Chapter 5: Dangerous dealings

The pamphlet Barbara had given him was a lot more intimidating than what Peter originally thought. As he sat above the door of building in front of Marco's, he flipped through it again, grimacing as its content did not change since the last time he had gone through it.

The abilities of the criminals featured in the document were not the most impressive he had been up against. He still remembered the altercation he had with Stephen, less than a week earlier. The guy had turned back to his side eventually but, gosh, fighting him had been stressful. He was just a dude with spider powers, Strange's magic could alter reality itself.

Compared to this kind of power, Gotham's rogues seemed almost inconsequential. He certainly thought so, when he read about them online. Barbara's document, though, was showing him how wrong he had been to assume this.

At first glance, only a few of the criminals in the city could handle a one on one fight with a trained meta like him, however, as he looked more in details into each of them, it became apparent that they did not rely on physical strength to commit their crimes.

Scarecrow, for example, was a villain known for using and spreading something called "fear toxin" throughout the air and water system whenever he managed to free himself. The top advices given when infected with the toxins were to immediately inject an antitoxin and, in case one was not available, lock oneself far away from other people and any sort of sharp objects.

The pamphlet did specify Fear Toxin inhibitors and more potent antitoxins were distributed daily at three different GCPD stations in the Gotham area. Of course, none of them was located in the Bowery. Peter groaned upon seeing only a few hundreds were available each day. It was a first come, first served situation. In a city with ten million people.

He'd just have to be careful, then. There was a large section higher on the page about mitigating risks of contamination during a Scarecrow alert. Unfortunately, the main recommandation was to barricade oneself in a room with bottled water and rations, and plug the doors and windows with wet towels.

Peter did not have any of the elements required to successfully use this strategy so he just resigned himself to a very, very bad time if he ever got contaminated.

"Hey kid!" Marco called him, distracting him from his reading. He packed the pamphlet in his bag and waved at his boss, who frowned up at him.

"What are you doing up there?" The older man grumbled, gesturing at the door. He didn't wait for Peter's answer, turning back into the pizzeria, muttering under his breath about 'kids these days'.

Peter shrugged at that, not bothered by the man's attitude in the slightest. This town looked like a place that swallowed up people with its darkness, the ones that didn't fall into addiction or crime, yet still chose to stay there had to have a way to cope. It wasn't the first time he had seen someone act like that before.

He jumped down from the stone ledge above the door, landing in a crouch, a hand coming to rest on the ground to stabilize himself. The posture reminded him of being Spider-Man, and he looked down, pensive. He had to figure that part of his life out too, once he was in a safer situation.

"You look tired, kid." Marco told him when he entered the restaurant. "Up past your bed time?"

Peter glared at him, shaking his head.

"Well," Marco drawled, "If you make it to the end of tonight's delivery, I can help you with that."

"Help me with my bedtime?"

He did not get any sign of recognition for his question, instead being handed the square pizza bag he'd worn the previous night, and the suspicious GPS.

"Good luck tonight." Marco said, limping back to the kitchen. "If after this you're still wanting to work here, I'll help you out with some stuff."

Peter nodded, surprised.

After being left alone in the dining room, he took the time to type in the first address that night. There were eight pizza this night, two of them sharing the same delivery place.

His first job was to Old Gotham, to the GCPD headquarters of all things. Peter had never had the best of relationships with law enforcement, his recent experiences making him a bit wary of them but he was just a pizza delivery boy, surely they wouldn't bother him.

Halfway there, he remembered that he did not have government ID, a work contract or even a bank account to speak of. And his clothings were a dead give away of his financial struggles, too. What if they tried to contact social services?

He couldn't afford to lose the job, his peanut butter, bread and jerky would not last him long, and he had no other way of getting money that night. He would just have to try and make the best of it. Worst case scenario, he could still run away, he would just have to make sure not to use his web shooters. Unless there was an absolute emergency, he didn't want to spend his web fluid reserves until he had found the chemicals to make some more.

That would cost him about 100$, if the materials were even available in this universe.

No way he could afford it right now, but once he found housing, he would be able to start saving up for it. Marco said he would help him with it, after all and, so far, the man had been fair with him despite his rough exterior.

