karma.
In a general sense, Karma was the belief that thoughts and deeds performed by an individual would ultimately play boomerang, with good deeds resulting in good swinging back around, and bad deeds resulting in having a bad time.
My system worked with something along those lines, but without judging every single act I performed for the whole duration of my life, and without such a clear-cut division between the consequences of good and evil.
The Karma System had 2 primary aspects to it, them being Karma and Skills, each of them possessing a type of points to use with, which possessed specific criteria to unlock.
Karma points were earned through performing actions that resulted in impactful long-term consequences, with the number of points generated increasing based upon just how impactful the system estimated the consequences of the actions to be.
They came in two varieties, each of them with its specific earning method, and utility.
Actions with positive and constructive long-term consequences generated Blue Karma, whereas actions with negative or destructive long-term consequences generated Red Karma.
Blue Karma could be used to create serendipity, pretty much influencing the events in the world around me through the creation and manipulation of coincidences in order to generate a universally positive and helpful result for me, with the scale of the serendipity being determined by the amount of Blue Karma points spent.
Red Karma could be used to cause targeted harm. Expending Red Karma affected the world, altering the flow of events and stacking coincidences with the end result being to harm whatever or whoever I was targeting. Usage of sufficient Red Karma points allowed me to guarantee harm would fall upon my target, but it would not necessarily guarantee a safe or positive result for me. Red Karma is much more chaotic than Blue Karma, and the use of it came at the risk of creating great chaos and destruction in the process of inflicting the desired harm upon the target. The consequences of Red Karma are, in one word, chaotic.
Skills, on the other hand, are abilities that can be unlocked by achieving significant deeds through the employment of specific methods. If I managed, for example, to convince the Joker to stop killing people through dialogue, I could possibly unlock a Charisma or Charm skill, which I could then acquire through skill points, which are earned by enacting change upon the world around me using Skills I have already unlocked, even if I haven't yet purchased them.
According to the system, all skills are ranked from 1 to 10, with each rank applying a different modifier to a skill's floor, or minimum possible output.
Rank 1 is a potential modifier, which only increases my innate potential at whichever skill I buy this rank for and multiplies the speed at which I develop said skill. Rather than altering my moment-to-moment performance, Rank 1 is more akin to a skill-specific EXP modifier, allowing me to grow much faster than I naturally ever would.
Rank 2 is the Average rank, maintaining the effect of Rank 1 while raising my skill floor. As long as force majeure doesn't stop me from doing something, I will always perform the task at the level of the average trained person.
I could have a cold, fever, conjunctivitis, a hangover, drug withdrawal, and the shakes all at the same time, but with a firearms skill at rank 2, as long as I can physically hold and shoot a gun, as well as see the target, then my performance will always be akin to that of the average trained shooter.
Rank 3 is the Exceptional rank, which raises the Skill floor once again, this time to the level of an exceptionally performing individual within the field. With a Rank 3 Basketball skill on its own, for example, I might not have trained enough to become NBA-level material, but even without the training and development, it's extremely unlikely for even collegiate-level basketball players to be able to stop me.
Rank 4 is the Elite Rank, with the skill floor raised to the level of an Elite Athlete. With a Rank 4 Athletics skill, I can easily make it into the Olympics, even if my performance would put me somewhere around the middle of the pack there. That would still make my constant, average performance much better than that of the overwhelming majority of the population.
Rank 5, the Olympic rank, raises the Skill Floor to the level of an Olympic champion. Every display of the relevant skill will be performed with the relative skill level of an Olympic champion. An Olympic champion's best performance is the average level at which I can perform. The Olympic rank is pretty much the peak of human performance and the level at which people like Batman, Lady Shiva, and Richard Dragon are without the use of totems, artifacts, or any other power multipliers.
Rank 6 is the Superhuman rank, with the Skill Floor raised beyond all biological human limits. Running, jumping, punching, thinking, or any other relevant skill is automatically pushed beyond what is humanly achievable within the standards of this universe for all acts related to the skill at this rank.
Rank 7 is the supernatural rank, where the limits of humanity have already long been left behind. Rank 7 in skill would give me a limited ability to bend the rules of nature itself when performing an act related to said skill, though with the possibility of backlash depending on how far I tried to take it.
Rank 8 is the Demi-God rank, and it pretty much constitutes a sort of contact with the existential realm of divinity. Rank 8 would grant greater ease at bending the universal rules as well as the ability to outright break them as long as it fell within the scope of the relevant skill. Breaking the rules of reality could come at a great cost to my well-being and integrity, though, and could attract the attention of things that are often better left alone.
Rank 9 would be the Divine rank. The mandates that compose the universe would be more suggestions than hard-set rules, and I would gain near-conceptual levels of command over whatever fell under the purview of whichever skill I had at this rank. Resistance from an equally powered being could impair my control, and intervention from someone higher in the food chain could possibly disrupt or outright disable it.
Rank 10, or the Heroic rank, is the last and most powerful one afforded to me by the system, It is pretty much will turned into reality, but to the degree that even the most powerful of the green, white, or whichever other lantern corps would pale in comparison to. A single thought or desire would be enough to create, destroy or change anything related to whichever skill I had at that rank. Universal limitations would be completely irrelevant, as I'd be controlling not the rules of just a universe, but of existence itself. As long as something fell under the purview of my skill at this level, then it would be mine to control at a conceptual level, surpassed by none, unmatched by any other than the Source.
Of course, whichever being or entity sent me on the other world express wouldn't allow me to just walk into the DC universe and smack my cock all over everything or everyone, so aside from the esoteric and mostly unpredictable method of gaining points, I also had to deal with the cost per rank.
While buying a Rank 1 skill costs a single skill point, every rank increase would incur double the cost of the previous one.
Buying a Rank 2 Skill would cost 2 points, whereas Buying a Rank 3 skill would cost 4 Skill Points, with the value doubling up until I had to spend a whopping 512 skill points to go from a Rank 9 skill to a Rank 10.
If the exponential rise in cost wasn't eye-watering enough on its own, when combined with the unlocking criteria for new skills, the sporadic and unpredictable way of earning skill points, and the fact that each skill, even when maxed, had a limited scope, whereas some motherfuckers in this side of existence had the equivalent of all 9's or all 10's to every stat or skill they possessed, it was enough to make a grown man cry.
Every skill point I earned had me lying awake at night in my bed, trying to decide whether it was worth it to just spend the points upping all of my lower-ranked skills until they were all as close to the highest valued ones as possible, whether I should keep stacking up points and ranking up my skills one at a time, or if I should hold onto a handful at a time for the possible eventuality that I unlocked a new skill that could be extremely useful to me and I wanted to immediately get it to at least Rank 1, if not higher.
I gave my Firearms skill a longing look before sighing in resignation and minimizing the interface with a mental command, before climbing into the back seat of an armored jeep alongside Alexander, which peeled off from the Police Station's parking lot at such speed that that the rubber tires left tracks on the concrete.
-POV: THIRD PERSON-
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A balding, overweight, 5'8 Italian man in a red tracksuit could be seen inside a boxing gym, his fists wrapped in tape as he hit a boxing bag hard enough for the chains suspending it from the ceiling to rattle heavily.
He laid one last good left hook into the bag before sitting down, taking his time to slowly unwrap the bandages from his fists, before walking up to the bag and pulling down on the zipper on its side, allowing a bruised, beaten, and thoroughly bloody man to flop out its side like a dead fish, his body falling prone on the ground belly down and with only the faint tremors from his limbs and the tiny and very shallow rise and fall of his shoulders marking him as still alive.
"You know how the business goes, Jimmy," The man in the suit spoke to the mostly insensate grounded man while checking his fists in a very much practiced motion, "When you take a Loan from the Falcone family, you are expected to pay in a timely fashion. This time it was a wee beating, next time it could cost you a kidney.
"I don't want to have to take your kidney, Jimmy, I think you ain't bad people, but if it's what I have to do in the end, then you might as well tell me right here and right now so I could waste less of my time in the future."
"..."
"Mhm?" The man in the tracksuit, feeling that he'd heard something, leaned close to the downed man, "What you say, Jimmy?"
"Have… Money… Next… Week… Please… Believe… Me… Vigo…"
Vigo, the man in the red tracksuit, knelt in place for a moment as his mind processes the information it was just given, before giving the downed man a shallow nod.
"I want to believe you, Jimmy, so I'll see what I can do to push your due date to next week. But remember, you need to hurry up!"
The downed man groaned something unintelligible in response, prompting the tracksuit man to make his way out of the boxing gym and into his car. Right after he started the car and was about to peel out, his phone rang.
BRRRRRRRRRING! BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRING!
"This is Vigo," He said as soon as he answered, "Who are you, and what the hell you tryin' ta talk about?"
Vigo went silent as a voice on the other side of the phone spoke for a good while before hanging up, prompting him to sneer in disdain while thinking aloud.
"Survived the Falcone's welcoming party? Good with guns? How many people were just like this? Lots. Where are they now? Dead as a nail. And you'll be next, Michael Irons."
-Chapter, End-
<< Index >>
Michael Irons-
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I assaulted my specially built heavy bag as if it owed me drug money, fist after fist slamming on the spots where the average human would have their liver, kidneys, solar plexus, and floating ribs. The thick, heavy-duty chains keeping the bag afloat jingled heavily after each hit, screaming their resistance against the destructive power behind each and every single one of my blows.
Turns out that mixing a Rank 1 Athletics and Rank 2 Martial Arts talent with many years of training results in you needing specially-made training gear, since regular bags burst under your power.
A teep pushed the bag back, allowing me to shift my stance up and hit the falling bag with a right straight, the power behind it causing the bag to slam against the ceiling before gravity asserted itself upon it once more.
I let out a sigh, accepting the towel and water jug offered to me by Alexander, and using one hand to wipe the sweat off of my bare chest while guzzling down a gallon of water in one go.
"Sir," I turned towards my butler, who held a phone out for me, "Call for you from Master Irons."
I took the phone from Alexander, accepting the call-
"MICHAEL I JUST GOT THE NEWS ARE YOU ALRIGHT SON-"
Only to pull the phone away from my ear with a grimace as my dad exploded in concern. I let him go on for a while before putting the call on speaker and interrupting him.
"I'm just fine, dad. Alexander was with me in the car."
"I know that, but still…"
"I know you're just watching out for me, but you're talking to me right now, aren't you? I'm fine, so you can just relax, dad."
"I…" He sighed, "I guess. Anyways, how's your stay there been so far, other than the first day?"
