The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Eat Melon Today: Inside Wonder Woman][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if any better topics came up. If not, he would submit the melon he ate today.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be just another face in the melon-eating crowd back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, and his was what he called the "Melon-eating System." Once a day, he could get a certain reward for eating melons. The rewards were tiered: the melon reward for news reported by others was the lowest. The melon reward obtained by exploring on his own was slightly higher. But the best rewards came from visiting the scene in person.
And in a city like Gotham, where chaos was always simmering, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was slow to submit the task of eating melons today.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't eaten a single melon fresh from the scene. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and not being able to eat fresh melons—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand melons alone have never been anything special.
For ten days, he ate a series of melons: Batman putting the Joker in Arkham Asylum again; the Gotham Woods growing at an unnatural rate; an undersea earthquake nearly causing a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; the Planet Daily officially naming the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these melons connected to the super-world, he also ate a lot of melons related to Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards given by these non--first-hand melons, while average, had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far, he knew that as long as he ate some big melons about the supers in person, the system will surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the task of eating melons today, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. As a natural-born melon-eater empowered by the Melon-eating System, he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several cars parked on the side of the road and drove away.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this the delirious Harley who has just been abandoned by the Joker's propelled chemical pool Quinn?
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .
DO NOT READ DOWN HERE , WORD COUNT
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.
For ten days, he'd been subsisting on table scraps. He'd gotten intel that Batman had thrown the Joker in Arkham again; that the Gotham Woods were growing at an unnatural rate; that an undersea earthquake had nearly caused a tsunami before being stopped by an unknown force; that the Planet Daily had officially named the guy in the red cape 'Superman.'
Aside from these superhero-related tidbits, he'd also gotten plenty of scoops on Bruce Wayne's scandalous affairs with various starlets. The rewards from this non-first-hand information were mediocre, but they had given him enough cash to buy a legal identity and gain enough basic combat skills to handle the average street thug. It was enough to gain a foothold in Gotham.
But it wasn't enough.
Connors had no desire to be just another ordinary person in a world teeming with superheroes and villains. To die as an anonymous casualty in some city-leveling catastrophe would be the ultimate cosmic joke. He had the System. And while its rewards had been mundane so far—cash, fighting skills—he knew it held the potential for more. If he could just get to the scene of a major event, a real scoop involving the capes, he was certain the System would surprise him.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, its hands creeping toward midnight. Just as Connors decided nothing else was going to happen and prepared to submit the Wonder Woman scoop, a deafening BANG erupted from the street outside.
The explosion was followed instantly by a symphony of urban chaos: the blare of car alarms, the terrified screams of pedestrians, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sliced through the night. The noise shocked the bar patrons into a stunned silence.
Action.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Connors. This was it. Before anyone else could even process what was happening, he was on his feet and heading for the door. His old life as a gossip-hound and his new reality powered by the System both screamed the same thing: he couldn't just sit here.
SKREEEEE!
The sound of tortured rubber shrieked through the air. As soon as Connors stepped outside, a small sedan locked its brakes and drifted sideways, its headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness. The car screeched to a halt just inches from a figure standing motionless at the intersection, perfectly framed between the overlapping pools of light from two streetlamps.
The figure hadn't even flinched. They stood with a baseball bat resting casually on their shoulders, long, stringy hair plastered to their face, looking like some demonic specter in the shadows.
The driver, furious at the near-collision, threw his door open. "What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?! Get out of the—"
Before he could finish, the figure in the shadows launched themselves onto the hood of the car, swinging the baseball bat high over their head.
"Motherf—"
The single word was cut short by the wet, sickening thwack of the bat connecting solidly with the driver's forehead. He collapsed onto the pavement without another sound.
The maniacal laughter echoed again as the figure hopped off the hood. Ignoring the unconscious man on the ground, they jumped into the now-empty car, revved the engine, and smashed it into several parked vehicles before peeling away down the street.
The people of Gotham, true to form, were barely fazed. A few shouts echoed from the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the panic subsided as quickly as it began. Inside the bar, the men were already returning to their seats, ready to resume their drunken arguments.
But Connors didn't go back inside. As the stolen sedan sped away, he had already slipped into its back seat.