Old Gotham was beautiful, in its own way. Each buildings had a distinct, gothic touch that reminded him of some European churches he had studied in class. The stone they were built out of, under the grime and shiny wetness left over by the day's downpour, were white and chalky. Statues of animals, demons and angels decorated the rooftops, gargoyles visible in almost every street. It was almost surreal, how dedicated the district was to this gothic, ancient European theme.

It was charming, in a way. It also helped him picture what the Bowery had once looked like, as he recognized a lot of similarities between the less pompous buildings in Old Gotham and the few unscathed housing units back in the poorer districts.

He landed a few streets away from the police station, not wanting them to see him clamber down from the rooftops. It might be seen as trespassing, now that he thought about it.

As he got closer to the place, he couldn't help but feel slightly nervous. Wanting to make this as fast as possible, he took the pizza out in advance, holding it in front of him, as if it would protect him from any unwanted questions.

The police station was large and bustling, despite the fact that it was almost 8pm. On top of officers running around, Peter could make out a large number of cars, and several other types of vehicles, parked in an open garage connected to the headquarters. He could see a police van, a bus and… was this a tank?

"Hey!" Someone called out to him as he approached the station. "You from Marco's?"

A man approached, wearing a beat up tan trench-coat, at odds with his crisp black suit. He appeared to be in his early fifties, or perhaps late forties, with graying temples and slight wrinkles on his temples and forehead. He looked like a typical detective from an old movie. In fact, he was so stereotypical with his mustache and serious face that Peter stayed silent for a second too long, staring at him.

"From Marco's?" The man asked again.

Peter nodded, pushing the box into the police officer's hands. Before he could walk away, however, the adult raised a hand, almost putting it on his shoulder, hesitating, then withdrawing it slowly. 

The man cleared his throat.

"He did open up for business again, then?"

"Y-yes sir."

The policeman nodded, looking grave. Somberly, he told Peter :

"Walk with me kid, I need to talk to you."

A bit confused, he obeyed, not wanting to get on the man's bad side. He followed him quietly, listening as the gothamite explained :

"I wanted to make sure the rumors were true. Seems like they were. Also wanted to set down a few rules with you."

He took a cigarette out of his trench coat pocket, lighting it in a smooth movement. With his heightened senses, Peter could clearly read the little "Best Dad" that was scribbled on his lighter in red. It was a small thing, but it made him relax a little bit.

"I have nothing against the man you work for, it's in his prerogative to do business with whoever he wants to." He took a drag of his smoke, puffing out a large cloud with the experience of a regular smoker. Peter had a hard time not coughing when the wind blew some of it into his nose. 

"You should probably be made aware, however, that due to him being the only one to deliver to every single person in this city, you might be exposed to some illegal activities."

Peter thought back to the previous night.

"Someone gave me marijuana yesterday." He blurted out, desperately wanting to be helpful and avoid suspicion. "I threw it out."

This caused the man to look at him for a few seconds, a frown on his face.

"Hm." The police officer said. "Something a bit more… large scale."

"Ah." Peter replied, his cheeks reddening. "Sorry."

They stayed silent for a while. Then, the adult finished his cigarette with an alarmingly long drag, turned it off by smashing it on the wall, and, after checking it was fully out, threw it into a nearby trashcan.

"You're not from Gotham, are you, boy?" The man asked. Peter shook his head, knowing his accent betrayed him. This earned him another nod. "I'll be straightforward, then. Marco's delivers all over the town, to all kind of people. Once a week, I will be ordering food from your place. We will meet here, behind the station."

By now, they had stopped walking, stopping in a parking lot that was solely occupied by police cars and officers talking together. If he focused, he could understand what they were saying. Most of them were talking about a penguin. Did something happen at the zoo?

He was brought back to his current conversation when the officer he had delivered the pizza to started talking again, he had stopped to finish his second cigarette.

"Depending on what you can tell me about your deliveries, I'll give you a tip. Believe me, if your stories are really good, and truthful, I can be quite generous."

Was… Was he being recruited as a police informant? He gulped. This might be outside of his pay grade but… he couldn't exactly say no, could he? The police was on the right side of the law, and even if the pizzeria's clients learned about it, Peter could just disappear again. Marco didn't even know his name.

"Um… okay." He mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. This earned him a satisfied look from the older man, and yet another nod.

"Good. I like to talk in person. Don't deliver to anyone else if I'm the one ordering. If I'm not there, ask for Gordon."

"Yes sir."

"You made a good choice kid. Keep working and keep away from the gangs." Gordon patted him on the back, slipping a piece of paper into the jacket of his hoodie before leaving, hands in the pockets of his trench-coat. He did not ask his name, his age or to see his papers. Peter could hardly believe it.

Then, he took the 100$ bill out of his pocket, saw how much it was worth, and almost had a panic attack right there and then. What in the hell had he just gotten into? And how did a police station have this much money to throw around at informants as inconsequential as a pizza delivery boy? One who had just started on the job, nonetheless.

Deep down, the logical part of him suspected that it was an attempt at keeping him on the right side of the law early on, luring him in with a large gift to make sure he would stay loyal to the GCPD, and to his contact. It was hard not to feel grateful, of course, as this single piece of paper would allow him to eat for more than two weeks, if he didn't spend it on anything else. He could probably stretch it even longer, too.

Peter Parker, police informant. Back in New York, he had been a perfectly ordinary teenager, Spider-Man had been the one with an exciting, dangerous life, but Spider-Man was not even active in Gotham yet and still his life had managed to become a complete mess. Trouble had seemed to follow him from his vigilante life into his civilian one, now that he was taking an involuntary break from heroism.

Remembering he still had seven deliveries to make, he shook himself out of his stupor, hid the bill at the bottom of his brand new secondhand sneakers, and headed out of the police area. Nobody glanced at him. In fact, now that he was paying closer attention, he could tell that several of the figures he had taken for officers were in fact civilians like him. He wondered how much they were getting paid for the infos they were delivering.

Maybe he could find a way to make this work in his favor. He did need money, after all. As long as he didn't get found out as a snitch, he should be fine.

Right?

The second and third pizza took him back to East End. He delivered one to what smelled and sounded suspiciously like a brothel, dropping it off and leaving with a few one dollar bills more in his pockets. The other one took him to a suspiciously hidden man, who was wearing a suspiciously dark outfit and had a suspiciously large black case next to him. Considering he was crouching at the top of a building, Peter was seriously worried about the content of the case.

"You good here pal?" He asked, wishing his Spider sense was still there to guide him. 

The man grunted, flipping him off. He didn't get any tips this time, but he was honestly happy to get off with his life. He sincerely hoped the dude was an undercover police officer, and not something more sinister.

The fourth pizza led him even further into Gotham, to the northern edge of the Bowery. As he climbed down to the street, he spotted the remains of a vandalized road sign. Initially showing the name of "Park Row" in bold white lettering, someone had painted over it a large red "CRIME ALLEY" and then, for good measure, "ACAB". He squirmed uncomfortably at the nickname. This was not a good sign.

As he walked down the alley to get to his drop off point, he started hearing shuffling coming from around him. Feet, people trying to stay stealthy. He frowned, wishing his Spider sense could be working again. Wishes and prayer, though, were not going to be enough to get him out of trouble, if he ever ended up in it.

He heard a click, metallic, familiar, and immediately tensed up. Firearm. He slowed down his pace, senses stretched out. He could pick out several heartbeats down into the street, five-no… six of them were scattered in the shadowy areas. He wouldn't let himself be taken by surprise again. 

His delivery spot was past the men. He walked in that direction slowly, ready to leap as soon as he saw movement. He could feel the air move as the group snuck in the shadows. The one with the gun was coming with them, slinking to his left. He probably hoped he could take him by surprise, put the weapon to his head and take his money.

Peter sniffed the air, trying to judge how many guns were around him. It was made impossible by the Alley's own smell, a mix of blood, urine and gunpowder had seeped into its stones. He would just have to act fast.

As soon as the gunman got to ten feet of him, he sprung into action, using his superhuman speed and strength to pummel into the thug before he could aim his weapon at him. The stone ground cracked when he used it to launch himself at the man, and so did said man's nose, when Peter, after digging his shoulder into his chest, punched up at his face and knocked him out cold.

One down, five more to go. He had moved so fast the other men had barely started to react. With a grin, now realizing he had missed the adrenaline rush of a good fight, he used the wall of a nearby building as a launchpad, flying through the air and straight at another of the thugs. Still mid-air, he twisted his hips, planting his heel in the man's cheek. He always held his strength for those kind of kicks, to make sure he didn't break any necks, but a few teeth were still knocked out by the impact. 