"It's been alright. Headquarters are getting set up and I can already hear the murmurs of the city. They're all curious about what it is that I'll try to sell them."
"...Are you sure about your plan, though? You don't have to-"
"Dad. This city is rotten. Corrupt. Moreso than even places like New York and Chicago, the criminals and the politicians are in bed with each other. There's not even that thin, abstract layer of separation they usually maintain for purposes of plausible deniability, since nothing will change even with all things known.
"For God's sake, the Falcones never miss a Sunday brunch with the Mayor! They need help."
"You don't need to be the one to do it, son. Fixing a city like that isn't something one man can do, even an exceptional man."
"I know, that's why I brought Alexander with me."
"Haha, can't disagree with you there…"
"Your faith in me is appreciated," The butler spoke up in his customary dry tone, "Sir, Master."
"Anyways," I finished wiping my torso, and put down the empty water jug, "I still have a workout to finish dad, so I'll have to get back to you later."
"Alright, Kiddo. Try not to give Alexander too much trouble."
"Doubtful Master, as Sir was giving a lady detective that look."
I pouted at Alexander, while my dad chuckled before speaking.
"I do remember Julius telling me about your request to keep an eye on the movements of one miss Renee Montoya. A bit old for you, though, no?"
I had to roll my eyes at that.
"First of all, I don't harbor those intentions for detective Montoya. Yet. Second of all, you know that I have a wide striking range."
"Indeed, Master," Alexander interjected, "I do remember having caught one miss Janice trying to sneak out of your bedroom window in the morning."
"I remember that day!" I could all but hear the laughter in dad's voice, "Alexander invited her to join us for breakfast."
"Heh," I couldn't hold back a snicker, "She was blushing so hard I was afraid her face was going to catch fire. How has Janice been doing these days, anyway?"
"She's been doing well. She seems happier now that she broke up with her boyfriend than when she was with him." He paused, "I still think the two of you should've stayed together. I bet the reason she can't stay with anyone for more than a month is that she keeps comparing them to you."
"I tried to make a relationship with her work, but…" I shrugged, "She said we were heading in different directions."
"An unfortunate occurrence," Alexander spoke, "Lady Eleni thought highly of miss Janice."
An air of melancholy fell after Alexander's words before dad cleared his throat.
"Anyways, I'm sure you have much to do, and my schedule is a bit hectic right now too, so I have to go. Love you, Kiddo."
"...Love you too, dad. Stay safe."
"I will."
BEEP!
I handed the phone back to Alexander before setting my towel aside, my teeth gritted as I gripped a pair of thick, heavy industrial chains and started doing rope waves.
"Sir, you know that Lady Eleni-"
"Wouldn't want me to wallow in misery every time her name was mentioned?"
"...Well that too, but what I intended to say was that Lady Eleni would be very proud of you, sir."
I slowed down on the waves, before clenching my hands as tightly as possible around the chains and going even faster than before, allowing the growing burn in my muscles to consume the nasty feelings burning in my chest at the mention of mom.
-POV: Third Person-
"Ay, Vigo!"
"Lorenzo! How's ya' sister?"
"Fuck outta here," Lorenzo, a 5'11 middle-aged man with a full beard and head of hair shoved Vigo's shoulder, "How's it goin', man?"
"Same ol', same ol'."
"The business, still going strong?"
"Eh… It has its days, but we keep going. La Famiglia will stay strong, as it always does."
"Good, Good. Streets used ta be clean when Mr. Falcone ran things, but nowadays there's all these super-freaks makin' a big mess outta things." Lorenzo sighed, "Wish things went back ta the good ol' days. Anyways, heard that Sofia is runnin' things now?"
"Yeah. Ever since boss Carmine, may God have his soul, passed away, Sofia started runnin' the show."
"She as good a leader as her da'?"
"Considerin' the fact tha' we still alive and kickin' despite the fact that the bat and the other costumed freaks running around tryin' to mess up our business? Maybe even better. The only thing I can say boss Carmine was lackin' in was his ability ta adapt ta this new… Gotham.
"The Boss Lady tho', she knows how ta play the game in this new world."
"Very well." Lorenzo sat back down behind his desk before pulling out a notebook and pencil from underneath it, "So, what'll you be gettin' today?"
"I'd like three bulldogs, thoroughbred. And a dozen parakeets."
"I see." Lorenzo scribbled down something, before looking back up to Vigo, "What type of feed you want for them?"
"Three bags a' anythin' suited fer dogs 12 months an' older, an' six bags a' bird feed for the parakeets, no specific flavor."
"Very well," He scribbled down a few more things on the piece of paper, before tearing it off and holding it out to Vigo, "Pick the stuff up at the usual place an' get the money to Giancarlo by the 14th an' we all good."
Vigo took the paper with a nod, before turning around to leave.
"Hey Vigo."
Vigo stopped with his hand on the doorknob before turning back towards Lorenzo.
"I don't usually ask, but… What's all tha' menagerie for? No need ta answer if ya don' want ta, of course."
"...Someone just moved into tha' city an' I thought it would be a nice thing ta do ta give him a bit of a pet party. Ya know, let him really appreciate the barks of tha' dogs and tha' tweetin' o' tha' birds."
"I see. Make sure ta take a bag ta' clean up after tha' droppins'. Don' want their breed bein' found out later, do we?"
