Gotham City, Warehouse 2120
12:41 AMJohn "Johnny Boy" Gobbs coughed as the polluted midnight air hanging over the Gotham City Docks filled his lungs. A two-bit hustler for the Maroni crime family for the last seven years, Gobbs had developed somewhat of a reputation among his peers in the criminal underworld for being a guy who took nothing seriously. When the heat came down, he was usually the first one to throw up the white flag and take one for the team, knowing that he'd be back out on the streets by dawn's early light. It was just how that sort of thing worked in Gotham. The cops were on Salvatore Maroni's personal payroll, the one hold that the gangster had on The Roman to keep himself ahead of the game. As far as Gobbs was concerned, that made Sal untouchable, and even a low-level man like Johnny Boy considered himself fortunate to be on the winning team.
So why he'd been assigned to guard an import of weapons for The Red Triangle, who had established themselves as an enemy to both the Maroni's Capo Italiana and The Roman's Syndicate, was way beyond him. He and a small army had been given the order by one of Maroni's personal guard, Anthony "Fat Tony" Zucco, to work with the Russian outfit to ensure that a safe deposit was made to a secondary location without incident. But the pay was more than generous, and Gobbs figured that if he had a chance to pay off his car by the end of the month just for lending a helping hand, asking questions were the last thing on his mind.
Sitting guard in the loading bay, Gobbs pulled a joint from his jacket that he'd been saving for a night like this and began to roll. As he was about to light it up, another lieutenant for his outfit made his way through the door and immediately gave him a look. Gobbs shrugged.
"Hey, don't gimme that look. You know me, I gotta rip one off before we get down to business."
The lieutenant was a gruff, no-nonsense up and comer named Jefferson Skeevers. With a rap sheet a mile long and a particular vice for the city's vast market of narcotics, Skeevers nevertheless cut the bullshit whenever it came to his work and expected everyone else to do the same.
"Not tonight, Gobbs. We gotta stay alert. All hands on deck type'a situation."'
"Now, you mentioned that you've been having nightmares again. Tell me about those."
Leslie Thompkins sips at a freshly brewed cup of tea as I sit on a couch directly infront of her, trying to think of how to word exactly what I saw this morning. These sessions have been very helpful, I believe, in relieving my mind of the stress that comes with the life I've chosen. But the sheer ferocity of these dreams, and the frequency of which they've been happening. I'm not entirely sure that I trust even Leslie to make sense of them yet. Not until I've made sense of them myself, if I ever even can. The medication she's prescribed to me is starting to lose it's effect - not to mention that it's affected my nightly performance, of which I can't abide.
"It starts..."I clear my throat.
"It starts with something I can't really understand. You've heard of the metahuman problem?"Leslie nods. "I wouldn't necessarily say that I believe it to be a problem, per se, but I read the papers like everyone. I know about the more media friendly types."
Contrary to what she believes, I disagree. Ever since these superhumans began appearing in the public eye, I've had to prepare strategies for entirely new threats. Unimaginable threats that I may or may not even ever come into contact with. Threats that don't so much cause disruption in Gotham as represent a new danger I'd never anticipated: one that could level the city with a thought, or a fist. Alfred says I'm paranoid. I like to think I'm being realistic.
"Hh. Well, there's one in particular that I haven't been able to get out of my head."I take a sip of the coffee that Leslie prepared, knowing my affinity for cinnamon and sugar mixed with milk. My mother's favorite, as Leslie knew well, given they were friends for fifteen years. It's one of the few links I have left to my mother, after all these years. Well. One of the... saner links, I suppose.
Taking the blunt from him, Skeevers made sure to stuff it in his own pocket. Gobbs didn't know whether that meant that he was holding onto it temporarily or, more likely, that he'd just been robbed. But he was more interested in what happened next, as Skeevers replaced his now empty hand with a 44. magnum. Gobbs looked at the weapon curiously, nevertheless loading the clip he was then handed.
"Hey, I already got a piece. I came prepared. What's with the extra bit of paranoia?"
Skeevers side-eyed him. "What, you ain't heard? This ain't a simple cargo drop tonight, man. Maroni's cut a deal with The Roman on this, splitting it three ways with The Penguin. They got a mutual enemy, and that piece of shit's been hitting us hard the last couple of weeks. Nobody knows when or where he's gonna hit next, but we wanna make sure he doesn't make it outta here alive."
Gobbs' eyebrows raised. "You're shitting me. All this is because of one guy?"
"One guy that put seven of Zucco's guys in traction last night, yeah. One hell of a guy."
"Heh. Sounds like the families are looking out for The Boogeyman."
Skeevers narrowed his eyes. "Motherfucker, from what I heard... that ain't too far off."