By now, the other four finally had time to react, and he could hear a few more clicks. One was from a pistol, he noted, another sounded unfamiliar, which was never a good sign. He headed for this one first, staying low this time, pushing on the ground with his arms and legs to leap as fast as he could.

Shotgun, he noticed, as it was pointed at him. His Spider sense did not go off.

Reacting immediately, he plunged to the left, slightly too fast for an ordinary human, and rolled away from the blast. His ears rung painfully but he did not have time to stop and worry about it. He had to get to the shotgun holder before he reloaded.

It was as he planted his fist in the man's solar plexus, sending him flying back and crashing into the wall, that he remembered about the second firearm. And about the fact that he had forgotten to pick up the first.

Cursing his tiredness, he resolved himself to using his web shooters, as close to empty as they may be, when a bang rang through the night.

He couldn't feel any pain, when he looked down at himself, there was no blood.

Surprised, he looked around. He could, in fact, smell powder residue, which meant a gun had been fired, but it wasn't coming from around him, besides the shotgun, which was already cooling. No, this new scent was coming from further down the street.

"Ah shit." One of the three remaining conscious men cursed. "I told you dumbasses not to be noisy."

Peter, who had been distracted by the fight, had not heard the newcomer approach, even as they drew their gun and shot into the air, a very unsafe practice, as Happy had taught him.

"Boys, Boys, Boys…" A high-pitched voice, toeing the line between amused and hysterical, sung in the shadows. "I'm waiting on a delivery. All of this fighting is going to scare them off. How naughty of you…"

She came into the light of the one functioning light bulb in all of Crime Alley, rolling her hips like a top model as she walked and twirling a customized revolver as if it was a prop. Peter could smell its heat, over the scents of the Alley itself. It was the real deal.

He fully expected a gun fight to break out there and then but, instead, the men hung their heads low, putting their weapons away.

"We're sorry Harley." Shotgun man apologized, his erratic heartbeat betraying his fear.

"We didn't know he was a pizza guy."

"Are you kidding?" Peter complained, "I have a pizza bag on my back! It's huge!"

"It is." Harley agreed. Then she cocked her head to the side and shrugged. "Alright boys. I'm counting to 3. Slowpokes get shot." She said cheerfully.

Oh God.

"Erm-" Peter cut in, "How about that pizza?"

That seemed to distract her long enough for the thugs to run away, dragging their unconscious friends with them. He felt a bit bad about going this hard on them, hoping he didn't give them too bad of a head wound.

It was hard to fight without all of his usual tools. Incapacitating regular humans without his webs was proving to be a very delicate task. Even tired and underfed as he was right now, a regular blow from him could easily accidentally kill someone who wasn't trained to take it.

"Sooo…" Harley leaned in maliciously. "Are you a meta? Cause the way you punched this one guy! BAM!"

Her exclamation was accompanied by another loud BANG as she shot towards the sky.

"You really shouldn't be doing that." Peter commented, hoping the bullet wasn't going to hurt anything on its way down.

"Watcha gonna do?" The woman laughed. "Cops don't come here unless there's like a big BIG gun hidin out there."

Now frankly uncomfortable, and not wanting to answer her question about being or not a meta, Peter focused on opening his bag and taking out her order. She got two pizza, one was vegan, the other one a super meat combo.

He stared at the orders for a moment, hoping they weren't mixed up, before handing it to her, hoping not to get shot if he was, in fact wrong about it.

"Aaaw." Harley cooed, "You're so sweet. Wanna come in?"

Red flags flying everywhere in his mind, Peter flashed the woman a polite smile and shook his head. "Sorry, still got three pizza to deliver."

"Oh yes…" she hummed thoughtfully, "You're working right? Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow."

"You probably shouldn't order pizza two days in a row either." Peter replied automatically. It was pointless as, before he even opened his mouth, the woman had turned on her heels and strolled away. No tip there either, but perhaps coming out of this interaction still alive was enough of a reward. Plus, the generous bribe from Gordon was more than enough to cover the night.

Thankfully for his heart, his last deliveries were uneventful, taking him to the docks, where a GCPD officer on what appeared to be lookout duty thanked him profusely.

"Didn't think you guys were still around." He told him. "Used to order Marco's on stake-outs all the time, back in the days."

He gave him a generous 15$ tip for "old times' sakes" and patted him on the back, telling him to stay on the right path. The cops in this city seemed oddly focused on getting street kids away from a life of crime.

