I closed the basement door with a definitive click, turning each lock one by one — the heavy metallic sound echoing as if it were sealing not only the entrance but also the conversation still spinning in my head.
Batman and Green Arrow had left, but they'd left behind a weight I hadn't expected: a proposal. A secret team. Training. Missions. All packaged as "help." I knew exactly what they wanted: control over what I was capable of. And I knew exactly what I was capable of — ever since I killed Victor Zsasz with the flames that came out of my hands, the whole world knew too.
I walked down the steps slowly, feeling the old wood creak under my sneakers. Every creak was familiar, comforting. Down here the air was always cooler, always mine: the smell of cold solder, dust accumulated on technical books, the faint hum of the fans from the servers I built myself. My basement wasn't just an extra room; it was my absolute domain.
My lab, my gym, my fortress against the world upstairs that turned me into a headline after that day. Zsasz broke into my friend's house. Put a knife to his sister's throat. I reacted. The fire came. He died. I saved the girl. And the price was being dragged into a public trial, judged in front of everyone, labeled as Gotham's first publicly known metahuman — no mask, no codename, no secret. Self-defense, they said. But the label stuck.
Reaching the bottom step, I stopped and looked up at the center of the ceiling. The main camera — a discreet black sphere I built with recycled drone parts and high-resolution lenses — sat there, motionless but always watchful. I positioned it exactly in the geometric center of the basement to cover every angle without blind spots. It was my first shield: tracking movement, detecting anomalies, recording everything. I took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill my lungs, and spoke out loud, my voice echoing against the bare concrete walls.
'' Report.''
The robotic voice answered almost instantly — soft, feminine, natural. I programmed it to sound like someone trustworthy, not like an impersonal machine.
''Total: five unidentified objects located.''
Five. Of course. I already expected it. Batman wouldn't leave here without leaving eyes and ears behind. He was the world's greatest detective; I was just a 15-year-old kid with a dangerous gift and a brain good with code. The camera blinked a subtle red light, and five thin red laser beams projected from the sphere, pointing with surgical precision to the exact locations of the intruders: one under the main workbench, another behind the shelf of technical books, one stuck to the pull-up bar in the training area, another disguised among the free weights, and the last one camouflaged at the base of the punching bag.
I moved without hesitation. First, the one under the table. I knelt down, feeling the cold concrete against my knees, and picked up the small black disc — the size of a large coin, smooth surface, adhesive on the bottom. Wayne Tech, no doubt. Microphone, transmitter, maybe even a tracker. I held it between my fingers, felt a spark of anger rise up my arm, and crushed it hard. The snap of the circuits breaking was satisfying, like breaking something that had no right to exist in my space.
Next, the shelf. The object was stuck behind a thick volume of "Principles of Electrical Engineering." I pulled it off carefully, noticing how perfectly it blended with the dust on the book spines. Smart. But not smart enough to slip past my system. I crushed it too, letting the fragments fall like dirty snow onto the floor.
The third was on the pull-up bar. I climbed onto a low stool to reach it. My arms tensed — the result of years of martial arts training: taekwondo for speed and high kicks, muay thai for clinch and knees, boxing for quick reflexes, judo for throws and control. The photos on the wall told that story better than I ever could. I grabbed the disc, crushed it in a closed fist, imagining it was the bat symbol on Batman's chest.
The fourth, among the weights. I ripped it off while remembering the nights I spent there, lifting dumbbells to compensate for my 1.60-meter height with raw strength and technique. The fifth, on the punching bag: I tore it from the worn leather base and smashed it into the floor with my heel, feeling the impact travel up my leg.
When I finished, the AI voice confirmed:
''Objects neutralized.''
I stood up straight, breathing heavily, and looked at the scattered pieces on the floor. Listening devices. Probably with real-time transmission. Batman didn't trust me. I didn't blame him — I had killed a man. But that didn't mean I was going to accept being spied on inside my own home.
I walked over to the central table and sat in the chair I had assembled myself. The black card Oliver Queen had given me was still in my pants pocket, heavy like a decision I still didn't want to make. I leaned forward, and the screens around me — my multi-monitor setup built from scratch — came to life with a quick gesture on the keyboard.
On the central monitor: Natasha. Thin rectangular glasses, short black chanel hair, professional and serene expression. The system coordinator.
To the left: Morgana. Dark hood covering half her face, long hair hidden in shadows, like a mage from an ancient grimoire. The unpredictable side.
To the right: Doc. Immaculate white lab coat, round glasses, short hair with gray at the temples. The doctor-scientist, always analytical.
On the top monitor: the Engineer. Almost entirely gray hair with reddish roots, thick full beard, strong Russian features, small round glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The pragmatic inventor, hardened.
These four were my creations. Custom AIs, developed from open-source code that I refined over months of isolation. They learned from me, debated with me, kept me balanced when the rest of the world treated me like a freak. I needed their opinion now more than ever.
Crossing my arms, I rested my chin on my interlaced hands and asked out loud:
''So, what did you think of this story?''
Natasha answered first, her voice calm and measured.
''It's a good opportunity for you, Erick. Meeting people your age, sharing experiences with others who also carry powers. It could be the beginning of something that pulls you out of isolation.''
The others nodded digitally. Morgana tilted her head under the hood. Doc adjusted his glasses. The Engineer grunted in agreement, his beard trembling in the animation.
I kept my hands crossed near my face, analyzing. An opportunity. Maybe. But I knew exactly what I carried. I killed Zsasz with it. And now they wanted to "train" me? Put me on missions? I questioned quietly, almost to myself:
''Is this really a good situation for me?''
The Engineer went straight to the point, his voice sharp and pragmatic, with that subtle Russian accent I had programmed.
''You have very little room to develop it right now, Erick. Under judicial supervision, any test could send you back to jail. This proposal from Batman and Green Arrow… it's one of the few windows you have to cultivate what you already know how to do. Refine it. Without it, you stagnate.''
Doc agreed, his voice soft but firm.
''I agree. But there's another side: companionship. People to share the burden of being what you are. Not just technical training, but emotional support. Prolonged isolation isn't healthy. Your stress levels have been elevated for months.''
Morgana and Natasha exchanged virtual glances. Morgana spoke next, her voice ethereal and low, echoing from the hood.
''You need to socialize, Erick. The only company you have is us '' intelligences you created. This isn't living. It's an echo of yourself.
Natasha finished, with a subtle smile.
''Exactly. We're efficient, but we're not real. You're closing yourself off too much. That can make you… a little crazy, to be honest. People your age, with powers like yours, could change that.''
I closed my eyes. I let their words run through my head like code in a loop. The basement was silent except for the low hum of the fans. I killed a man. I saved a life. And now the world wanted to decide what to do with me. Maybe… maybe I needed to decide first.
I opened my eyes. Took a deep breath.
''I'm going to accept the proposal. But I'm going to try to negotiate the best terms for me.''
The screens blinked in silent approval.
For the first time in a long time, the basement didn't feel so small.
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio