I stepped out of the narrow mouth of the alley that connects to my apartment building, the shadows clinging to me like reluctant ghosts, only to find myself submerged in an even more twisted maze of passageways.
Suicide Slum was like that a snarled web of narrow alleys and forgotten corners, designed by neglect rather than any architect's plan. The air was thicker here, mixed with the acrid tang of garbage rotting in overflowing dumpsters, the faint metallic scent of rust from fire escapes sagging under their own weight. I walked quickly, my sneakers scraping against cracked pavement littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, and the occasional discarded needle glinting ominously in the morning light.
I kept my head down, my hood concealing me, navigating the labyrinth from memory. I knew it well—left past the graffiti-covered wall tagged with gang symbols, right past the boarded-up doorway where squatters sometimes crashed.
Along the way, buildings loomed like weary sentinels, old and crumbling, their peeling paint and cracked bricks telling stories of decades of poverty. Windows were stuffed with cardboard or plastic sheets, and behind them I glimpsed lives not so different from my own: families huddled in dark rooms, single mothers shouting at kids to get ready for school, old men staring out at the world. The poor—all of us—scraping by in a city that shone like a golden medallion while its belly growled in the dark.
Then I saw them, two groups of young people gathered in alley corners, right there in the middle of the morning, sitting or standing as if the day passed no judgment on their habits. Black kids in jeans and hoodies, white guys with throat-cutting tattoos, all mixed into small clusters of three or four. I passed by them, the sweet, skunky smell of marijuana drifting toward me on the breeze, one guy snorting lines of cocaine off the back of a cracked phone screen balanced in his hand, his laugh harsh and forced, eyes already glassy.
I ignored them without flinching, keeping my pace steady, my expression neutral. They watched me as I passed, curiosity flickering in their bloodshot eyes. Everyone knew each other in this neighborhood—friends and acquaintances bound by shared corners and overlapping hustles. Sometimes we were on the same side, teaming up for a quick score or watching each other's backs against rival crews and the cops. Other times, we were enemies, all because of the addiction that bound us like chains. A bad batch, a territorial dispute over a dealer, and alliances shattered.
"Sometimes I feel bad… for the lost futures of all the kids in the neighborhood… all because of our addiction."
I chose to keep moving, not to be pulled into their orbit today. No nods, no words, just forward motion. But there was an obstacle: a metal fence blocking the way, chain links stretched tight between two leaning posts, topped with loops of razor wire someone had half-assedly installed. It was a trap, no doubt set by some neighborhood opportunist to catch rivals or innocents and funnel them into a dead-end alley for a mugging, a beating, or something worse, a rape. Macabre intentions lurked in Suicide Slum. I'd heard stories of beatings, gang rapes of women just to rob them or for sadistic fun.
I stopped thinking about that shit and sized up the obstacle. Gripping the links with my fingers curled around the cold metal, my backpack swinging against my back like a loyal companion, I climbed quickly, muscles burning with the effort, grateful there were no spikes crowning the top to shred my hands or clothes. At the peak, I swung one leg over, balanced for a fraction of a second, then jumped to the other side.
I landed in a crouch, knees absorbing the shock like a professional parkour athlete perfecting his craft on urban obstacles, my backpack bumping softly against me, still carrying the weight of the laptop. No big deal for me.
Finally, I emerged from the alley's grip onto the avenue, the wider street a relative breath of fresh air amid the chaos. I turned right, blending into the sparse pedestrian traffic, eyes scanning the scene as cars roared past battered sedans bumping along, a delivery truck rumbling with a plume of exhaust. Dogs barked from behind chain link fences or from where they were tied to stoops, snapping at pedestrians or passing tires, their lunges a constant soundtrack to the neighborhood's unrest.
Homeless people lounged on sidewalks, wrapped in layers despite the warming day. Others dug through dumpsters looking for food, while some slumped against walls holding cardboard signs begging for change. Young and middle-aged men lingered on corners, puffing cigarettes or joints, the haze of tobacco and weed mixing in the air like a fog of resignation.
I kept my brisk pace, taking it all in the daily life of Suicide Slum, screaming danger to anyone coming from Metropolis's polished districts. People from New Troy with its skyscrapers and buzzing offices, the honest neighborhoods of Bakerline, or the luxury vibes of St. Martin's Island would cross the street at the sight of this, hearts pounding, whispering about how Suicide Slum didn't even feel like it belonged to the City of Tomorrow.