Despite being relatively well informed, Johnny Boy was unable to wrap his head around what he'd just heard. One guy had hit the families and lived? An assassin, maybe? Word on the street was that the leader of the drug trade, some crazy plant-loving bitch calling herself Poison Ivy, had doubled up on her own private set of muscle to protect her assets from falling into the wrong hands. She had everyone from Floyd Lawton to El Gato, The Catman, working for her now. Was this the start of a territorial thing?
"Alright, you don't gotta tell me twice. I'll keep a watch."
Skeevers nodded and loaded his semi-automatic, heading back out to oversee the loading crew. As the minutes passed by, Gobbs found himself reaching back into his pocket to see if there were any traces of weed left in his stash. Nothing on the CCTV feed indicated that there was anything but business as usual for the boys outside, so he figured all of this paranoia was for nothing. And if it was indeed one guy to look out for, there were at least twenty armed guards waiting to pump him full of lead.
"Heh. The Boogeyman. These idiots really got some imagination..."
"They call him Superman. I've been studying news footage of him for months, weighing out the possibilities of where his abilities could have come from.""I see. And you've been drawn to this one in particular, because?"
"Leslie, the man can fly and bend steel with his bare hands.", I reply, narrowing my eyes.
"He's virtually invulnerable to pain and affliction, as far as I can tell. Bullets bounce off of his skin."Leslie raises an eyebrow. "You sound almost envious of this power."
"I wouldn't say envious. I'd say that it makes me afraid. That one day, he could land out of the skies and make his way into Gotham. And that I wouldn't know what the hell to do."With a faint sigh, she massages the bridge of her nose. "So I assume, then, that this dream had to do with this... Superman?"
"Something like him, I suppose."I place the mug of coffee infront of me and put my hands together.
"It starts with a routine sweep of the East End. I'm on patrol, looking into the new drug trade that answers to an individual known on the streets as The Penguin.", I begin.
"I'm watching them load the product into their trucks, checking serial numbers. Double checking orders given via tablet. And just as I'm about to make my entrance and prevent those drugs from hitting the streets..."There's a lilt of anger in my voice.
"I feel a singe of red heat start to burn at the base of my skull. Whenever I turn around, I see...""You see what, Bruce?"
As he took out his flask of whiskey and took a swig, something immediately caught his attention. A flicker of movement that had shown up out of the left corner of his eye. Johnny Boy scanned the area closely, swearing that he'd seen two of The Roman's men patrolling the area not just a second ago. But there was nobody there. His own paranoia suddenly rising, Gobbs held onto the .44 a bit more firmly.
"What the hell?", he whispered to himself. "That ain't..."
And that's when it really started. Suddenly, guys just started disappearing from the feed, left and right. Pulled up into the air, some by their feet, others from around their chests. Like some sort of rope or cable just came down and plucked them from the Earth. Gobbs had been far from the other one to notice this bizarre phenomena as he could hear Skeevers barking orders from outside. Seconds later, the gunfire began, and Gobbs leapt to his feet with his weapon raised.
"Jesus Christ!"
Running towards the door, he could see glimpses of activity from the windows. Something was happening alright, but it was hard to tell what exactly it was. A shadow had swooped down over the guys guarding the outpost leading into the cargo bay, and was currently taking out everything in it's wake. Gobbs could hear bullets flying, but what what worried him was that he heard a more prominent set of sounds - bones crunching and grown men screaming for their lives. Kicking open the door, Johnny Boy Gobbs steadied himself and aimed high.
But no one was left standing. Johnny Gobbs gasped as he looked down to his feet, to find Skeevers flat on his face. He didn't know if the guy was dead or unconscious, but whoever had got to him was still there. He could hear him. Some kind of weird rustling, like leather flapping against the wind. Gobbs looked at the scores of similarly immobile figures ahead of him and immediately sheathed his gun.
"Him. Floating. Ready to cut me down. Larger than life, with the abilities of a God. And I start to realize that I'm only a man in a costume. Nothing in the belt can save me. Or rather, the belt itself even disappears. I can't remember."I sigh myself, frustrated.
"It doesn't make sense, Leslie. From everything I gathered, this 'Superman' is nothing but benevolent. He helps people. Saves them in ways that I could never do myself. Why is it that he's my enemy in these dreams?"Leslie takes a long pause. I know that she wants to say more, particularly about the violence. She's had long conversations with me in the past. Needless to say, she was less than thrilled with my choice of profession in life whenever I confided in her, but she's unwilling to turn me in. Both as a professional courtesy and out of a need to protect me, given she and Alfred were the only ones there after I lost my parents. I've often wondered if that's manipulation on my part, to prevent incarceration. Like I've unwittingly blackmailed her into continuing these sessions, knowing what I truly am. Knowing that I break the law on a regular basis and inflict pain on people in a way that she despises.
