In a rotting alley in Gotham, a short chase was underway.
Two scrawny-looking punks laughed like hyenas while a hulking brute lumbered after a kid who couldn't have been older than ten.
Just as the kid was about to turn the corner, the big guy grabbed a rusted iron trash container and hurled it down the alley.
BAM!
The kid barely managed to dive out of the way as the container smashed into the pavement, missing by inches. The kid collapsed onto the ground, shaking in shock.
"Hahaha! Scared the brat half to death!" one of the skinny drunks cackled.
"Bet the little shit pissed his pants too!" the other added, holding his stomach as he doubled over laughing.
The big man cracked his neck as he stepped forward, grinning like an ape.
"Rats like you need to learn who runs these streets. That wallet you stole? Belongs to me—Bob, rising star of the Falcone family."
"I-I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know. Here—take it back, just let me go," the kid stammered, sliding the wallet forward while inching back.
Bob sneered, rolling his shoulders. "You think giving it back means you walk away? Nah. Shits like you need to be taught their place—while they're young." He cracked his knuckles, loud in the empty alley.
"Hey, look at this—this runt's a girl," one of the skinny punks said, leering as he stepped closer.
"Oh? Then how about we show her what happens when you steal from the Falcones?" the other smirked, already fumbling at his waistband.
Unknown to them, someone else had been watching the whole scene, and had decided enough was enough.
Yeah—that someone was me.
…The Dark Knight.
Well, a bootleg version, at least. A temporary Dark Knight on loan from Smallville. As just for tonight, I had decided that Gotham's streets need a little cleaning service.
And let me tell you, Gotham did not disappoint.
Not even full two hours here and I had already stopped eight thefts and three rape attempts. The city's as rotten as the stories make it sound. Honestly, I have got no idea how people actually survive living in this cesspool.
Hell, I even caught a cop harassing a woman earlier. A cop. That one made me rethink my brilliant plan of dumping unconscious crooks to be eventually handled by the police. If the guys in uniform are just as bad as the criminals, then what's the point?
And yeah, don't get me wrong—I hadn't "hardened my childlike, pure, innocent heart" enough to commit outright murder. But more than once tonight, I had seriously considered leaving a few limbs broken, just so they would think twice before crawling back onto the streets. I mean, if all I am doing is handing out glorified time-outs by knocking them out, then what the hell's the point of me being out here?
That dirty cop was the tipping point, though. Made me lose some of the hesitation I had been clinging to. Made me realize that maybe—just maybe—I should let loose a little bit on these criminals.
Also made me realize one other thing: I really, really don't want to come back to this city again anytime soon.
"You guys seriously have some shit luck," I muttered as I looked down at the three thugs. Honestly, if they had just roughed up the thief, I might have ignored it. But this? This was turning into something straight-up sick. So, I jumped down silently behind the two scrawny creeps.
One chop to the back of creep number one's neck—out cold.
Second chop to creep number two—nighty-night.
But the third guy? The hulking one? He was too damn tall for my little hands, so I had to jump, barely putting in any force as I smacked the side of his neck.
"Ughhh!" he groaned, dropping to one knee, clutching himself in pain.
"…Eh?" I blinked. That should have dropped him instantly. Instead, when I tried to pinpoint the reason, I noticed it—his skin had a faint, stone-like layer covering his neck.
"Arghh—what the hell was—" he snarled, swinging his arm back at me.
Instead of dodging, I casually caught his wrist with one hand. He was strong, sure—but not that strong. Definitely meta, though. So I sighed, put a bit more effort into it, and delivered another chop.
Crack!
"Oops," I muttered, eyes widening as my x-ray vision confirmed it—a fracture running along his neck. Still breathing, though. That was… good I think? Guess I really need to work on calibrating the strength of my so-called 'super chop.'
"Y-you killed him!" The kid—no, the little girl—was back on her feet, green eyes locked on me with a mix of fear and accusation.
"He's not dead," I said flatly, letting the guy's limp arm fall so his body hit the ground with a dull thud. My voice came out low, fake-deep—my best Christian Bale impression. Not that it mattered; the red scarf I had on ruined the effect. If it were black, maybe I would look the part too.
I ignored the girl and turned toward the other two. Without a word, I gently pressed my heel down on each one of their hands.
CRACK! CRACK!
