Chapter 26: Shadows of Gotham
The late afternoon sky over Gotham was a heavy, oppressive shroud, its gray expanse bruised with the threat of rain that never quite relented, only drizzled in a fine, clinging mist. Jax Reed stepped off the rattling bus at the edge of downtown, the air thick with the sour bite of wet concrete, diesel exhaust, and a faint, metallic tang that reminded him of blood crusted on rusted machinery—a grim echo of Evergreen's industrial chaos. The bus station's neon sign flickered, its buzz swallowed by the city's relentless gloom, the drip-drip-drip of a broken gutter above him a mournful pulse. Jax adjusted his worn duffel bag, its straps cutting into his shoulder, and twirled his combat knife between his fingers, the blade's cool steel a familiar anchor against the wary excitement coiling in his chest. "Gotham gloom matches my mood, but this place makes Evergreen's warzone look like a beach vacation," he thought, his sarcasm a shield against the fatigue still lingering from Arc 1's climax—the Butterfly boss's collapse, Homelander's rogue beams, the team's fragile victory.
He trudged through the drizzle to the No-Tell Motel, a squat, peeling relic that seemed to sag under Gotham's weight. The lobby reeked of stale cigarette smoke, mildew, and a faint chemical sharpness, the carpet a patchwork of stains that seemed to drink the dim fluorescent light. Jax's room was a study in decay: floral wallpaper curled like scorched skin, the mattress groaned under his weight with a chorus of rusted springs, and a chipped laminate desk bore the scars of countless forgotten tenants. He dropped his bag, its thud echoing, and spread the Arc 1 dossier across the desk—singed photos, crumpled notes, and a map of Gotham's docks marked with Butterfly remnant activity. "Blood's red paint, and Vought's been painting for decades," he thought, his knife twirling faster, its rhythmic whir grounding him as he scanned the intel. The dossier's hints of Vought's interdimensional tech, tied to the Butterfly remnants, were a thread that had followed him from Evergreen, now weaving into Gotham's chaotic tapestry.
"Okay, Butterfly scum crawled out of Evergreen's ashes," he muttered, jabbing the knife's tip into the map's dockyard. "Gotham's dense, lawless—perfect for Vought's dirty laundry. Smart money says they're moving something big. Dumber money says it's been here longer than I have." The rain streaked the grimy window, blurring the city's jagged skyline into an oily smear. "Gotham rain—Batman's tears?" he quipped, his smirk sharp, the humor a jab at the city's brooding aura. He wiped his damp face with his sleeve, the fabric already soaked, and felt the ache of Arc 1's battles settle into his bones—his shoulders tight, his jaw clenched. "From chaos to a new kind of crazy," he thought, the system's interface flickering in his mind, one cumulate charge pulsing with potential.
[SYSTEM: CUMULATE AT 1 (CARRYOVER FROM ARC 1 UNUSED DAY).]
[CURRENT SUMMON POINTS (SP): 360.]
[STATS: STRENGTH 5, AGILITY 3, CONSTITUTION 3, WILLPOWER 5.]
[LESSER REGENERATION ACTIVE.]
Jax unzipped his tactical jacket, the leather creaking, and slipped the knife into its sheath with a practiced flick. His t-shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat and rain, and he stretched, his joints popping softly, a mundane ritual to shake off the journey's weight. The dossier was a starting point, but Gotham's pulse demanded to be felt firsthand. "Time to paint the streets red," he thought, stepping back into the drizzle, the city's shadows whispering promises of trouble.
The early evening streets of Gotham's underbelly were a gritty symphony: the low, grinding hum of distant machinery, the mournful wail of a police siren fading into despair, and the sharp, acrid reek of overflowing dumpsters mingling with stale beer. Jax moved through Crime Alley, his boots crunching on shards of broken glass, the air cold and electric with menace. He wasn't chasing the big score yet—just testing the system's limits in this unforgiving urban maze and scratching the thrill-seeker itch honed by Arc 1's chaos. "Sarcasm levels rising, but this place is a combat buffet," he thought, his senses sharpened by the city's brooding pressure.
Three shadows detached from an alley's brickwork, their movements clumsy but hostile, their silhouettes stark against the flickering streetlight. The leader, a hulking figure in a crude skull mask, hefted a rusty pipe, his breath fogging in the chill, his stance radiating desperate bravado. Two smaller thieves flanked him—one clutching a switchblade that glinted faintly, the other gripping a crowbar, its tip scarred from use. "Drop the bag, punk," the leader growled, his voice muffled by the cheap cloth, his eyes darting nervously.
Jax's grin was slow and predatory, his knife twirling once before he pocketed it, his hands loose but ready. "Oh, sweet, my first Gotham welcoming committee. You guys are gonna be the opening act for my chaos tour documentary." "From cubicle to street brawl," he thought, his body coiling with Agility 3 precision, his heart pounding with the familiar thrill of violence.
