Park Row—now more commonly referred to as Crime Alley—was a paradox.
Once a symbol of Gotham's prestige, it had devolved into one of its most dangerous districts, a place where wealth and violence existed side by side. On one end, figures like Jason Blood resided in secure, opulent estates. On the other, poverty festered, birthing crime and tragedy in equal measure.
The tension between these two worlds had already written itself into Gotham's history—most notably in the fatal mugging that left Bruce Wayne orphaned.
Andrew lived on the polished side of Park Row. Jackson and Joseph, however, were from the other side of the tracks—the one patrolled more by fear than police.
That night, Andrew and his family were supposed to enjoy dinner at a restaurant. Instead, a deranged, drug-addled kidnapper wearing a cheap green bird mask and calling himself the Green Vulture had posed as their cab driver. He hijacked the ride, speeding through the streets in what was almost certainly a stolen vehicle, colliding with traffic and even brushing past police cruisers in his erratic flight.
He was finally stopped by the Batmobile, just before running over a homeless man. Batman and Robin had cut off the vehicle, subdued the lunatic, and sent him back to Arkham—again.
Andrew cracked jokes about the ordeal in the group chat afterward. Maybe that was how he coped. But Joseph couldn't laugh.
The situation could've easily ended with a dead friend. A shattered future.
All it would've taken was a wrong turn of the wheel—or a trigger pull.
In Gotham, every day was a coin toss. Too many criminals. Too many drugs. Too many victims.
It was time Joseph did something about it.
In his apartment, Joseph changed: black hoodie, black sweatpants, dark blue balaclava. It looked similar to his Flux gear, but without the signature black face mask and swimming goggles. He didn't want to tip anyone off about who he really was.
Someone in a blue balaclava? That could be anyone.
He slipped out his window into the night. Batman's ban on his vigilante activity in Gotham meant nothing to him.
This was his city too.
Chicago had thrived under his system. No hard drugs. No trafficking. No civilian casualties. Break the rules—you disappeared.
That same system would work here. It would take time, just like before. But by the end of the month, Park Row would be different.
**
| Gotham City – August 22
Joseph stood in front of a building in a fairly remote part of East End—his target for the night.
He had decided Two-Face would serve as his figurehead to enforce his system. The Falcone family was crumbling after a bloody war with the Vitis. Carmine Falcone had ordered a hit on Carla Viti's son to protect his secrets. The Vitis retaliated and, thanks to Joseph's support in them controlling Chicago, emerged victorious. The Falcones paid reparations or faced obliteration.
With Falcone weak, Gotham's other monsters began circling: Black Mask, Penguin, Great White Shark, Joker.
Black Mask had been spotted at a Leviathan meeting Joseph and Catwoman had intercepted.
Penguin was funneling Intergang weapons into the city according to recent A.R.G.U.S. intel.
Great White Shark ran his empire from Arkham, unaccessible.
And Joker? He could never be trusted.
That left Two-Face.
Unstable, yes—but he played by some form of rules. And so far, he hadn't broken Joseph's.
Two-Face's building was sealed tight. Cement-covered windows. Armed guards at every entrance. No subtle way in.
He could have used his powers to storm the place, but Joseph had decided against that. Using his main abilities would risk blowing his identity. It was smarter to present himself as just another meta with combat training.
The League had seen him fight—but never without his powers. The one time he had faced Black Canary with only pure martial arts, he'd held back significantly and let himself lose. So in a city crawling with metas and martial artists, he'd be hard to track.
Let Two-Face come to him—by force, if necessary.
Joseph approached the entrance, where four men in suits waited. They raised their pistols as he neared, stopping him at two dozen feet away.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" one barked.
"I want to meet Two-Face. I've got a deal for him," Joseph said calmly.
"Our boss doesn't meet with every masked clown who strolls up to the door. And you didn't answer my question."
The man cocked his weapon. "I'll give you three seconds to remove the mask and get on your knees—or you're getting swiss-cheesed."
Joseph sighed. As expected.
"One," the guard began.
Joseph didn't move.
"Two. Three."
The guards opened fire.
Joseph shifted sideways, a blur of motion as the bullets tore through empty air. He dashed forward quickly, faster than a normal human should be able to, twisting under a low shot, and closed the gap.
With a precise strike, he drove his knee into the nearest guard's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. A follow-up elbow to the temple dropped the man cold.
Joseph snatched the gun from the man's limp hand, spun on his heel, and—calculating angle, trajectory, and mass in a split-second—threw the pistol like a boomerang.
It struck one guard in the jaw, ricocheted off, and clipped the second guard in the temple. Both crumpled without a sound.
Only the loudmouth remained, hands trembling as he pointed his weapon at Joseph.
"Y-you meta freak!" he stammered.
Joseph walked forward slowly, eyes locked on the man's.
"Like I was saying," he said coolly, voice slightly muffled through the mask,
"I have a deal for Two-Face. If I wanted him dead, he'd already be. So call your boss."