It was a world apart, a pocket of despair where hope went to die. And no matter how hard heroes like Steel or Black Lightning or even Superman himself fought, busting gangs and saving lives, they couldn't rewrite the script. The rot ran too deep, fed by poverty and the endless cycle of addiction. Weapons trafficking police, military, even extraterrestrial technology, hidden in every dark corner. Suicide Slum was contested territory between Intergang and the 100.
Speaking of that, I remembered reading an article online on my own laptop, one I'd forgotten I was even carrying, published by the Daily Planet, written by journalist Clark Kent. He'd dove into the heart of it: drug addiction as the true plague devouring the youth of Suicide Slum. The 100 targeting teenagers and young adults like me, selling them addictive substances, chasing highs to escape the lows, only to spiral deeper.
It was all real, every word. The statistics on overdoses, the stories of shattered families, the calls for more rehab programs that never seemed to materialize. Clark Kent had a way of making it human, not just numbers. He'd cited my old school, Garfield High School, and especially the testimony of my former teacher… Jefferson Pierce…
"Bob… please… forget that moment…"
My mind refocused on getting to the Garage. The sun intensified, thickening the heat and turning the air muggy and oppressive. Sweat trickled under my hood, my black hair tangled and itching to escape its fabric prison, but I couldn't risk it. Visibility meant vulnerability, someone might recognize me from a past score, especially now that I'd started ripping off and stealing drugs from other gangs, particularly the 100. Paranoia was a survival tool here. Thirst hit me hard then, my throat dry as sandpaper from the jump and the heat.
Ahead, on the next block, a newsstand caught my attention, a rickety kiosk plastered with faded posters and stacks of papers, its warped base looking tired of holding itself together.
I approached, eyeing the new owner behind the counter, a woman around forty, tired eyes, hair in a bun, contact lenses, wiping the surface with a rag. The old owner, Mr. Patel, had handed the business over two weeks ago, leaving to be closer to his daughter and family, returning to his hometown of Midvale near Metropolis. He'd been someone I knew. Now he was gone.
"One bottle of water, please." I said softly but clearly. I didn't know the woman well yet.
She nodded without a word, adjusting her glasses slightly and gesturing toward the small fridge tucked beside the magazines. While I waited, my gaze scanned the display racks front pages of Newstime Magazine, the Daily Star, and the Daily Planet competing for attention, the latter more prominent with its bold headlines and sharp photos. One caught my eye immediately, a fresh edition, the ink still smelling new.
I picked it up, unfolding it from the rack to reveal a large professional photograph dominating the top fold: Superman and Supergirl standing triumphantly in heroic poses near the crumpled form of the purple-skinned monster known as Parasite, sprawled amid shattered rocks beneath the financial district buildings of downtown Metropolis, debris scattered from their fight.
The headline blared in massive letters: "Superman and Supergirl Save the Day."
"Supergirl… my crush… an impossible love… focus, idiot…"
The date was yesterday. The photo credit went to Jimmy Olsen, the young photographer, and the article itself was written by Lois Lane, the Daily Planet's star reporter known for her relentless scoops and multiple Pulitzer Prizes. It was a vivid account of the alien duo stopping Parasite's rampage, just another day in the city.
At the bottom of the page, something else caught my attention, a sidebar story with a photo of a sharp-featured bald billionaire in a tailored suit: the Secretary General of the United Nations, Lex Luthor, announcing his candidacy for President of the United States. The guy looked smug, as if he already owned the Oval Office, green eyes piercing even through print.
I remembered when he used to sell high-tech weapons to neighborhood gangs until Intergang forced him out, probably popping a vein in his bald forehead. I'd heard rumors he still had hidden warehouses here, though the Justice League and Metropolis police had confiscated his visible arms and tech stockpiles along the West River. He'd committed serious crimes and tried to destroy the heroes, but failed paying for it on Stryker's Island. He'd served his sentence, supposedly leaving his rivalry with Superman and the League behind, burying his dark side in the past. Justice had forgiven him and offered him a bigger prize. Funny how people forgot his history soaked in red numbers. The man was powerful without a single superpower.
"You buying that too?" the woman's voice pulled me from my thoughts. She held out my bottle of water.