"No sir, we do not."
The two traded nods one last time before Vigo finally left the 'Pet store'.
"I shall hazard a guess and say that you will not be acquainting yourself with your bed today, master Bruce?"
Bruce barely took a moment to look away from the Batcomputer to face Alfred, before turning back towards the screen.
"Is this about that Irons young man?"
Bruce's fingers stopped mid-keystroke.
"He killed people, Alfred. Almost a dozen."
"I do believe he happened to be besieged on all sides by a host of armed individuals bent on causing him grievous harm at the very least, master Bruce."
"There was no hesitation or remorse from him, even after the last three were taken in. He was far too calm about it as if shooting and killing people was… As if it was just doing groceries or something mundane like that."
"Would you feel more comfortable had he hesitated and possibly gotten hurt instead, master Bruce? Or would it have been better if he had left all the shooting to his aide, who shot down half of the almost a dozen you claim he did?"
Bruce went back to silently tapping the keys of the bat computer, prompting Alfred to walk up next to him in order to see what information his ward was perusing. After reading for a few moments, the butler sighed softly.
"It seems to me as if this isn't about young Mr. Irons, Master Bruce, but about you."
"..."
"Not all people deal with the traumatic loss of their parents by dressing up in a leather onesie and punching the mentally ill, Master Bruce. Some simply go to therapy."
"...How can he kill someone so easily after what he experienced, Alfred? I just fail to understand."
"Perhaps that is something you might have learned had you chosen therapy rather than a trip to the mountains for ninja training, sir. Now, will you be heading upstairs to eat, or shall I bring your food down to eat here?"
"...I'll be up in a minute, Alfred."
"Very well, Master Bruce."
The butler sketched a slight bow to his charge before making his way back to the Batcave's elevator, leaving the bat-clad man alone.
Feeling something niggling at the back of his neck, Bruce pulled the cowl back over his eyes before making his way out of the cave for another night of spreading justice to the streets of Gotham.
Lamarr Odell was a man with many demons.
He had, at one time, been at the top of the world. Star athlete at Gotham East High, having made Junior Varsity at the football team as a freshman and becoming a first stringer as a sophomore. His grades weren't particularly excellent, but they weren't atrocious either, usually averaging out at C's with the occasional B's on a good day.
All of that changed with a single knee injury. The moment the doctor told him he'd never be able to play again, everything started going downhill. His teammates, his friends, his popularity, his college offers, his promises of getting his family out of Gotham and to a better place… All gone, turned to dust.
All that was left was a bitter young man with a lot of rage inside of him, and no real knowledge of how to deal with it.
A run-in with a second-string player from a rival high school turned a frustrated young man into someone with a criminal record. The attempted murder charges didn't stick, but the aggravated assault one wasn't something he managed to avoid getting permanently attached to his name. That meant that his already slim future prospects dried up further.
Looking into a way to get his family out of their neighborhood and into a better life, Lamarr had done exactly what he'd been advised against by every responsible adult throughout the entirety of his life and started running 'with a rough crowd'.
He started things out by getting a baggy of weed or two into the hands of his classmates before the boss eventually saw some potential in him and put him doing business with the 'grown ups'.
He kept going up the ranks by virtue of being capable of avoiding both prison and a box until he eventually became the head of the group through sheer seniority.
He was eventually read into the fact that he was apparently a branch of the Falcone tree, and the abundance of drugs, guns, and stash houses started making sense. In a twist that he couldn't have expected, the boss had transferred him over from the sales side of things to the Waste Management branch of the business.
It was for that reason that he was currently in a cell pending trial for the attempted murder of one Michael Irons, and the successful murder of his various bodyguards.
"Lamarr Odell."
The now grown man jumped in surprise when, in the middle of the night and in his otherwise empty cell, someone called out to him by name.
He had already been expecting the family to send someone do him in, be it under the pretext of cleaning up loose ends, or as punishment for failing in his task, so he had already made his peace with the fact that he could get whacked at any time.
This peace of his didn't change the fact that his heart started beating 10 miles a second the very second the cowl-and-cape-wearing visage of the bat of Gotham city came into his field of view.
He didn't even have the time to say anything before a hand curled around his collar, suspending him off the air with a level of strength that no normal man should ever have.
"Talk."
"W-what?"
The response to his question was for the bat to turn him around and slam him against the cell door before wrenching his arm behind his back in such a painful way that he couldn't really suppress a scream of pain.
Lamarr was still cognizant enough to notice a few of his neighboring inmates turn their focus towards his cell, only for their eyes to widen the moment they fell on the bat before they all turned back over and 'went to sleep'.
"You tried to kill Michael Irons. Why."
Cold sweat beaded on Lamarr's face. He didn't know how, but the hold Batman had him in was somehow more painful than any stab wound, gunshot, or even his torn ACL. That was small potatoes compared to the way adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream from the sheer fact that he was in the presence of the caped crusader.
Batman's reputation in the criminal underworld was a mythic thing that one would think belonged to some sort of medieval epic. The hardest people he knew in the business only ever dared to talk about him in low whispers behind closed doors, complaining about him and making the sort of impotent threats that they'd never dare to publically spout out for fear of the Bat's omnipresent ears.
The only people who weren't scared shitless of the bat in the business were the loonies along the lines of the Joker, Two-Face, and such, and even those fuckers, the type to see nothing as going too far and hold nothing as sacred, respected him.
Hell, the Joker was said to shoot any of his henchmen who dared to speak ill of Batman in his presence!
What sort of existence did he have to be for even the physical embodiment of the city's fucked-in-the-headedness to do something like that?
Some people, like Bane, said the bat was only a man, but didn't the bat always beat him in the end? Between the two mask-wearing individuals, which one was behind bars, and which one was still free in the streets? Which one of them was the criminal and which one of them was the hero, despite the fact that both of them broke the law?
So it was not a surprise that Lamarr spilled his guts. And if anyone asked anything to the neighboring criminals about why Lamarr had bar-shaped bruises on his face and a sprained arm?
The answer they would get would be "I didn't hear nothing. I was asleep."
-POV: Michael Irons-
Any reasonable, thoughtful person could say that someone in my position shouldn't be out and about on the streets, especially considering the fact that he had just recently been at the short end of what might've been either a kidnapping or murder attempt.
I was not someone the average person would consider reasonable.
My dad's dad started his life as the average poor person in the great depression, and even after stacking the bills he never lost his sense of belonging to the local community. Whereas others in his position would've bought a big, empty plot far away from town to build a big mansion in, or moved to the big city to live in one of their skyscrapers, my grandpa just improved the house he had grown up in and kept living in his neighborhood, still being close to all of the friends and neighbors he was before the wealth.
My dad was raised in that sort of environment, as a rather salt-of-the-earth person who knew and was friends with those around him, regardless of the difference in the numbers in their bank accounts. Of course, our house eventually got bigger and better, a consequence of my dad buying out the people who decided to leave the town for the big city life they saw in tv and film - well above market price too, mind you - but to our small town my dad wasn't 'Anthony Irons, head of Irons Incorporated', but that little scamp Tony, who liked to climb the trees on Mr. Lewis' property, and was occasionally caught kissing the neighborhood girls.
The majority of my childhood was spent that way as well. I was able to just go out and be a kid, and do kid things with my kid friends. I went out to the store, to play, to school, and to do everything else that regular kids did, all without a drop of pomp and circumstance. To be fair, most of it was probably the influence of my adult mind helping keep me grounded despite the circumstances, but even without me around I'm sure Michael Admetos Irons would've turned out to be a lovely person.
Of course, the safety standards dad and I lived under changed after… The incident… But that freedom to move around and just be a regular dude was something that I was missing and could fulfill now that I was outside of my dad's immediate circle of control.
Alexander is probably tailing me from the shadows, but I'm sure he'll allow me this experience of normalcy and independence and won't step in unless I stumble into something way over my head.
The first thing I did with my newly-recovered independence was to make a trip to the grocery store. Quite a few people stared at me as I shopped around, and even when I reached the checkout counter, people will do that when you're a 6'6 behemoth capable of competing in Mr. Olympia and actually securing a win.
I strolled out of the grocery store with a bag in hand and a pep in my step, before deciding to try and see more of the city I am now living in.
The results were mostly what I expected them to be.
A lot of old, dilapidated houses, trash on the streets and corners, homeless people, and a bunch of drug dealers and hookers selling their products just a dozen steps away from a squad car.
Heck, one of the streetwalkers was leaning into a squad car through the window. I saw one of the cops pass her a few bills before she climbed into the back of the squad car, which drove off right afterward.
It was with a shake of the head that I turned around and started making my way back to headquarters, only for a guy wearing a black face mask and hoodie to step in my way.
"I think you should empty your pockets, big guy."
I looked at him, before looking all around me, then turning back to him and pointing a finger at myself.
That seemed to annoy him since he reacted by reaching into his jacket and pulling out a crude shank.
I looked down at the sharp weapon and then back up at him before raising an unimpressed brow.
I could almost feel his anger rolling off of him at my dismissive treatment, and I'm 100% sure that if this were an anime world he'd have one of those red things pulsing on his forehead the name of which I never learned but just thought to be meant to represent a throbbing vein.
He opened his mouth again, but whatever he meant to say turned into wide-eyed silence at the sight of my oversized revolver suddenly trained on his chest.
"Did you know that in Texas, there are 21 guns for every 1000 people? And that statistic only pertains to registered guns. In my hometown, every single household had at least two guns, and kids were initiated into gun use starting at age 10. Despite that, the crime rate of my city was nowhere near that of Gotham.
"Part of it is due to the smaller population size, and the sense of community we had, but there is a different line of thought that I believe helps solidify that general sense of civility people held towards each other, even the ones who disliked, or outright hated the others."
I shifted my Taurus a tiny bit, drawing the would-be mugger's eye to it, and got a nervous gulp out of him when I slowly pulled back the hammer and left it cocked.
"There's a saying that goes 'An armed society is a polite society'. That means that in a society where anyone could be packing heat, people would be much less willing to act in an aggressive, abusive, or criminal manner towards others since they never know if their acts could result in them getting lit up.
"Of course, I'm not suggesting this type of lifestyle in Gotham. Considering the fact that people living here have a tendency to turn rotten or nuts, putting guns in people's hands would not be a very good idea in the long term, even if it could possibly fix things short term. Well, that or just instantly turn you guys into Detroit 2.0.
