"You're a what?"
"My card." Dinah starts, taking a step back as a copy of the tarot card The Magician appears between my fingers in a quick bit of magic, and I offer it to her. After a moment of hesitation, she reaches out and takes it, studying the tarot art on the front before turning the card over to reveal the text. Yet another practical use of magic, rather than having to track down dozens of separate decks just for one card, or paying to print up new copies, a simple duplication spell has given me essentially infinte copies of the original Magician, on the back of which I've written down my name, profession, and contact information for any potential clients.
I'm sure sooner or later the people I give the cards to will stop assuming it's some sort of bizarre prank.
"Freelance magician?"
"Yes, and before you ask, magic is real, I'm not a stage performer or a party magician or someone who takes Dungeons And Dragons too seriously."
"Yyyyeah, I know it's real, my mom was in the Justice Society with Doctor Fate and Zatara, it'd be kind of difficult to still think magic is fake after seeing those two in action. It was the freelance part I was wondering about."
"Oh. Sorry." I scratch the back of my head awkwardly "After being treated like you're either lying or delusional by everyone who asks, you get a little defensive. But yeah, that's me, Randall Flagg, freelance magician at your service! Spells, fortunes, healing and protection at fair and reasonable prices!"
"Interesting business plan. You get a lot of takers with that pitch?" She asks as she hands the card back to me, and watches as it disappears down my sleeve.
"Nnnnot yet, no. So far, the few people who's shown up at my office either want to come gawk at the weirdo who thinks he's a wizard, or some punk kids hoping to pull a prank on me. But hey, it's Gotham, right? I figure sooner or later someone will be desperate enough to try hiring me. I mean, if it's that or relying on the police, I like my chances."
"Hey, they're not... all bad!"
"Aside from Jim Gordon, there's maybe three officers in the entire Gotham City P.D I'd entrust with more than working as hall monitors, and even then, they'd probably start selling cigarettes or fake hall passes to the kids before the first week was over."
Dinah seems to want to argue the point, but after a moment of trying to come up with a rebuttal, she changes the subject "Okay, so if you're a wizard-"
"Magician! Just... please, use the right term. It's a branding thing."
"...okay, if you're a magician, how did you end up meeting Uncle Ted? Magic is pretty far from his usual circles." She looks over towards where Ted is currently trying to fire up a barbecue grill, muttering under his breath as the charcoals refuse to do much more than smoulder a little.
"Well, magic is a pretty versatile skill, but it's not unbeatable. I don't expect to run into someone who can overcome my abilties, but this is still Gotham, and no one ever went broke from betting on this city finding some way to screw with the overconfident at the worst moment. So, I figured I should have some physical skills to fall back on just in case, and I don't exactly have the body type for any of the more showy martial arts, so boxing it was, and wouldn't you know it, there was a world-class boxer living just a few blocks away!"
"Flattery ain't gonna get you out of your workout routine, kid!" Ted says, before turning back to his apparently futile battle with the unco-operative grill.
"Hey, Ted, step back for a second!" He looks over to me with a puzzled expression, and I wave at the side, motioning to him to step away from the grill. He steps back, and I point one hand at the metal bowl, focusing on the small pile of charcoal bricks inside.
"Ignite!"
There's a burst of flame and heat, both Ted and Dinah jumping back in surprise as the charcoal ignites, the fire quickly dying away to a smoulder. In a few seconds, the bricks are reduced to barbecue-friendly embers. Ted simply stares at the glowing grill, before leaning down to grab the metal grid for the top.
"I really appreciate the help, Flagg, but somehow, that feels like cheating."
.....
A few hours later, I'm walking back towards my apartment, my stomach full of burgers and cheap beer, which was by far one of the best meals I've had in months. Though that probably has less to do with the cooking skills of Ted Grant, and more about the fact that there's no working stove at my place, the one that came with the apartment presumably having broken down sometime during the Eisenhower administration judging by the age of it. As such, my diet since my unwilling relocation to Gotham has largely consisted of either lukewarm takeout or canned food that had been heated up over a beat-up old hot plate my landlord gave me. There's been bigger things to worry about than the quality of my diet, but enjoying actual, homemade food again has shifted it back into focus.
The streets of Gotham are never quiet, but as the sun slowly sets on the horizon, the crowds are definetly starting to thin out a bit, especially as I head south towards my own neighborhood. While elsewhere in the city, the bars and nightclubs are starting to prepare for the party crowd, that's not the sort of nightlife you see in the slums once daylight starts to fade. Already I can see people starting to move indoors, not wanting to chance being caught out after dark by any of Gothams less savory residents. As I round the corner, I glance across the street to an old, run-down playground, the few rusted, ancient play structures that haven't been vandalized beyond recognition covered in graffiti. A woman is ushering her children away, towards the entrance to one of the apartment buildings, an old, dark-skinned man rising from a park bench and shuffling off down the street as fast as his cane let's him. On my side of the street, a man in a white shirt and tie is locking up a newspaper kiosk, pulling down the front shutters and locking them tightly. Scenes like this play out all along the road as I continue walking, like the darkening sky signalling an unofficial curfew.
It's not really a fear I've ever had to deal with, I've never lived in a place where things like muggers or gangs were a genuine concern, and now that I do, I have magic on my side, so it's still not something that actually worries me. Those first, terrifying days after I first arrived here is probably the closest I've ever come, and even then, it was more a fear of everything I was suddenly dealing with than rather just this thing in particular. Now, it's not even a concern.
"Hey, the fuck you lookin' at, shithead?"
Well, speak of the devil!
On the stoop of one of the tenaments, just a few buildings down from my own, four young men with shaved heads are loitering around, two of them sitting on the stairs leading to the door, one sort of crouch-sitting by the wall next to them, and the fourth leaning on a beat-up looking car parked in front of the building, the four passing a bottle in a paper bag between them. And oh my goodness, they're actually wearing leather jackets! Actual punks with leather jackets! In freaking 1987!
"I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. Were you challenging me to a drag race down Thunder Road? Are you guys the Scorpions or the Thunderbirds?"
"The fuck you say?!" That gets a rise out of them, though I don't believe for a second any of these twerps even know what I was referencing, they don't look like a Grease crowd. The kid who was leaning against the car reaches into his jacket and pulls out an honest-to-goodness switchblade! I don't think I've ever even seen one of these outside a movie, at least one that wasn't one of the joke ones with the comb inside.
"You fucked with the wrong people, asshole! Hand over your wallet, and maybe you only lose one ear!"
"I was literally just walking down the- no, you know what, let's see where this goes. Okay Kenicky, give it your best shot."
The guy with the knife seems puzzled at my reaction, briefly glancing back at his friends, who seem to be just as confused as he is. Shrugging it off, he lashes forward with the knife, trying to bury it in my side... only to freeze in shock as the blade simply bounces back, repelled by the protection spell I've cast on my skin. A bullet might've stung a bit, even if it couldn't penetrate, but a knife, propelled by muscle alone? I don't even feel it through my jacket.
"What the fuck?" The punk stares at the knife in his hand with wide eyes, like he's unsure he just saw what happened. Behind him, his friends look just a stunned as he does, though one of them is still coherent enough to reach into his jeans pocket and pulling out what looks like a pair of brass knuckles.
I rub at the spot where the knife failed to penetrate and shrugs "Swing and a miss, folks! Anyone else want to give it a try?"
Knife Guy doesn't seem to want to give up that easily though, and takes another swing, this time aiming at my face, but rather than simply taking another hit, I grab him by the wrist with one hand, and draws from the second layer of magic on my body - my enchanced strength spell. "No, no, you had your chance, let's not get greedy. Let one of your friends try." And with a simple twist of my hand, Knife Guy's wrist breaks like a stack of uncooked spaghetti, his blade falling from his now useless fingers.
"AAAARRRRGHHHHH-" His scream is cut off as I strike out with one leg, nailing him right in the chest with a kick that sends him sprawling backwards, almost knocking him into his friends in the process, who leap out of the way like the guy is on fire.
"Holy fucking shit!"
"Jesus christ, look at Pete's hand!"
While the other two still stare in horror at their friend, who's currently whimpering on the sidewalk and clutching his ruined wrist, Knuckles Guy doesn't hesitate for a moment, and comes charging at me, knuckles raised as he aims towards my face. I don't even try to dodge the blow, and the punch connects to the right side of my face, just below the eye... to absolutely no effect, as the impact bounces harmlessly off my spell.
"Seriously, maybe try it with a roll of nickels, see if that works better?" I say, before grabbing Knuckles Guy by the back of his shaved head and slamming him facefirst into the side window of the car parked next to me. The glass shatters inward, and Knuckles Guy is left hanging with his head through the gaping hole, his body slumped down the side of the car. I dust my hands off casually before I turn to the last two.
"We done here, or do either of you have a board with a nail in it you want to try out?"
The two remaining punks take one look at what just happened to their friends, and apparently decide that retreat is the best option, turning heel and rushing off down the street, leaving the other two to their fate.
"Good choice!" I begin walking back towards my building, but before I go, I reach down and take the brass knuckles from the unconscious punk by the car, as well as Knife Guy's switchblade. I'm getting a few neat ideas about turning these things into magic items...
"Well, gotta run, boys! Stay in school!" I say as I step over Knife Guy, who's curled up into a ball, clutching his arm to his chest, and begin the short walk back home.
....
Gotham City, June 22nd, 1987
"Uuuurgh...."
There's a knocking sound coming from somewhere as the ceiling of my apartment slowly comes into focus and the fog of sleep begins to withdraw from my head. The room is cast in the sun of late morning streaming in through the dirty window on the back wall. I shake my head, clearing away the last bit of sleep, and sit upright on my "bed", which is really just a mattress I pushed into a corner of the apartment and dubbed a bedroom. It's only by the fourth series of knocks that I realize the noise is coming from the front door, and judging by the increasing frequency, whoever is on the other side is getting more and more insistant. I scramble out of bed, grabbing my jeans from the side of the mattress, and struggle to get them on in a hurry, even as the knocking starts up again.
"For christ's sake, I heard you already, calm the shit down!" I finish zipping my pants up and hurry towards the door, grabbing my shirt off the desk in the process and begin to pull it on as I unlock the door and pull it open.
"Look asshole, if you want another fucking advance on the rent, I'll-" I finish tugging my shirt over my head, expecting to see my sleazebag of a landlord in the doorway, my words cutting off mid-sentence as the person meeting my eyes is very much not who I expected.
I'm certain I've never met the woman standing in front of me before in my life, but there's something strangely familiar about her none the less. She has long, blonde hair, and looks to be in her late 20's or early 30's. She has a pleasantly attractive face, pretty in a more everyday manner than Dinah had been, and she's dressed in a green overcoat that seems to be far too heavy for the June weather outside. Her expression is a mix of apprehension and worry, and I don't think it's all because of how she was just greeted.
"Er... sorry about that. I thought you were someone else."
"Yes, I-I gathered that..." She says hesitantly, before pausing like she's thinking of what to say next "This... I'm sorry, but this is real, this whole... business you're doing, right? You can help... find lost people?"
"That's what it says on the sign, miss...?"
"Oh, yes, I'm Jeannie. Jeannie Napier. And I need someone to help me find my husband..."