Pamela circled him, her bare feet sensing the pulse of the roots snaking beneath the concrete like the veins of New Eden. He stood motionless, his eyes empty yet alive—her kiss of truth had shackled his mind. This man had dared to step into her domain with words that sounded like either madness or hope. His scar, crimson and jagged, stretched from temple to chin, as if Gotham had carved its signature into him. This city marked everyone, but this man… he didn't fear the marks.
"You were bold to come here," Pamela said, her voice weaving into the rustle of the vines that whispered in response. "Kneel."
Not to humiliate him. She didn't waste her venom on petty cruelty. She needed to know he was subdued, that his will was hers. He dropped to his knees without hesitation, and her plants relaxed slightly but remained vigilant. Eden trusted her, not him. Pamela stopped in front of him, arms crossed, and began:
"What is your name?"
"Alex Smith," his voice steady, devoid of resistance.
"Where did that scar come from?"
"The villain Scarecrow. I was caught in one of his fires."
She nodded. Truth. Her venom didn't tolerate lies. Scarecrow—another parasite of Gotham, sowing fear for his twisted games. Pamela leaned closer, studying his eyes, where something smoldered even under her control.
"Is what you said about your power true?"
"Yes."
She straightened, feeling the vines behind her tense, ready to tear him apart if he lied. His gift—to see the world as a puzzle, to gather clues that eluded others. A dangerous man in a city where everyone hid their cards. Pamela steeled herself, asking the question that would decide his fate:
"How can you help me?"
His answer came instantly, words sharp as the thorns of her plants:
"With your power, we can grow modified plants—for profit and protection. You'll gain a reputation as a caretaker, creating greenery for people, but in Gotham, something else is valued: safety. You can grow paralytic plants on the walls of our district, activate them when someone's in danger. But your past strategy was flawed. You destroyed factories, demolished plants, gave nothing in return, and achieved nothing. It's not about nature dominating humans or vice versa. It's about symbiosis. For my plan to start, we need a lot of money. A lot. With my power and yours, it's not difficult. We buy commercial buildings and ruined factories in the district. Then we'll need even more money, but that's solvable. Problems will come later, when we reveal ourselves to the world. But it's too early to look that far—everything could fall apart sooner. There are twelve paths forward, but this one is the most stable, with a high chance of success. Shall I list them all?"
Pamela froze, her vines rustling, reflecting her confusion. Symbiosis? Twelve paths? This man spoke of a dream she had buried under the ashes of human betrayal. But she didn't trust. People lie, betray, destroy. She leaned closer, her voice colder:
"Do you intend to betray me?"
"No, unless you cross the line."
"What line?" Her voice rang like the cracked glass of the greenhouse.
"Killing innocents. Using power for war, murder, profit. Everything the politicians of this city are guilty of."
Pamela stilled. His words were like poison, but not hers. They struck at what she had rejected but still felt. She gathered her strength and touched his lips with hers, lifting the spell. The venom receded, and he blinked, looking around as if surfacing from a dream. His hand reached for his scar, scratching it, and he muttered:
"The question about the scar was unnecessary."
Pamela raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "And kneeling?"
His lips twisted into a sly grin, and he winked. "I didn't mind."
She ignored his insolence, her gaze hardening. "You speak of safety, reputation, money. That's all for the people. What's in it for me?"
He stood, brushing off his knees, and looked at her as if seeing the roots of her soul:
"That's your mistake, Pamela. You want to take without giving anything in return. We'll make you a goddess to the people—beautiful, caring, providing safety. With their support, we'll take over one district. When people see the prospects of living under your protection, others will come. When Gotham's authorities realize we're seizing power, the people will be our shield. That's why we buy buildings—it's legal protection. We won't give the government a reason to touch us. Corrupt politicians will swarm like flies to honey once they smell profit. And then the plan will turn in your favor: the people will protect you themselves. You'll be able to build greenhouses, parks, create laws to protect plants. Violators will be judged by the people themselves—in your name, not by your hand. That's important: they must administer justice because they believe in you. And I plan to hire architects, maybe even with superpowers, to combine nature and progress with your strength. Gotham will become your garden, but not through destruction—through alliance."
Her vines rustled, and Pamela felt her garden respond to his words. He spoke of what she once wanted, but people… people always betray. She stepped back, frowning:
"How will we get a lot of money?"
His eyes gleamed, and he paused, building intrigue. "Not just a lot, but quickly. We'll grow drugs."
