Spanish East End, Gotham City, June 27th, 1987
While the crown of the ruling mob families had grown somewhat tarnished in recent months, there was no disputing that they remained the undisputed royalty of the Gotham underworld, with Carmine Falcone still sitting atop of his throne, seemingly unassaible to any attempts at toppling him as he surveyed his kingdom of rot. But just as the underworld had it's royalty, so too did it have peasants. While organized crime had been part of the city more or less since the first foundation stone had been laid, even if that's not what they had called themselves those centuries ago, the gangs that plagued the slums of Gotham had been there even earlier, formed from the masses of the poor and destitute that had once slaved away as servants for the ruling class. And though those ancient forebearers were long gone, the conditions that had led to their birth had only gotten worse in the passing years.
Yes, gangs were just another unpleasant fact of life for Gothams poor, ranging from nameless, temporary groups of delinquent children trying to survive for another day, to slightly more ambitious alliances carving out their own little fiefdoms in the slums, preying on those even weaker and more unfortunate than themselves. Crews such as the vicious Mutants of the decaying Iron Works, the white supremacist Tally Men, and the outlaw biker gang known as the Street Demonz.
However, as far as the 14-year old Miguel was concerned, there was only one gang in Gotham that mattered; Los Bolesaros of the East End. And today, he finally got his shot at becoming a member.
Miguel shifted nervously, trying not to make it too obvious just how on edge he felt, feeling the eyes of the other members staring into him from their positions around the room. The gangs hangout had been a local theater once upon a time, which you could still tell from the fading posters on the walls and broken seats that still littered the floors from where they had been torn from their fastenings. It was something he'd heard from from his abuelita's seemingly endless lectures on how much better things used to be in the old neighborhood, the kind of nagging that made him want to be a part of this in the first place. At least the gang never gave him shit about not trying hard enough in school, or how he was being disrespectful! Los Bolesaros had fear, they had power, and that was something Miguel desperately wanted for himself, if only a little bit of it. Anything was better than the way things were now...
At the front of the room, where the crumbling remains of a small stage took up most of the wall, the moth-eaten curtains parted, and from the backstage area, a figure stepped through, a man Miguel had only seen a few times in his life, but every one of them had made an impression. He was a tall, muscular man with tanned skin and long, brown hair tied into a ponytail, dressed in ragged jeans, and a tanktop in the familiar red and black that Los Bolesaros had made their colors. However, unlike the rest of his clothes, there were two things that did not fit the overall theme - around his neck was the frayed remains of a red necktie, and his face was adorned with the frame of a pair of now lensless glasses.
Antonio Rodriguez, leader and founder of Los Bolesaros.
People in the neighborhood didn't seem to know much about him, he wasn't born in Gotham like Miguel was, nor most of the other members of Los Bolesaros. Rumor had it he'd come up from Metropolis originally, and that he'd grown up somewhere called the "Suicide Slum", long before the flying pendejo in the red cape had made all the gangs too scared to operate in the open like they did in Gotham, but again, just rumors. What Miguel knew for sure was that Rodriguez was someone who had power on the streets. When he talked, people listened. Or else.
"So, I see we got a fresh face among us today..." Rodriguez said, as his eyes looked into Miguels, who felt himself freeze on the spot "This isn't some after school club, chico! If you want to be a Bolesaro, you need to prove yourself, show us that you're something more than another street rat! If you don't..." Rodriguez shrugged with a vicious grin, showing yellowing, stained teeth "...I doubt anyone will notice one less rat in East End"
Some small part of Miguel was screaming at him to forget about all of this, to run back home while there was still a chance, even as the rest of the gang laughed hollowly at their leaders remark, but Miguel stomped it back down. He wasn't scared, he told himself with a stubborn desperation, he wasn't going to crawl back home with his tail between his legs like some pathetic momma's boy. He wasn't scared, and he wasn't sorry, and he was going to prove both his abuelita and his sister wrong! He'd show everyone he was a man!
"I-I'll do it! I'll do whatever you want me to!" He said, hoping his voice sounded more confident to the gang than it did to him.
"Well, I'm very glad to hear that, chico..." Rodriguez said as he jumped off the stage, cracking his knuckles as he began to stride casually towards Miguel "Let's see if you live through the first part of your test-"
That's as far as Rodriguez got. There was a flash of light that lit up the dusty shadows of the theater, and Rodriguez came to a stop in the middle of his walk. The gang leader turned around, staring in bafflement along with Miguel at the source of the flash. On top of the stage, where Rodriguez had been just moments before, there was now a rectangle of light, the exact same shape as a door, just standing there in the center of the stage, like it had been there this whole time, and they had all just simply not noticed it before. For a few seconds, Miguel thought he was hallucinating, or dreaming, or-or something! Anything to make sense of what he was now staring at. And then...
And then a man stepped through the doorway.
"Huh, must've taken a wrong turn at Albuqureque!"
....
Well, the entire gang doesn't immediately try to attack me the second I step through the portal, so that's something, even if it wouldn't have worked. Judging by their stupified expressions, I'm guessing it's mostly because of my unconvential arrival, so rather than wait for them to regain their bearings, I move ahead with the confrontation. "Okay, we can either do this the easy way, or the hard way! Man, I've always wanted to say that!"
The big guy with the glasses at the front snaps out of it first, and steps forward in an attempt at dominance. "And who the fuck are you, puto?!"
"Three things, big guy - One!" I begin, holding up one finger "First of all, are you aware your glasses don't have any lenses in them? That is a very odd fashion choice. Two!" Two fingers "People around here call me The Magician, I consider myself a bit of a local entrepeneur. And Three!" Three fingers "I'm going to look up what Puto means when I get back home, and if it means what I think it means, I'm gonna be very upset!"
I don't think he expected me to be as candid about my response as I was, as he seems to be at a loss of what to do next for a few moments, before he gathers himself again "Do you have any idea who we are, esse? You just earned yourself a world of pain by trespassing on our turf!" The rest of the gang, noticing the boss's regained bravado follow suit, gathering around me in a kind of semi-circle, a few of them even picking up a weapon. No guns, but one guy picks a wooden bat up from where it's leaning against the seat he was sitting on, another guy is holding what I think was once part of the metal railing above the stage, and a third pulls a switchblade out of his jeans, just like the blade I took off Knife Guy last week.
However, the kid I'm actually here for doesn't seem to be as eager for a fight as his new friends, looking like he's trying to make himself invisible behind one of the broken seats.
"Well, I got a fair guess that you guys are.. Los Bolesaros... did I pronounce that right? Anyway, I'm guessing that's you, considering you've written it all over this dump" I gesture around towards the gang tags littering the decaying walls "And judging by your bravado, I'm guessing you must be the motherless shitstain in charge of this rat's nest, am I right?"
That last bit did the job. With an incoherent snarl of rage, Leader Guy charges towards me, hands reaching for my neck. The snarl dies in his throat, turning into a confused gurgling noise when I catch him by the wrists, forcing him to come to a stumbling halt. He tries yanking himself lose once, and then I squeeze down on his wrists.
"WHAT THE FUAAARRGGHH!!" He screams, drowning out the sounds of the cracking bones in his wrists. His subordinates stare in horror as their boss shrieks and struggle in futility against my magically enchanced strength. "HOW-HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU- AAAAHHH!!"
I just give him a cold smile "Now, excuse my ignorance, this was never something I was part of when I was your age, but I understand that being the toughest guy means a lot in gang culture, yes? And, again, based on your position, I'm assuming you're the strongest person here, right?" I don't bother letting him answer, instead ramming a knee right into Leader Guy's guts, pulling my strength a little since I want to hurt him, not give him organ damage. The strike seems to be more than enough, as he gives out a wheeze of pain, his knees buckling under him, leaving him hanging from his wrists in my grip. "Well, formerly the toughest one, obviously..."
"Please... please..."
"Anyone want to give the big guy a hand? Anyone?" I say, turning towards the rest of the gang, who are staring in shock against the whimpering mess that used to be in charge. Unsurprisingly, there's no takers. "No? Alright, then let's wrap this up!" I release one of Leader Guys hands, leaving him hanging from his other arm, as I pluck the pair of weird, lensless glasses from his face, holding them in front of him "Just to make myself clear - this isn't a takeover, I am not challenging you for leadership, I couldn't care less about your two streets of slum that you consider a turf, or this sad troupe of West Side Story rejects. Dealing with you was just an unpleasant detour for my day job. But if I have to deal with you again, or if I so much get a whiff of that mustard gas you call cologne anywhere near me..."
I crush the glass frames in my hand, and toss them to the floor beneath him.
"You won't get off with a pair of fractured wrists. You'll be fitted with prosthetic hooks."
I drop the guy to the floor, leaving to whimper pitifully as he curls up into a ball, clutching his hands to his chest. Ignoring him, I turn my attention to the kid in the back, who shrinks down behind the back of the seat as he sees me noticing him.
"Kid, let's go! You got school tomorrow, young man!"
...
"Oh thank God you found him! I was so worried about him!"
A grateful Anya shakes my hand profousely while a now very cowed-looking Miguel is getting an earful from his grandmother out in the small apartment kitchen. I only know a few words in Spanish, but "angry grandma" is a pretty universal language. From what Anya told me when she came knocking on my office door, Miguel's been getting into trouble for quite a while, but it wasn't until he outright decided to run off to join the local gang that they got desperate enough to look for outside help. And while I got nothing but respect for Jim Gordon, even a competent police force probably wouldn't be much help for this kind of missings persons case, much less the GCPD. Otherwise I doubt the "Freelance Magician" would have seemed like the better option.
Tracking the kid wasn't a problem, the gangs hangout was sort of an open secret in the neighborhood, all I had to do was scry on him to make sure he was in there, and in one piece. No idea if this whole experience put him off the idea of gang life or not, but that's not really part of my business. I'm a magician, not a social worker.
I feel Anya press something into my hand, and I look down to see a few wrinkled bills, alongside a pair of small gold earrings shaped like roses. Since my experience with the Napiers, I've added a "no wedding rings" disclaimer to my accepted payment options, but I'm still fine with other types of jewelry if my clients don't have enough cash. I rub my thumb over one of the earrings, my transmutation telling me it's real, before nodding to Anya as I slip my payment into the pocket of my denim jacket.
"Again, thank you SO much, Mr. Flagg! If there's anything else we can do-"
"Actually, now that you mention it..." I hold my hand up, and much to the girls surprise, six tarot cards suddenly appear in my palm, each carrying the image of The Magician. "If you have the chance, please hand these out to your friends. Every little bit helps to get the word out, you know?"1447