Take care of it Freddie. No big deal." The man bouncing across rooftops muttered. Because Freddie might love the boss, kill for the boss, die for the boss, but he maintained the working man's sacred right to grumble.
His path took him through neighborhoods still largely rubble, marked with fresh tags in pursuit of his quarry. Any resident of Gotham learned to recognize tags and colors at a young age, to learn which neighborhoods were safe, which were yours and which were theirs. The rules had changed somewhat since his boyhood, the criminals grew more outlandish and the lines a lot less fixed or visible. After the Quake, tagging had come back in a big way, but not in Old Gotham, in the shadow of the GCPD and Bookworm.
We should really get a tag. The thought came, unbidden. Something to show an area is under our protection.
He filed that thought away for later, and looked again to the three youths in warm coats. Their running had slowed noticeably and they were talking, perhaps trying to strategize. No, that wouldn't do at all. He felt the pool of energy he'd learned to identify with zinc in his belly, and let a little of it go.
Fear, he focused. Then hopped down where they could see.
"Christ! Run!" Off they took, like good little lambs. Hopefully to someone in charge.
He'd kept the first few Skullz he'd met on a string like this for half an hour. Some acrobatics, a shot of Rioting their emotions, a glimpse of a dark scalloped cape, and they were all too happy to abandon strategy and make like rabbits.
It was like the boss used to see. Kids in street-gangs are twitchy, nervous, superstitious sorts. He should know, he'd been one of them. But there's no room for nerves or superstition at the levels he now played the game at.
Freddie snorted at himself. Getting a little pretentious there. Arrogance had much steeper pitfalls than superstition, and it was a fine thing for a man with magic powers to look down on superstition anyways. Boss must be rubbing off on me. That was a good and a bad thing.
He hopped on, tin a slow-burning fire in his belly that easily let him keep tab on his rabbits from a distance. And in time, they did lead him to a slightly run-down, Colonial-looking house. Inside were six more men and boys, gathered around a propane lantern and playing cards for money and what smelled like MREs to Freddie's enchanced schnozz.
Showtime. He dialed a number on his top-of-the-line Lextech satellite phone and requested his support.
The boys burst in, babbling warnings that run into nonsense all mushed together. Freddie decided to sneak around the back.
"Whoa there, calm down." One of the cardplayers must have risen by the creak of his chair, the shift of floorboards. "What's got you kids in such a tizzy?"
"Betcha one found a girl and didn't know what to do." One cardplayer whispered to his neighbor.
"Batman! He- he's back! We only just got away." Freddie found a kitchen door and quietly let himself in. Appear where unexpected, to assert dominance and control of the situation.
Another cardplayer scoffed.
"Batman?" The first to speak said, "You saw him?"
"Yes."
"Where and when?"
"Down on 21st, clear as day, maybe twice as far from me as you are. He followed us halfway and then we lost him after Kane st."
Freddie leaned against the doorframe of the room's other entrance, and readied his emotional Allomancy to make the most of their shock.
"Actually, I'm not Batman, and you didn't lose me."
The kids yelped and flattened themselves against the wall. The older gang members stood very quickly from their game, pulling out knives and two guns. Freddie started burning steel too, and saw a web of blue lines connecting his heart to every piece of metal in the room.
"The fuck're you?" The speaker had a mohawk.
Freddie really hated mohawks. His mother raised him to be clean and neat in his appearance.
"Easy, easy. I'm a man with a question is all."
"What kinda question?" Another man in leathers asked.
"Who is the toughest guy in the Skullz? I mean the biggest, meanest mofo in this corner of Gotham."
There was a chorus of nervous chuckles. A muscular bald guy stepped up, arms out, and gave a little bow as his fellows showed their appreciation.
"That'd be me."
Freddie Pushed off the big, solid kitchen appliances behind him and rocketed forward in an eyeblink, burying his fist in the tough's midsection. His eyes bugged out comically for a moment before he went to his knees, wheezing. Freddie backhanded him onto his ass for dramatic effect.
"Wrong." He stood a little straighter, very deliberately sticking his hands into his pockets, the picture of nonchalance. "I'm the biggest meanest motherfucker in the Skullz."
"Asshole, you ain't in the Skullz." The concerned man from before nodded to one of the guys with a gun, Mohawk. "Waste him."
Mohawk did his best, but the streets don't hand out participation trophies. Freddie didn't need the buzzing at the base of his skull to know to hop straight up, stick to the ceiling for a moment then push off and flip over the table, gently- gently!- kicking Mohawk in the head hard enough to send him flying. Nice to know he was getting the hang of this new superstrength gig. A flicker of will, the Boss had drilled the habit of using his hands out- and a little iron and the other gun in the room came rocketing towards him. He caught and crushed it in one hand without looking up.
"You guys really aren't good at math are you? Two plus two equals don't fuck with me." He made a desultory examination of the house. "Seems you boys are doing alright for yourselves. Got food, cash, camping supplies. I even see some of the new coins. We can use that kind of talent, if you hack it."
Classic, that pitch was. Show of force, followed by the carrot. Compliments, even. It was how the Boss liked to recruit.
"Who the hell is we?" One of the unengaged gang members stepped up.
"Well, I'm Fred--" He skipped and flipped over the knife, landing behind the man and shoving him into and partially through the wall that had been behind him. He stepped up to pull the man loose, disarm him and give him a gentle armlock. "I'm Freddie, and I represent Old Gotham. Anyone who wants to work there can find a bed and plenty of food, even coin for luxuries. You seem like tough and smart types, good job getting me talking before trying to stick the knife in, and I'm sure you can do well in pretty much any part of our organization. No more worrying about basic survival, you can think bigger.
"One way or another, this thing, robbing people and holding turf? This is gonna end real soon once the masters of this city care to take notice. I'm offering you boys a lifeline to the winning side. Think carefully now, are you in?"
Eventually all but two agreed to try out civilized living, the remainder leaving with dirty looks.
"Your first task is to carry my offer to all the other Skullz. Guaranteed employment and security, in exchange for doing whatever work you can do best. I'll be-- one moment." A police car pulled up, and Freddie threw open the front door, marveling at the novelty of cooperation with the police.
"Guys, this is Detective Bullock, an expert in managing transitions. He'll be supervising your first couple of weeks with Old Gotham. If he isn't pleased-" a dark look passed over his face, enhanced with a little more emotional manipulation, "I'll have to come back and figure out another place for you." He smiled brightly. "But don't worry, he's a big softy at heart, aren't you Harv?" He rested an elbow on the other man's shoulder.
"Get offa me, freak."
Definitely the Boss was rubbing off on him. Damn him if this little chore hadn't turned fun. "Then I'll be on my way."
"Hey," Harvey stopped him, "present from the Commish's daughter." He handed over a folded piece of paper. "Maps of suspected or confirmed hangouts. Might make your night a little smoother."
"Why thank you officer." Nope, saying that without sarcasm, or smug assurance they couldn't prove nothing, was never going to feel natural. He mimed tipping a hat, then leapt away from all the awkwardness. Still, it was kind of nice. Not terrible, just... different.
Freddie shook his head and focused, skipping and dancing across the skyline to the next adress and calling for Montoya before letting himself in through a third-story window.
"Good evening," he called into a room covered with mats and sleeping bags. "I was wondering if any of you could tell me, just who is the toughest guy in the Loboys? I mean the biggest, meanest mofo around..."