Her garden shuddered, and Pamela felt anger rising in her chest. Drugs? That's what destroys everything she protects. "Explain," she demanded, her voice cutting like thorns. Eden tensed, awaiting his response.
Alex blinked, pushing away the numbers flashing in his mind:
Goal: 100 million dollars. Average price of marijuana on Gotham's black market: $3,000 per kilogram. Required volume: about 50 tons. Modification potential: high—90%. Risk: critical—80%.
"Listen, I know drugs are dirty," he began, trying to sound convincing but not preachy. "We need 100 million to launch our plan. With your power, we can grow modified weed—harmless but valuable on the market. Speed up growth, drying, all under your control."
Pamela's reaction: irritation—70%. Probability of agreement: 30%.
He paused, seeing her cross her arms, her vines twitching slightly in tune with her displeasure.
"It's a one-time thing, Pamela," he continued inci, trying to reassure her. "We make one push, get the money, and get out of this filth. There's another way, a long one: study your powers, create medicines, patent them, register a company. But without startup capital, that'll take five years, maybe seven. Time calculation: 5.2 years in an optimistic scenario, 7.8 accounting for Gotham's bureaucracy. It's your choice."
Pamela stared into his eyes, her gaze like thorns ready to pierce. She was silent, weighing his words. Her ideals—protecting nature, fighting corporate greed—screamed against this plan, but time… time in Gotham was the enemy. She sighed, as if resigning, and her garden relaxed slightly.
"Fine," Alex said with a slight smirk. "Now, give me a tour and show me where I can sleep."
She looked at him like he was an idiot and raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have a home?"
He put on a serious face but couldn't resist a joke. "I'm homeless, didn't I mention?" Seeing her gaze darken, he pointed to his scar. "House burned down, thanks to Scarecrow. Insurance gave me 60 grand, and it's going into our plan. So, Pamela, I'm all yours."
She sighed, clearly unimpressed by his humor, and gestured with her hand. Vines and roots began to stir, weaving together in the corner of the greenhouse into something resembling a bed—green, soft, but with a hint that it might swallow him if he displeased the mistress.
Bed structure: stable. Material: modified plants. Threat: minimal—10%, if not provoked.
Alex nodded, flopped onto the strange bed, and felt Gotham's exhaustion wash over him. His eyes closed, and he fell asleep as the vines rustled softly overhead, as if guarding his sleep. Or watching him.
***
A month passed, and New Eden had transformed. Pamela had tidied the greenhouse: the vines no longer invaded personal space, and the carnivorous flowers kept their distance like well-trained guards. On the ground, four African-American men bustled about, hired by Alex over the weeks. He called them Jimmy 1, Jimmy 2, Jimmy 3, and Jimmy 4—for convenience, not bothering with their real names. They were harvesting and drying the last bushes of cannabis—modified, harmless, but still expensive.
Alex smirked, recalling how Pamela, upon first seeing them, had squinted and asked, "Are you racist?" He had nearly choked with laughter—it was just a coincidence. He explained that in Gotham, guys like them rarely got a chance at a decent job. He gave each $7,000 for silence and anonymity, vetting them through his power. They wouldn't talk, not unless pressed with a hot iron.
"Load it into the truck," Alex said, clapping his hands. "That's all for today."
They nodded and dragged the crates to the exit while he threw on his tattered coat, still smelling of rain and Gotham's ash. Outside, he hailed a taxi—a rusty wreck that seemed to hold together by sheer will. The driver glanced at his scar but said nothing.
Probability of taxi trouble: 10%. Driver isn't curious.
Alex gave an address near Falcone's lair. The Maronis ran the drug market, but Falcone would pay more to undercut his rivals.
The taxi dropped him a couple of blocks from the building—a shabby warehouse masquerading as an office. He walked the rest of the way, feeling the asphalt stick to his soles. At the entrance stood a guard, built like a tank, with a face like chiseled brick.
"What do you want?" he growled, baring his teeth.
Alex remained calm. Guard: low rank, aggressive but follows orders. Access key: code phrase. The phrase "The falcon hunts in the shadows" had surfaced in his mind a few days ago. His power wove connections: a bartender's chatter in a portside dive about Falcone's codes, a thug's complaint in an alley about "hunting bullshit," graffiti on the warehouse wall with a crossed-out "falcon" and a shadow with wings.
"I need to talk to your boss," he said evenly. "Tell him: 'The falcon hunts in the shadows.'"
The guard frowned but muttered the phrase into his radio. A second later, his expression changed, and he stepped aside.
Alex walked in, smirking to himself. Gotham was like a shitty game where every step was a survival test.