"Anyways, this little diatribe of mine was just me trying to figure out how long it took for you to piss yourself, and I congratulate you on keeping a dry set of underpants for this long. Now, I'd appreciate it if you threw away your knife, walked up to that wall over there, and put your hands on it while I call the police."
The guy didn't hesitate to toss away his weapon and walk up to the wall, probably afraid of being shot by the crazy Texas guy pointing a fuck-off sized gun his way. I didn't have the time to do more than pull out my phone before a dark shadow alighted right next to me.
I blinked before taking in the visage of Batman, who was staring at the gun in my hand with what I knew to be more than just a bit of animosity, before looking at the criminal who had finally lost his battle with his bladder at the sight of the caped crusader, and then back at me.
"You didn't shoot him. Why?"
"Didn't need to," I shrugged, "He brought a knife to a gunfight, and he's not one of the people who can make that sort of thing work. Plus, he complied. If he tried to pull anything funny I would've lit him up like a mall Christmas Tree in late November."
The bat glared at me at those words, but I just put on my best 'Aww shucks' smile while stowing away my gun.
"Welp, with justice administered for the night, I'll be heading on home."
I had barely taken a couple of steps before he spoke.
"Don't walk around alone again."
I turned back towards him, noticing the fact that he had already cuffed the would-be mugger in the short time I had turned my back on them, before responding.
"What do you mean?"
"The attack on your convoy? It was an operation by the Falcone family. They're already barely staying afloat in this city, and they're afraid that your wealth will be enough to take their politician friends out of their pockets and into yours."
"...Well that's a stupid fucking fear since I don't plan on buying out politicians and stuff to do my business."
"Whether you'll do it or not is irrelevant to them. The fact that you could do it is enough. They will keep targeting you. Don't make it easy for them."
"Hehe…" I couldn't hold back the malicious chuckle that sprung up from my throat at those words, "Let them come. If they really think I'm a soft target, I'll just have to make them into more… Open-minded people."
I could all but feel the judgemental batglare burning a hole on my back, but by the time I turned around, ol' Brucie boy was already gone, and the guy that tried to mug me along with him.
I shook my head, a small smile splitting my face as I made my way back home. The last thought in my mind?
'Let them come.'
KARMA SYSTEM Ver1.112
REGISTERING KARMIC CHANGES
ESTIMATING LONG-TERM REPERCUSSIONS
CALCULATING POINT GAIN
+2 KARMA POINTS EARNED
+1 SKILL POINTS EARNED
SKILL UNLOCKED: INTIMIDATION
-CHAPTER, END-
Renee Montoya-
Antoine Jeffries had been officially let go by the GCPD, and that was something that left Renee conflicted on how to feel.
Not regarding Jeffries being gone, of course, he was as crooked as crooked came, and him being gone was a universally good thing. No, what left her conflicted regarding how to feel was the reason why he was let go.
The many, many suspicious deeds he committed, the multiple civilian complaints, the way that some things disappeared from the evidence cabinet whenever he was tasked with looking over it, the fact that everybody and their mother knew that he was on the take, none of that was enough for the department to as much as initiate an investigation into his affairs.
But he displeases a rich kid with an expensive lawyer once, and he's gone the very next day.
Was that all that justice in Gotham amounted to? Obviously, this sort of thing could also happen elsewhere, but in those places, people like Jeffries would've been cut loose by his own co-conspirators much earlier than this. The crooks elsewhere were at least smart enough to not allow their deeds to be public knowledge, and to deal with anyone drawing too much heat.
Jeffries, though, was already on his 6th year in the force, and he'd been showing signs since his 2nd month in. Were the people involved in governmental corruption in Gotham so incompetent that they didn't think to cut off Jeffries and focus on being more discreet, or were they so utterly confident about their well-entrenched positions that they allowed him to stick around despite his brazenness as a way of asserting their power?
"They're all but telling me to be afraid since their reach comes all the way into the precinct and its people."
The woman found herself thinking back to the words of the cause of her swirling thoughts.
Was the situation really that bad? When did corruption become so utterly dire in the city? When did things reach that state?
Or, perhaps, things were always that bad, but she just never noticed anything odd with it, recognizing it as Gotham's 'normal'?
'God, I need a drink.'
Renee got up from her couch, going into her kitchen so she could get a beer from her fridge. She returned to the living room only to drop the beer in shock at the sight of a figure clad in all black that was pretty much synonymous with Gotham.
"Batman?" She took a deep breath to slow her heart rate to more normal levels before speaking, "What are you doing in my apartment?"
"The Falcones were behind the attempted hit on Irons. They're likely to try and finish the job."
"Wha… How could you possibly know that? What's your source? How reliable is it?"
The Bat just stared at her in absolute silence, making it harder and harder for her to keep her cool with each passing second. The feeling of something cold on her bare feet had her reflexively looking down, allowing her to notice the fact that her spilled beer had spread through quite a bit of her carpet before reaching her toes. She looked back up just a moment after that, only to find her apartment empty once again.
"...Hate it when he does that. Plus, he made me waste a beer and stain the carpet!" She grumbled angrily as she puttered around her apartment, getting a few paper towels to soak up the liquid from the carpet and to wipe her foot clean with, "Should charge him for the dry cleaning."
With that done, she turned her thoughts back toward his words.Why would the Falcones even target-'
"Some people consider anything with the slightest possibility of disrupting the flow of their business to be utterly unacceptable, never mind the fact that nobody even knows what my plans for the Gotham branch of the Corporation are."