I shook my head, folding the paper back and sliding it into the rack.
"Just the water."
I pulled a handful of coins from my backpack where I always kept them six scratched dimes from last week's fencing job, and handed them over. She counted quickly, nodded, and went back to her work.
"Thanks." I murmured, twisting the cap and taking a long drink as I walked away, the cool liquid a brief oasis in the rising heat. The avenue stretched ahead, the Garage just a few blocks away time to get to work, bury myself in circuits and screens, and forget the world's chaos for a while.
I kept walking, the avenue buzzing familiarly around me as I twisted the cap back onto the bottle and took another sip, the cold water sliding down my throat like a temporary balm against the heat. The thirst was quenched for now, but in Suicide Slum, nothing stayed satisfied for long.
More people passed by: a mother dragging two kids toward a bus stop, eyes darting around to make sure they weren't robbed; two utility workers chatting quietly about the slim prospects of their own jobs; an old man pushing a shopping cart full of recyclables, muttering to himself. Everyday faces, carved with the same routine I knew too well.
The crosswalk light ahead turned green for pedestrians. I picked up my pace, crossing cracked asphalt beneath the elevated electric train tracks looming overhead like a steel spine connecting Metropolis's districts, the shining heart of New Troy, the hip spots of Bakerline, Queensland Park. The train thundered overhead as I passed beneath it, vibrations lightly shaking the ground, a rush of air carrying the scent of ozone and oil. Cars honked impatiently on either side, but I ignored them, focused on the road ahead.
Once across, I veered into a narrow alley to the left, walls closing in with more tags and peeling posters, ads for bail bonds and payday loans, warnings about missing persons no one ever found. It narrowed into an even tighter side passage, dodging a puddle of who knows what and a stray cat meowing atop a dumpster.
Finally, I reached the slim gray door set into the side of a weathered building, bricks eroded and stained, windows sealed shut like a fortress. This was the back entrance, the discreet way in for people like me who didn't want eyes on our comings and goings.
The Garage.
I slid the half-empty water bottle into the side pocket of my backpack for later, then fished my cellphone out of my shorts pocket. The screen lit up: 7:30 on the dot. Always punctual, a habit born of necessity. Show up late, and opportunities vanished in a place like this.
I knocked several times, a rhythmic tap echoing faintly, then slipped the phone away again. Seconds passed. The alley stayed quiet, broken only by distant traffic and the bark of a dog echoing somewhere nearby.
The door opened, revealing a muscular wall of a man. Jeff, one of the Garage guards. Tattoos coiled along his arms like vines, intricate designs of skulls and chains peeking out beneath his black leather vest. Sunglasses rested on his nose even in the dim light, hiding eyes that had seen too much. He was bald, with a thick beard that made him look like a Norse Viking. A holster hung at his hip, the grip of a handgun gleaming ominously, and his biker clothes scuffed riding boots and jeans faded by wear completed the look of someone you didn't cross lightly.
"Reynolds." He growled, his voice rough from years of smoke and shouting.
"Hey, Jeff." I replied, keeping it neutral and respectful. No need to poke the bear.
"Get in." He stepped aside, scanning the alley behind me before pulling the door closed again.
I nodded and slipped past him. The door shut with a solid thud, sealing off the outside world. Inside, the air shifted cooler, thick with the sharp tang of motor oil, welding fumes, and lingering weed smoke. I stepped forward and pulled my hood back, my short black hair finally free, messy from confinement and sticking in places from sweat. It felt good, like shedding a layer of caution.
"Is the boss here yet?" I asked, glancing around the dimly lit entryway, the metal stairs leading down, and the handrails bolted into the wall like lifelines.
"Not yet." Jeff said, locking the door with a twist of the bolt. "Tanner and Smith have been downstairs since seven. Probably smoking. The rest, late as always."
I nodded casually.
Bill and Jen my coworkers and the only ones I could really call friends. I met Bill in a rehab program run by the Metropolis police, after I'd been caught stealing a pair of headphones from a passerby when I was 15. They couldn't jail me since I was underage, so they forced me into the program. Bill was there too, arrested for theft. We became friends, completed the program with good behavior, and were released. Then we went right back to our crazy neighborhood adventures, all because of our addiction and the need to survive.