But, she's stuck with me. And I'm stuck with her. I think that in the end, it helps us both to be able to have a completely open forum about this. Especially if we don't say my other name aloud. The one that the press clung to, the one that my enemies whisper in the dark.
"Fuck. Shit. Fuck!"
Turning tail, Gobbs darts immediately for the parking lot, running over several groaning bodies. That at least told him they were alive, but none were in a condition to stand. And if Gobbs were anything, he was no goddamn fool. If whoever had hit them was able to take on a small army and win, Johnny Boy wouldn't last a second. He'd catch hell from Zucco, but he figured that was more favorable to having his head bashed in by something out of a horror movie.
"OH, FUCK!"
Gobbs was so out of sorts and frantic by the sight of grown men lining the docks on their stomachs that by the time he reached the edge of the platform he'd been stationed on, he immediately realized that he had been on the second floor of the loading bay and not the first. In essence, Johnny Gobbs had gotten ripped and took a walk off a roof.
Falling straight into the air, Gobbs got one look at the pavement below and closed his eyes. No one would mourn him, as he didn't have any immediate family. He had been seeing a girl from Bludhaven for a few months, but it was nothing serious. And he sure as hell didn't expect Sal Maroni to attend his funeral. All in all, he figured he'd be written off as no big loss.
"Bruce, I have to be blunt when I say this. I think what you're experiencing is envy. I don't think that this man is a threat to you, and I think that you know that.", she begins. "But I do believe that the power he represents is threatening to you on a professional, perhaps even psychological level."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Professional...""He's a crimefighter. A hero, to a great many people.", she explains. "Is that not what you wish to be yourself? Even if you're trying to scare others, isn't he practically everything you want to be? Renowned for your ability to help others?"
I take a moment to consider this.
"No."When she visibly questions my response, I elaborate.
"No, what he does, he does in a very specific way. He's out there in full view of everyone. I can never be that. I don't... want to be that. Nothing about what I do is meant for personal gain. It can't be, especially after how it got to this point. I learned a hard lesson about trying to make this mission personal. Being..."I catch myself.
"Being him allows me to take myself out of the equation. Bruce Wayne isn't the one going out there and putting himself on the line. Bruce has friends. Loved ones. Things that Wayne couldn't stand to lose. But he doesn't."Leslie looks at me, a sense of worry coming over her face.
"Bruce, what do you mean by taking yourself out of the equation? Do you consider..."
"I consider him a separate entity, yes."
That's when he felt something clasp itself hard around his neck, tight as a steel bar. Gobbs began to choke, watching out as his descent slowed down. And he noticed that whatever was around his neck wasn't made of steel, but was flesh and muscle. Garbed in black, with three razor-like fins protruding from the forearm. Gobbs breathed a sigh of relief for only a moment, before he realized that his descent was turning into an ascension, and whoever had grabbed him wasn't letting go.
"Please... I don't... You don't gotta..."
By the time that Gobbs got a decent look at the face of his attacker, he was screaming too.
She's silent.
"I know how that sounds, but...""It
sounds like dissociative identity disorder, Bruce. And if that's the case, we may need to begin some form of cognitive behavior therapy, or dialectical behavioral therapy. Something more than your routine visitations."
"Leslie."I lean forward.
"I know who I am. I'm not in any doubt of that. But... I do try and keep myself separated from it all. I don't know whether it's to protect myself, or other people, but I have a need to ensure that I can establish plausible deniability.""What if that's not what you're seeking? Because to me, that sounds closer to actual denial."
I try and answer, but stop. Because for the life of me, I don't know if she could be right.
"At the very least, we should consider switching your medications. Clozapine doesn't seem to have helped your hallucinations if you're having dreams like this."
Fighting back my immediate resistance, I lean back into the couch.
"Whatever you're willing to prescribe, I'll be looking into it myself before I consider taking it."Taking out a notepad, she begins jotting down a perscription nevertheless.
"Yes, you've established that your father's stubborness is quite thoroughly alive and well, these past few months.", she dryly responds. "I'm going to give you a trial of Bitizaparide. It's new to the market, but the results have been promising. More to the point, it has no chance of slowing cognitive function."
I nod, grateful.
"That's all I ask."
Less than an hour later after the initial attack, Gobbs would be found strung up on the side of the loading bay with more than a dozen other men similarly beaten half to hell, wrapped and sealed for delivery to the police. Precinct 27, to be exact, where an idealist young police captain named James Gordon was trying to clean up corruption and avoid getting in on the take.
And only one clue would be left to the assailant's identity - a sharp, metal projectile wrapped inside the binds, dipped in a chemical solution that made fingerprints or any further identification through forensics next to impossible.
A projectile that looked to be shaped like a Bat.