The fight erupted in a blur of calculated brutality. Jax sidestepped the pipe's wild swing, the air whistling past his ear, and drove his elbow into the leader's jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot in the alley. The switchblade thief lunged, his blade grazing Jax's forearm, blood beading instantly, a sharp sting that faded as Lesser Regeneration warmed his skin, sealing the cut in seconds. Jax countered with a knee to the thief's gut, the man collapsing with a wheeze. The crowbar thief hesitated, his eyes wide, then bolted as Jax's fist slammed into the leader's knee, dropping him with a pained yelp. "Blood's red paint, and I'm the artist," he thought, adrenaline surging, his breath steaming in the cold.
He knelt by the downed leader, his voice a low, excited rasp. "Tell me something interesting, or I start asking about your favorite color." The thief, clutching his knee, stammered through gritted teeth, "Interdimensional… artifacts. New crew… Vought's moving weird stuff." The words hit Jax like a shock, tying directly to the dossier's hints of Vought's rift tech, a crack in the mystery that sent his mind racing.
[SYSTEM: DANGER LEVEL: LOW-MEDIUM.]
[SUMMON NOT USED.]
[COMBAT VICTORY: +10 SP.]
[CURRENT SP: 370.]
Jax pocketed the switchblade as a souvenir, wiping his blood on his jacket, the cut already a faint memory. "Vought's bleed is here, and it's bigger than I thought," he thought, the thief's words echoing the dossier's warnings. He didn't notice a faint hum from a nearby rooftop—a sleek Bat-gadget, its lens glinting, recording his every move. "From chaos to surveillance," he thought, moving deeper into the night, the docks his next target, the city's pulse thrumming under his skin.
Back at the No-Tell Motel, the room's stale air clashed with the greasy, cloying scent of General Tso's chicken from a takeout carton, its cardboard sagging under the weight of sauce. Jax sat at the chipped desk, his journal open, doodling a caricature of the skull-masked thief in the margin, the pen scratching rhythmically. He took a bite of the chicken, grimacing at its soggy texture. "This tastes like Gotham's soul—sad, overcooked, and vaguely wrong," he muttered, sauce dripping onto the dossier. He cursed softly, wiping it with a crumpled napkin, his clumsiness a humanizing tic that grounded his restless energy. "Sarcasm levels rising, but Evergreen's gas station slop was a culinary masterpiece compared to this," he thought, shaking his head.
The dossier's smuggling leads pointed to a dockyard warehouse, likely a hub for the interdimensional artifacts the thief mentioned. Jax needed to test his system in Gotham's urban chaos, ensuring his commands could adapt to this new environment. "Time for a dry run—burn this cumulate before it expires," he said, leaning back in the creaking chair, his fingers brushing the desk's sticky surface. He activated the system's interface, its holographic glow faint but steady in his mind.
[SYSTEM: SUMMON PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.]
[CUMULATE: 1.]
[DANGER LEVEL: NON-COMBAT TEST.]
[SUMMON: THE DEEP (THE BOYS).]
[WILLPOWER BREAK CHANCE: 10%.]
The air turned sharp with ozone, a sweet, electric tang that made Jax's nose twitch. The Deep materialized near the bathroom door, his orange suit glistening with seawater, his boots squelching on the carpet, leaving a briny puddle. His face was a mask of profound distress, his large, wet eyes darting around the dingy room. "From chaos to fishboy—great," Jax thought, wincing at the summon's mismatch.
"What in the name of the Seven is this disgusting, air-choked hellhole?" The Deep whined, his nasal voice grating, his hands flailing dramatically as he surveyed the peeling wallpaper and stained carpet.
Jax raised a hand, his tone sharp. "Nope, not now, Aquaman's sad cousin. You're bound to 'Scan room for hidden interdimensional or Vought-related tech.' Go on, scan." The Deep blinked, shivering in his wet suit, and shuffled to the desk, his webbed fingers tracing the laminate with exaggerated care. "I… I sense dust. So much dust. And the profound sadness of a million bad decisions," he reported, his voice dripping with theatrical despair, completely missing the command's intent but obeying its letter.
The test was a technical success but an operational failure—no tech detected, just The Deep's melodramatic nonsense. The summon vanished in a ripple of light, leaving a lingering fishy smell and a wet stain on the carpet. Jax rubbed his temples, exhaling sharply. "Sarcasm levels rising, but I'm sharper than this guy's brain," he thought. His mind drifted to Catwoman's dossier entry—her agility, her grey morality, her thrill. "From chaos to date night," he thought, smirking, the docks raid looming, her shadow a spark in Gotham's gloom.
[SYSTEM: SUMMON USED.]
[CUMULATE: 0.]
[NO STAT GAIN (MISMATCHED POWER SET FOR CURRENT ENVIRONMENT/HOST NEED).]
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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