Then there was Jen. I met her here at the Garage two years ago when I first started. They were alive...thank God for small mercies in a neighborhood that chewed people up. They were from the Slum too, born in the same mud, with rap sheets that mirrored my own.
The boss accepts those from the district who are reliable enough, especially those with criminal records and who were of legal age like us, giving them a second chance and looking for talent in repairing any technology and means of transportation, but he limited the number of spots, he saw my desperation for money. He knew how to keep us quiet.
That's how I proved my worth: quick solutions with stolen tech and mechanics, thanks to old Eddie. You couldn't fool the boss. Even drunk or high, his sharp eye saw through bullshit like X-ray vision.
"I'll head downstairs." I said to Jeff. He nodded and stepped aside, resuming his post like a sentinel.
I descended the metal stairs, each step humming softly, opening into the heart of the operation, a large basement workshop stretching out like an underground lair. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across oil stained concrete floors marked by tire tracks. Several old cars were huddled in one corner rusted sedans and vans waiting for tune ups or VIN swaps, mixed with stolen, newer rides: sleek SUVs with tinted windows. Nothing flashy like a Lamborghini or Ferrari that would draw heat, but valuable enough to fetch a premium on the black market. Motorcycles lined another wall, engines gutted for parts or rebuilds, chrome gleaming under the lights.
Repair benches dotted the space, cluttered with laptops and gaming PCs in various stages of disassembly, exposed circuit boards, cracked but salvageable screens. A small office sat at the back behind a frosted glass door where the boss always crunched numbers or made shady calls. Nearby, a dedicated phone station overflowed with burners and smartphones, cables snaking everywhere for wipes and data unlocks. A sloped ramp led to a large rolling door at the far end, where vehicles came and went.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I spotted them. Bill and Jen perched on the last step like a pair of alley cats, sharing a joint. Bill was built like me but taller, long brown hair, shirtless except for green shorts and black shoes. His body bore the same marks as mine from our past; he wasn't ashamed of it. A perpetual five o'clock shadow framed his sharp jaw. Jen, curly blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, was my height, wearing a casual tank top, ripped jeans, and old sneakers on a frame hardened by street life. We were all the same age. They were deep in conversation, voices low and animated, marijuana smoke curling lazily upward.
I slipped up quietly and placed a hand on each of their shoulders, giving a gentle squeeze. They turned, pale faces lighting up with genuine smiles, the rare kind in our world.
"Bob," they said in unison, standing up.
Bill shook my hand firmly, then pulled me into a hug like a brother he never had. Jen followed with a quick hug, planting a kiss on my cheek, her warmth a brief anchor in the chaos. I caught their scents: Bill's mix of axle grease and cheap cologne, Jen's faint floral shampoo undercut by earthy weed everyday life, raw and real.
"How you doing, bro?" Bill asked, exhaling smoke away from us as he sat back down. Jen did the same.
"Alright." I said, settling between them on the step, the cold metal biting through my shorts. "But I'm out of meth. I've only got one hit left for today."
Bill chuckled, digging into his pocket. "You're lucky."
He pulled out five small baggies, crystalline powder glinting inside, and pressed them into my hand.
"No, Bill, those are yours," I protested, trying to push them back.
"Anything for one of my friends who never tried to screw me over," he insisted, closing my fingers around them. "I'll get more later. I've got mine and Jen's set aside. Supply's dry anyway. Besides, I want to steal more meth from Whale's guys soon. The other gangs are running low."
"Thanks." I said, pocketing them with a nod, the weight of a small victory. "And I'm counting on it. Hope we keep our undefeated streak against them. But we can't keep this up for years, sooner or later the big Whale's gonna resurface. It's too risky to keep hitting the same spots."
Jen took a careful drag, eyes half-lidded. "As long as his idiots keep being careless with their warehouses after Black Lightning sent the fat bastard to Stryker's Island. Nothing to worry about as long as the lightning doesn't get in our way."
"I've heard rumors Whale's getting out soon." Bill said uneasily. "Pulling strings with corrupt lawyers. Don't know if it's true, but I think we should move before the big whale's back in the water. This time, I agree with you, Bob."
"Let's stick to the same plan hit his smaller fish." I said, my mind already shifting: entry points, lookout spots, escape routes. They nodded, all three of us synced in that silent understanding forged by shared scars.