Once again, the young man's words from that day ran through her mind. The woman looked longingly at the closed beer can on her coffee table before firming up her expression as she made her way into her bedroom to get dressed for work.
It was hard to ignore a call into work when it was delivered by the goddamned Batman, after all.
-Michael Irons-
When Batman warned of the Falcones targetting me, he probably expected me to hunker down and consolidate, surrounding myself with 12-foot-tall electrified walls with barbed wire on top, trained bloodhounds, and a few dozen armed security guards.
He probably didn't expect me to see their attention as a challenge more than anything else.
Our short conversation after he informed me probably tipped him off to the fact that I was still going to be living my life as normally as possible, though. I'd hazard a bet that he has at least a member of the Bat-family watching out for me right now, making sure that I didn't get into a firefight with the Falcones both for my own personal safety, as well as to keep me from 'walking down a dark path' by continuously marking my assailants' afterlife passports with a lead stamp.
Never mind the fact that there are probably a billion other more important things that they could be doing, Bruce needs to 'save me from myself', so a crisis goes unattended somewhere.
To be fair, though, he doesn't really know what I can do, so his stance on my personal safety is understandable.
In his mind I'm probably some damaged kid full of bravado and with a bit of skill trying to distract himself from his issues through the use of violence.
And, fair enough, that assessment would be at least partially right, but it would lack crucial knowledge about the skillset I've spent time developing both with and without the system's intervention.
"G-give me everything you've got!"
It was with those thoughts in mind that, as I came out of a grocery store, I found myself being mugged. Again.
'Two for two. Is this gonna be a thing now? Every time I go out on a stroll, I get mugged? Is this a ROB thing, a fate thing, or just a Gotham thing?'
Putting those thoughts aside, I turned my focus toward my would-be mugger.
He was a thin white man somewhere in his 30s, in a well-fitting yet crumpled suit, with a briefcase haphazardly tied to his back, hair just starting to thin out in the front. He was around 5'9 in height, with dark brown eyes, and the rest of his face hidden by a random piece of cloth.
His hand held a revolved that was pointed in my general direction, though the way said hand shook meant that even without me moving, odds were greater of him missing any shots he made.
I frowned as soon as the revolver fell into sight, before walking towards him.
"W-wait! Stop! Stop or I'll shoot!"
I got up within arm's length of him without being harmed, before reaching down to his free hand with my own and raising so it came to rest on the first one.
"Your grip is so weak that trying to fire any sort of gun one-handed would result in it flying out of your fingers. Plus, you can't hit shit if your hands are shaking hard enough to mix a martini. Your stance is all wrong too. You need to lower your center of gravity, and have the gun placed where the field of view of each of your eyes intercepts, which is around the center of your torso, for proper accuracy."
His eyes widened more and more with each word I said, but I wasn't done yet.
"If you're threatening someone with a gun and they as much as twitch, you shouldn't hesitate to shoot. Also, you can't shoot anyone with a replica gun."
His trembling hands completely lost their strength when I mentioned the fact that the gun he was threatening me with was a replica. With him still flabbergasted, I kept speaking.
"Let me make a few guesses, and you tell me whether or not I'm right about them. You own a well-fitted suit and a briefcase, meaning that you were an office worker of some type. The wedding ring on your finger speaks of a wife. Desperate enough to go out and commit a robbery despite clearly not being suited to a life of doing harm to others, which means that you need more money than you can make."
My hand rose up to his line of sight, causing his eyes to pop out further at the sight of his wallet, which he never noticed me filching.
"Needs money but has a stuffed wallet, meaning that you've got a lot of cards…" I pulled out a white business card with the name 'John Mulligan' on it, "A lot of pictures, or both."
I reached into one of the other compartments of his wallet before retrieving a photograph bearing a family of three. The people in the photograph were the guy right in front of me, whose face was the sort of average, forgettable face you could never pick out from a crowd, an attractive blue-eyed brunette wife, and a young daughter of around 8 years of age.
"Based upon all of these clues, this is the theory I came up with: You, John, have been fired from work a while ago, but never told your wife and daughter. Your family's been living on your savings while you ostensibly go to work, but are actually looking for a job. The search hasn't been too successful, and your savings are reaching the end, and you, not wanting to have to tell your wife and daughter that life was about to get very difficult, chose to instead do something very, very stupid. Am I right?"
He staggered back with every single word I said, only to end up losing the strength in his legs by the end of my diatribe, falling back on his ass with a stunned expression which I could now see as his face covering got dislodged during his fall.
"H-how-"
"I just looked at all the clues while keeping in mind the fact that we're in Gotham, a city that seems to love turning good people into tragic criminals."
He looked down in shame at those words, only to look back up at me in shock when I put my grocery bag down next to him.
"Wha-"
"You need it more than I do, so just take it."
"Y-you're not going to report me to the police?"
"...Do you want me to?"
"NO!" He cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking at a more reasonable volume, "I mean, uh, no, I… I don't want you to."
"Good, good. Now, John, let me give you a bit of advice. Go home, tell your wife the reality of your situation, and let her help you deal with things. Your family is supposed to support you as much as you support it.
"Also, submit your resume to the Irons Corporation Gotham Branch website."
He stared at me for a moment before his eyes widened in recognition.