His last two jobs had him visit Diamond District for the first time. Most of the gang members there appeared to be working together. He had started to be able to tell the different groups apart by color of clothing and type of weaponry but still wasn't unable to put proper names on each of them.

Once he was done, he was left with 145 dollars in tips, most of it a contribution from the GCPD. Once again, he wondered what kind of financial sponsor they had in this town to afford to have this kind of cash thrown at kids like him.

It didn't look like they were lacking in funds, though, if he remembered properly. Their weaponry was new, and so were their vehicles, back in the garage. The issue with this city's crime rate was not police funding, then, it was something else.

His money hidden in between his shoes and his washed out can, he made his way back to Marco's. Seen from above this way, Gotham was almost beautiful.

Scratch that, it was beautiful. In its own, dark way, the city's elegant downtown spires and detailed gargoyles had their own charm. It was also unsettling and threatening. All in all, Gotham was a place that divided Peter a lot. Somehow, it seemed to have great evil in it, but he also saw evidence of a lot of solidarity, in some people at least.

Now that he didn't have to be careful in his running, it only took him twenty or so minutes to make his way through the town. It would have been faster had he been using his web shooters but that was out of the question. He was already glad he hadn't had to use them earlier, even if that did end with him catching the attention of a clearly unstable and very confusing woman.

Well, she hadn't seemed cruel or threatening towards him so it should be fine.

He landed softly next to the restaurant, adrenaline slowly leaving his system, leaving him tired and eager to find a place to sleep in. Hopefully, it wouldn't rain that night.

Marco looked a bit less surprised to see him enter the restaurant this time, but he still did raise an eyebrow. He was drinking again, it was only beer, this time.

"You survived Crime Alley." The man observed.

Peter bristled at that. "You knew I would get jumped?" Anger started to rise in his chest.

Marco barked out a sharp laugh, then drowned his beer in one long gulp. "Kid." He chuckled. "This always happens in Crime Alley, there's a reason it's called that way. 'Sides, if you want to work here, you're probably going to end up in more dangerous places."

"How? This is a pizza delivery job."

The man glared at him, unamused.

"Don't act dumb, brat. You wouldn't have survived in Gotham that long on your own without a bit of brains. This place is the only that delivers in all of Gotham, do you understand what this means?"

Peter sighed.

"It means you get all kind of clients." He replied, crossing his arms. "You don't reject anyone, right?"

"Exactly." Marco nodded. "I didn't ask you if you had a gun for nothing. Guess I'm lucky, though, it's been a while since I had a delivery boy as efficient as you. Most of them usually come back with at least a couple undelivered pizza."

Peter blinked, having not even considered not completing the jobs he was given. He didn't even know that was an option for him.

"So now, boy, I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna be, working with me. You're going to listen and, once I'm done, you'll tell me what you decide."

Surprised, the teenager nodded, feeling very much out of his depth.

"If you work for me, I will let you make money in a way that isn't traceable but isn't harmful to anyone. I will never ask you to commit a crime to complete your job, that's a promise."

Peter nodded, a bit relieved despite himself. Gotham was so odd, he had been afraid he would be forced to carry a gun or something of the sort.

"However, you need to be aware of the dangers of the job. Most gangs respected us, back in the days. We're a neutral party. It's a commercial relationship, get it?"

Peter thought about Gordon and the deal he had just made. He paled. Marco noticed the look on his face and chuckled, shaking his head.

"Don't worry about old Jimbo. That's part of our business, we see more things than the usual person does. Stuff that doesn't mean anything to us but could be very valuable for someone else. I don't give a shit who you sell it to, as long as you keep me out of it. Do be careful with it, though. Things can go wrong very quickly in this city.

You'll be risking your life every time you go out. I'm not gonna lie about that, kid. But this is a way for you to get out of the gutter, in a way. If you work with me, I'll hook you up with a contact of mine who can get you a place to stay in. You'll have to pay for it, but you'll be able to afford it and food with what I give you."

He stopped talking for a moment, rubbing his chin, deep in thoughts.

"I can't understate the risks, boy. Gotham is very dangerous, especially for lonely kids like you. If you can, you should leave town, go somewhere safer."