"Arghhh!" Both of them jolted awake, howling, before I knocked them back out just as quickly.
A single broken hand. That should slow them down for a while. Maybe force them into an "honest" life… or at least make crime a little less convenient.
But as the echoes of their screams faded, I felt the weight of it settle on me. My chest tightened. This didn't feel right.
Judging and Punishing… especially when doing it was this easy for me… it feels cheap. Cruel.
Now, because of me, they will live the rest of their lives crippled. Just a single working hand. No way to work like normal people. And yet… if I hadn't intervened, they would have done something far worse to that girl. And from the way they acted, this wasn't their first time pulling something like this.
So maybe this was justice. Maybe.
…Or maybe I am just telling myself that so I don't choke on the guilt.
I sighed, running a hand over my hair before turning back—
—and froze.
The girl. The terrified, nearly-victim girl. She wasn't crying, wasn't running. She was kneeling beside the hulking thug's body, digging through his pockets like a seasoned thief.
"I thought you would've run away by now," I said in a deep voice, stepping closer.
Honestly, the scarf wasn't a bad idea as she wasn't the first person to see me tonight. I'd had to hold back, slow down, make sure I didn't accidentally kill someone, so people were definitely able to see me. But every other victim I saved? They bolted. No thank you, no nothing. Just gone.
But this kid… she wasn't scared. She was busy going through the guy's pockets right in front of me.
"What, you think you're the first meta freak I've seen around here?" she huffed with a little hmph. "Ugh, help me move this oaf—his wallet is underneath him."
"Stealing is wrong," I blurted, the words spilling out before I could stop them. It was what Mom had drilled into me.
The girl froze, blinking at me. I felt heat creep up my neck, embarrassed, but I was right, so I didn't take it back. I just stared at her.
"Well, Mr. Morals," she said, a little heat in her voice, "not all of us have meta powers to lean on. A skinny kid like me still has to eat. And to eat, I need money to survive."
"There… must be places that give out free food for the poor," I muttered, narrowing my eyes.
"I don't need charity from anyone," she snapped, anger flashing in her green eyes. "Look, mister, thanks for saving me, but if you're not gonna move this body, then leave. I've gotta at least get that wallet for all the crap I just went through." She shoved at the thug's arm with everything she had, barely making it budge.
I stayed silent, just watching her. Torn black hoodie, dirty pants and shoes, sharp bones under her skin from being malnourished. Dark hair framing a face that looked older than it should have at her age. But those green eyes… they were still burning bright.
"What's your name?" I asked, keeping the fake deep voice.
"What's it to you?" she shot back, not even looking at me.
Annoyed, I stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders.
"Hey, let me go, what are y—" she shouted, struggling in my grip.
"I'm going to ask one more time," I said, staring into her eyes, my voice deadly serious. "What's your name?"
"S-Selina… why?" she stammered, a flicker of fear breaking through her defiance.
"Selina what?" I pressed, softer this time.
"Selina Kyle." she kept trying to pull free.
I let go of her shoulders.
The thought had crossed my mind the first time I saw her—could she really be Selina Kyle, the future Catwoman? But Selina was generally supposed to be much younger than Bruce, and this kid, though malnourished, looked about eight or nine. So I dismissed it. After all, she wasn't the first child thief I had stopped in Gotham.
Still, the more I talked to her, the more certain I became. So I asked. And now… I hit the jackpot!
I bent down, lifted the unconscious man like he weighed nothing, and pulled the wallet out from under him.
"Hey! That's mine!" Selina snapped, reaching to snatch it back.
"Selina, you're coming with me," I said flatly. Before she could react, I scooped her into my arms and leapt onto the rooftop.
"Wh—ahhh! Put me down, you pervert!" she screamed.
"Shh. If you don't shut up, I really will throw you off," I warned.
She clawed at my face, nails scraping uselessly against my skin, pulling my scarf down.
"Ow!" she hissed, clutching her fingers.
"Look, I'm running late. For the next few minutes, if you behave and keep quiet, I'll give you the wallet and let you go." I stuffed it into my bag and slung it over my shoulder. "Deal?"
Her green eyes glared with distrust, but finally she muttered, "...Deal."
"Good."
I held her closer and jumped across to the next roof. My cheap plastic watch told me it was almost 10:47. Just a few minutes away. I had to hurry.