Red and blue pigtails… the crazed, shrieking laughter… the delirious look in her eyes and that pungent, chemical smell clinging to her skin…
He leaned back against the torn upholstery, a slow grin spreading across his face as he studied the driver.
Is this Harley Quinn? Fresh from the chemical bath the Joker threw her in and already dumped by the clown himself?
The air in the Gotham dive bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and desperation. It clung to the sticky wooden tables and soaked into the cracked leather of the booths. From a corner, a fat, red-faced man, his cheeks flushed with cheap alcohol, sloshed a heavy beer mug as he held court.
"I'm telling you, I'd never have left Boston if it wasn't for the mountain of debt," he boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the half-empty room. "It's safer than this hellhole, that's for sure. And their hero… Wonder Woman? A damn sight prettier, too."
Leaning against the bar, Connors Patterson offered a noncommittal laugh along with the other patrons, the sound swallowed by the low drone of conversation. He let the old man's bragging wash over him, tuning it out. Wonder Woman is beautiful, no doubt, he thought, his eyes scanning the room, but Gotham has its own lethal garden of beauties. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon… each one a goddess in her own right.
A portly man with a thick, greasy beard sitting next to Connors leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial shout. "Hey, I heard Wonder Woman always has those long legs of hers out on display. You think there's anything under that little skirt of hers?"
Connors shot the man a look of pure contempt. It was a filthy question, but after a few weeks of slumming it in Gotham's cheapest watering holes, he was used to the crude sewer that flowed from these men's mouths the moment they opened them.
The first man scoffed, insulted on a chivalrous level only a drunk could muster. "What kind of crap is that? She's a warrior goddess, not some slut off the street. How could she run around naked?" He thumped his mug on the bar for emphasis. "Let me tell you something, she's a goddess in my heart. The kind you don't blaspheme!"
His declaration was met with a wave of derisive laughter from the dozen or so souls populating the bar. The crude jokes became more brazen, a competition of vulgarity.
"Wonder if that hard breastplate chafes her tits?"
"Bet she's going commando under that suit…"
Amidst the throng of dirty, wheezing, and overweight drunks, Connors Patterson was an anomaly. Standing nearly six-foot-three, his powerful build was evident even under the dark red jacket he wore. That, combined with his sharp, handsome features, made him seem utterly out of place. But after he'd calmly and efficiently dismantled a loudmouth looking for trouble his first week here, the bartender had made a point of warning new patrons not to provoke him. Now, he was left alone, a quiet pillar of coiled muscle in a sea of decay.
He ignored the escalating discussion and focused his attention inward, looking at the interface only he could see.
[Today's Scoop: Wonder Woman's Private Life][Submit?]
Not yet. Wait a little longer, Connors decided. He'd hold out to see if a better story broke before midnight. If not, he'd submit what he had.
Unlike the sad-sack locals who ordered the cheapest swill and bragged about lives they never lived, he was not of this world. 'Connors Patterson' was the name he'd given himself after he'd been dropped into Gotham. He used to be an avid follower of news and gossip back on his Earth; here, that obsession had become his lifeline. His original name no longer mattered.
Every transmigrator gets a cheat, a so-called "golden finger," and his was the 'Gossip System.' Once a day, he could get a reward for 'confirming' a scoop. The rewards were tiered: gossip heard from others provided the lowest payout. Scoops he investigated himself were slightly better. But the best rewards, the truly game-changing ones, came from witnessing an event firsthand.
And in a city like Gotham, where the line between civility and chaos was razor-thin, something explosive could happen at any moment. You never cashed in your chips until the last possible second. That's why he was hesitating to submit today's task.
It was a shame. He'd been here for ten days. He'd seen the Bat-Signal light up the suffocating clouds almost every night, but he hadn't managed to be on the scene for a single major event. If he wasn't so worried about ending up in Gotham Prison without a reliable way to get out—and missing out on fresh scoops—he might have even tried to cause some trouble just to attract Batman's attention.
This isn't working, he thought, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. At this rate, it'll take forever to get anywhere near the level of the supers. The rewards from these second-hand stories are barely enough to get by.