Peter shook his head. He could, technically, wander away from the city, as nothing truly held him there, but he felt like, once he was done settling down, there was room for him to help. In almost a week, he had heard and been the victim of several assaults, yet still had not encountered any of the city's dedicated vigilante.

Well, outside of pizza delivery, that was. Either way, it clearly meant they were overworked and couldn't protect all areas at the same time. Considering most of them were probably regular humans, and not metas, it was more than understandable.

"I'm staying in Gotham. All of this sounds good to me."

Marco sighed.

"You don't know what kind of place you've landed in, kiddo… But you're good at staying alive, I give you that."

He put a piece of paper down on the table he was sitting at. On it, an address Peter didn't know.

"It's in the Bowery," his boss explained. "Go in tomorrow morning and tell her you work for me. Got a deal with her. She'll set you up."

Peter thanked him profusely, clutching the paper in his hands. A roof for him to sleep under, and a proper roof too. He smiled at Marco, his exhaustion temporarily forgotten.

"Last thing, kid." His boss told him as he rose from his seat. "Try to look more into who you're dealing with. You should start with old Jimbo you just met earlier."

"You mean officer Gordon?"

"He isn't just an officer, brat. You need to do your research before selling any info or you're not going to last long in this city."

Marco didn't explain his words, limping towards his kitchen after a last goodbye to Peter. The teen was left confused and a bit worried, hoping he hadn't made a massive mistake with talking to officer-was he even an officer?- Gordon.

Still, despite this, he could rest a bit easier tonight, knowing this was going to be his last without proper housing.

He left the restaurant with a lighter heart, feeling like things were finally starting to fall into place. Dark thoughts tugged at the edge of his mind but, now used to it, he pushed them back. It was easy to distract himself, for the pain, there was so much for him to do here.

Peter jumped up and latched himself on a ladder, which he used to get to higher ground. Ever since he'd started living in Gotham, heights had become his safe place. He knew it wasn't true, knew plenty of people could still reach him there, but he felt protected up there, in a way he didn't when he was on the ground. He started making his way back to the Bowery, hoping to find some dry floor to lay on, his last uncomfortable, cold night before he could truly rest.

He was thinking about what kind of place he would end up into, hoping it had some form of plumbing, when a shrill sound burst through the night. He jumped up, startled. To his horror, the sound repeated itself, again and again, in a strange rhythm.

"Shit." Peter whispered. He knew what this was, he remembered it from Barbara's pamphlet.

It was an emergency siren. The rhythm was meant to help people identify who was the criminal currently threatening the city but, unfortunately for him, he had not yet been able to memorize them.

He went through his bag frantically, trying to burn the siren into his mind in case it turned off before he could find the pamphlet. As soon as his fingers recognized the laminated texture of the pages, he took it out, laying it down on the roof in front of him. The flickering flame of his lighter was his only source of light as he flipped through it, trying desperately to identify what he was dealing with.

Before he could find an answer, a flash of heat made him turn around. As he whipped back, his eyes fell upon a column of flames, a few blocks away from him, stretching up into the clouds.

He almost dropped the pamphlet in surprise.

"Holy shit." He swore, which was definitely a good time to curse, whatever Captain America might think, back home.

To his horror, a man flew up from the flaming building, jets of fire coming from his hands and jet pack. He was too far away for Peter to tell if he was using a weapon or some kind of meta ability but, before he could try to look closer, the arsonist ducked and flew down into the street he was above. More fire shot up in the air.

Suddenly, Peter remembered the criminal's name.

"Firefly." He recalled, flipping through the pamphlet to reach his page. Fire obsessed arsonist. Used machinery to commit his crimes. Considered highly unstable, he was marked as 'flee on sight'.

Tired, and without having eaten yet that night, he knew he wasn't in top shape but, even if he couldn't defeat the guy, perhaps he could distract him until help came. That seemed feasible.

He took his mask and gloves out of the can, slid them on. His dirty black shirt and shorts went into his bag as he flexed his muscles, trying to get himself motivated before the fight.

His backpack strapped tightly on his back, his web shooters ready, Peter took a running start and leaped in the air. He couldn't let the fire get too hard to manage, he had to make sure it didn't spread to the rest of Gotham.

He shot into the night, all pretenses of not being a meta forgotten. His mask was on, he didn't care who saw him.

Feeling foolish, brave and terrified at the same time, he jumped into the burning street, ready for a dangerous, difficult fight.

He wasn't disappointed.