Rain was Gotham's only constant. It poured like punishment, soaking Kane to the bone as he stumbled through another forgotten alley. The city didn't welcome strangers—it chewed them, swallowed them, and spat out bones. Kane felt like he was already halfway digested.
Every breath rattled in his chest. His skin burned with sweat and cold at once, like fire and ice battling under his flesh. The drugs he'd scored last night still clung to him, a warm numbness that had almost made the voices quiet. Almost.
But they always came back.
"Worthless."
"Feed us."
"Burn it down."
Sometimes they whispered. Sometimes they screamed. Sometimes they laughed like hyenas. He never knew which one was worse.
He pressed his palms to his ears, stumbling into the glow of a flickering streetlight. "Shut up, shut up, shut up." His own voice echoed back at him, but not alone—there were two more voices overlapping, one deeper, one shriller, making it sound like three people shouting in unison. A couple walking past flinched, quickened their steps, and crossed the street.
Kane let out a ragged laugh. "That's right. Don't look at me. Don't—" His reflection in a puddle cut him off. The face looking back was his, but smiling wide, teeth too sharp, eyes glowing faintly with static. The puddle-mouth moved though Kane said nothing.
"You're not one of them. You never will be."
The laughter came again, bubbling up until it bent his back and shook his ribs. People gave him space. That was Gotham's way: ignore the lunatic, step around the problem. Don't ask questions, don't get involved.
---
By midnight, the craving hit. His hands trembled, muscles twitching, stomach rolling like it was eating itself. Every nerve begged for more. He remembered the den from last night—he remembered how the pills quieted everything, even if just for an hour.
That's how he ended up back at their door.
Graffiti and gang tags coated the walls, layers of ink like scars. Inside, the air was hot with smoke and sweat. Dealers lounged with dice, cash, and guns, sizing him up like meat.
"Look what we got," one sneered. "The freak crawled back."
"I… I need more," Kane muttered, rubbing his shaking arms. "Please."
Laughter followed him like knives. A cigarette butt bounced off his chest. One man shoved him hard enough to make him stumble. "Junkie thinks he can beg his way in."
The voices coiled in his skull.
"Beg."
"Take it."
"KILL THEM ALL."
The sparks answered first. They crawled up his arms in jagged arcs, popping lightbulbs one after another until the den was swallowed in strobing black and white. Shadows surged from beneath the tables like serpents. Bottles flew, pills scattered like rain.
"Shit—he's doing it again!"
Gunfire cracked, but the bullets never reached him. Shadows wrapped around the barrels, twisted the steel until it screamed. One thug was hurled into the ceiling so hard his spine broke. Another's throat opened in a spray of red, though Kane never touched him.
By the end, the room was painted with fire and blood. Kane stood in the wreckage, shaking, his chest heaving like an animal that had fed too well. His pockets bulged with stolen pills. The voices purred.
"Better. Much better."
---
Days bled together after that.
High, the world was manageable. The shadows obeyed him, the sparks hummed in tune with his heartbeat. His body felt invincible, his mind almost calm. People on the street became ghosts, background static.
Crashing was worse. Every crash was a blade dragged across his nerves. The whispers became howls, hallucinations layered over reality. Once, he saw Batman himself standing in a shop window's reflection, glaring at him. He spun around—nothing was there. Another time, a little girl passing by had a face twisted into something demonic, her mouth stretching into a gaping void. He screamed and shadows lashed outward, shattering every car window on the street.
Gotham noticed. Gotham always noticed.
Rumors crawled through its alleys like cockroaches. A junkie demon. A freak that bled shadows and lightning. Penguin's men whispered about him in Iceberg Lounge corners. Scarecrow muttered about testing him. Even the smallest thugs started crossing the street when he appeared.
The newspapers got a name for him too: Calamity
Kane hated it. He hated that it sounded real.
---
Then came the night he bottomed out.
The rain came harder than ever, bouncing off rusted rooftops, flooding gutters. Kane staggered down a crooked alley, clutching his stomach. He hadn't eaten in two days. His veins screamed. His head felt like glass cracking.
And then—luck. Or a curse. A stash bag, ripped open, pills spilled like jewels across wet concrete.
His hands shook as he grabbed them. The voices screamed at once.
"Don't—"
"Yes—"
"All of them—"
He shoved a handful into his mouth. Swallowed dry. Then another. And another. He didn't count.
The overdose ripped him open.
Lightning burst from his skin in jagged webs, frying signs, melting asphalt. Shadows erupted like a tidal wave, tearing through brick, smashing windows. A car flipped sideways and landed in flames. A hydrant burst, water jetting into the street. Pedestrians screamed, scattering.
Kane convulsed, back arching, limbs thrashing like a puppet cut from its strings. His scream wasn't human anymore—it was three voices braided together, shattering windows blocks away. Blood poured from his nose, his ears, his mouth.
The shadows lashed everything, tearing, strangling. Sparks crawled over his flesh until the stink of burning skin filled the alley. He was dying. He knew it.
He didn't even care.
The city burned around him.
And then he collapsed.
---
When his eyes opened again, the world had changed.
Fluorescent lights stabbed into his skull. The air smelled sterile, tinged with metal. A steady beep echoed in his ears—machines. His body felt like a corpse tied down with chains. He tried to move, but his wrists and ankles were shackled to a steel bed.
Panic surged. Sparks crawled up his arms, shadows twitched at the edges of the room—but they felt smothered, weighed down by something unseen.
"You nearly killed thirty people last night."
The voice froze him cold.
In the corner, half-swallowed by shadow, stood Batman. Cape dripping rain, armor gleaming harsh under the light. His eyes glowed white behind the cowl—merciless, unblinking.
Kane's throat went dry. "…fuck."
Batman stepped closer, his voice flat steel. "You're unstable. Your powers are weapons you can't control. You're a danger to yourself. And to this city."
Kane stared fear clouding his eyes. "I'm sorry, I can't control them.
Batman didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence was worse than a threat.
Kane slumped back against the restraints. The voices whispered inside his head, sharp and poisonous.
"He'll kill you."
"He'll save you."
"He'll lock you in a cage forever."
The silence stretched. Then the restraints hissed, retracting with mechanical precision. Kane's wrists and ankles fell free, raw and red. The white lights dimmed, replaced by a low red glow.
A training space revealed itself across the chamber. Motion sensors, projectors, reinforced walls. Three drones hummed to life, targeting him.
"Stand," Batman's voice demanded.
Kane obeyed, legs shaking, body trembling.
The first drone fired. Kane ducked; sparks and shadows responded instinctively, shredding metal and stone. The second drone swarmed him; more energy erupted, destroying it mid-air. The shadows hissed inside his skull, demanding violence, blood, chaos.
The third drone fired a net. Kane's body convulsed violently as shadows tore it apart. Sparks flared uncontrollably. Pain lanced through his chest, burning, white-hot.
"Focus it," Batman commanded.
"I can't!" Kane roared, nearly screaming his mind apart. Lightning ripped across the room in uncontrolled arcs, craters forming in the reinforced floor.
Finally, exhaustion claimed him. Kane fell to his knees, body shaking. Vomit and blood soaked the floor. Sparks flickered out. Shadows shriveled back.
Batman stepped forward, silent, looming, voice a low growl. "Then you'll learn."
Kane laughed bitterly, spitting blood onto the floor. "Or die trying, right?"
Batman didn't answer. He just stared.
Kane collapsed fully, chest heaving, shadows twitching faintly at his feet. The voices whispered, now coaxing, soft but sharp:
"You're ours."
"You can't escape."
"We'll take over if he doesn't."
The rain outside pattered against reinforced glass. Kane lay broken, his body and mind on fire.
And Batman kept watching.