"B-but I just… Just tried to…"
"You trying to rob me was not cool, and very, very stupid, but I understand why you did it, and, as bad as this might sound, it took balls for a wimp like you to approach someone of my size and build and threaten them with violence using a fake gun in Gotham. You strike me as someone with a good heart, and maybe even a smart mind whenever you're not neck-deep in despair, so…"
I lobbed his wallet back at him, but not before pocketing one of his greeting cards, and waved over my back at him as I walked away.
KARMA SYSTEM Ver1.112
REGISTERING KARMIC CHANGES
ESTIMATING LONG-TERM REPERCUSSIONS
CALCULATING POINT GAIN
+3 KARMA POINT EARNED
+5 SKILL POINTS EARNED
SKILL UNLOCKED: PERSUASION
SKILL UNLOCKED: INVESTIGATION
SKILL UNLOCKED: SLEIGHT OF HAND
3 Karma points and 5 Skill points?
Damn. Either my interaction with John set up some building blocks for him or someone affected by him to do some good stuff in the world, or whoever the Bat has watching me was so positively affected by this that their heroics are gonna be exceptional for at least some time from now.
'Upgrade Menu'
The usual screen popped up in my sight, tho with a few notable changes.
SKILLS:
ATHLETICS - RANK 1
FIREARMS - RANK 5
MARTIAL ARTS - RANK 2
SEDUCTION - RANK 5
RIDING - RANK 1
TECHNOLOGY - RANK 3
HACKING - RANK 3
INTIMIDATION - RANK 2
AVAILABLE SKILL POINTS - 9
I had spent 3 points ranking up intimidation to 2 since Batman himself was proof of how terror could be a great tool when it came to crime fighting, meaning that I could, on a whim, turn on a level of threat from someone of my general size and stature, if they were on the throes of absolute murderous rage, with the potential to further develop the skill.
Mixing that type of passive intimidation with a calm, affable, maybe even friendly behavior and a big iron in hand would probably be enough to absolutely mindfuck the average mook.
'Got my points up to 9, but I'll be blowing them all at once, unfortunately. As they say, gotta spend money to make money.'
SKILLS:
ATHLETICS - RANK 1
FIREARMS - RANK 5
MARTIAL ARTS - RANK 2
SEDUCTION - RANK 5
RIDING - RANK 1
TECHNOLOGY - RANK 3
HACKING - RANK 3
INTIMIDATION - RANK 2
PERSUASION - RANK 2
INVESTIGATION - RANK 2
SLEIGHT OF HAND - RANK 2
AVAILABLE SKILL POINTS - 0
This was the primary issue with the Karma system's leveling style. Trying to create a well-rounded build that allows for multiple avenues of action requires a horrendously massive amount of Skill Points being spent, and it's still likely that the build will end up unbalanced because not every point gain will be enough for multiple levels of multiple stuff.
I really wanted to save more points for Technology, Athletics, and Martial Arts, but Intimidation, Persuasion, Investigation, and Sleight of Hand were three extremely important skills for anyone getting even tangentially involved in any sort of crime-fighting in the DC universe, especially if you were in Gotham, and other than Technology, the three latest skills I got were much more difficult to naturally improve and develop than the previous three.
Still, I didn't particularly regret my choice since Intimidation, Persuasion, and Investigation synergized really well with pretty much everything else I had other than possibly Athletics.
Investigation would let me figure out what the best target for my Firearms skill was, Intimidation and Firearms are just a match made in heaven, as are the Martial Arts/Investigation/Intimidation trio.
Persuasion, Investigation, Athletics, and Seduction sounded like an absolutely destructive combo, with maybe even some Intimidation and Martial Arts in the mix depending on the tastes of the girl who I might hypothetically be trying to get with, Riding and Investigation would probably allow me to more easily intuit how to best direct whichever vehicle I'm on, and so on and so forth…
I had so many different ways to combine my skills in order to get results that possibly cross the Rank barrier for the highest ranked one of the combination.
Still, I couldn't help but cast a longing look at both my Technology and Firearms skills.
-Barbara Gordon-
When Bruce had first tasked her with keeping track of Michael Irons, she wasn't particularly pleased. There were so many fires to put out in Gotham at all times, and being forced to attend to a single person felt so wasteful to her. Her view on this assignment was worsened further when she was told about the entirety of the situation.
She didn't particularly begrudge him for taking another's life in self-defense, but the triviality with which he dealt with that loss of life rubbed her the wrong way. The image of Michael Irons she had in her head was that of a flippant, selfish trust-fund kid who didn't see any worth in the lives of anyone other than himself.
It was for this reason that she allowed the mugging scene to pan out.
She'd known from the get-go that the gun in the man's hand wasn't real and that Irons wasn't under any real threat, and she wanted to see how he'd react to someone who'd drawn on him before he could do so to them.
The scene that she bore witness to, though? It completely tore down that preconceived notion.
His observational skills by themselves were not too shabby for someone without the sort of dedicated training the members of the Bat-family were put through, his sense of compassion was admirable, and even she was almost bamboozled by his little pickpocketing trick.
Bruce was probably going to chew her out after reviewing the footage of her assignment for letting things play out for too long, but she wasn't particularly bothered by that thought.
Her interest in the Michael Irons situation had just been aroused.
-CHAPTER, END-
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