"But deep down, I hated seeing myself and my friends chasing more addictive adventures… everything was wrong. We were hurting ourselves. I'd never get out of here with them—out of this hell. We were stuck. I'd sworn I'd get them out someday… but Bill and Jen were stubborn. Their lives felt finished to them, no progression left. They'd told me so. It felt like hope had died in them. But I wouldn't give up. Getting clean wasn't easy for anyone…"
"Get to work, you lazy bastards. Clients are waiting."
We turned as one. There he was, the boss. Mr Campbell. Towering like a scarred oak in a casual flannel and jeans, military boots thudding against the floor. His beard was thick and unkempt, framing a face marked by old battles: scars crisscrossing his cheeks and forehead, a black patch covering his left eye like some gritty storybook pirate. Behind him stood three other workers—stoic types with their own demons, tools in hand, ready to grind.
Bill, Jen, and I nodded without a word. When the boss barked, you listened. We stood and moved to our stations. I hung my backpack on one of the cluttered tables, unzipping it to pull out my half functional laptop, aware of Campbell's single eye sweeping the room like a hawk. Bill headed to the motorcycle bench, Jen to the phone station, both diving into their tasks with practiced efficiency. When the boss got angry, he terrified everyone, his voice could crack like thunder, making you think he might shoot you point blank. But he never did. He was fair in his harshness, kept us employed as long as we produced.
From my spot near the stairs, I glanced back as four latecomers finally came down yawning, weed in hand, muttering excuses Mr Campbell ignored with a grunt.
That's my daily life: clocks marking shadows, friends in the fire, a routine that never ends.
"I powered up the laptop… tools in hand… ready to lose myself in the circuits."
///
The long day had blurred into a haze of circuits, grease pencil markings, and the low hum of fluorescent lights in the Garage. We'd fixed a dozen stolen laptops and fenced a batch of smartphones to a shady uptown buyer. The boss had grunted his approval, tossing each of us a wad of cash, enough to cover my own expenses for a week, if you played it right.
I needed air space away from the confined underworld we'd built. Now, at dusk, I lay stretched out on the dirt-dusted rooftop of the Garage building, a flat expanse of cracked concrete sprinkled with urban grime, ringed by a low parapet that offered little protection from the drop to the alley below. I'd shed my yellow hoodie hours ago in the suffocating heat of the shop, and now, in the cooling night, I'd taken off my white shirt too, folding it into a makeshift pillow beneath my head. My bare chest rose and fell with slow breaths, skin stirring in the breeze that carried the faint, acrid scent of Metropolis exhaust mixed with the distant brine of the harbor. My shorts clung to my legs, damp with the day's sweat, but up here none of that mattered. The noise of the city below—honking horns, muffled shouts, the occasional siren faded into a distant murmur, like white noise from another life.
I lay with my arms tucked beneath my worn shirt, staring up at the vast canvas of the night sky. The clear black expanse stretched endlessly, unmarred by the usual smog that choked the horizons of Suicide Slum. Stars glittered like scattered diamonds, pinpricks of light piercing the darkness with quiet defiance. I traced the constellations I'd memorized from dog-eared library books as a kid—Orion's Belt, sharp and bold; the Big Dipper pointing north like a cosmic compass. Nearby planets shone brighter than the stars: Venus, a brilliant evening star near the horizon. Mars, dim and red. And the Moon oh, the Moon hung there like a silver medallion, nearly full, its craters visible even without a telescope, casting a pale glow across the rooftop and turning the grime into something almost ethereal.
Space was beautiful, I thought. A vast, silent symphony of light and shadow. But it also carried mystery, an enigma whispering secrets just beyond reach.
"What lay beyond those shimmering points? Black holes devouring stars? Galaxies spiraling into eternity? Alien worlds with methane oceans or crystal forests?"
Up here, away from routine, I could think of something else escape the reality of my life: drugs clawing through my veins, the shadows of past sins, the endless cycle of steal–fix–use that kept me afloat but never free. Sometimes I imagined what it would be like to see it all up close: the dusty plains of the Moon, scarred like an ancient battlefield; the rusted canyons of Mars, deeper than any on Earth; the hellish clouds of Venus, swirling with acid rain; Jupiter's storm bands, colossal tempests that could swallow our planet whole; Saturn's rings, bright ice and rock forming a cosmic halo. To feel they were real, not just dots in the sky or pictures in books to touch the void, weightless and unbound.
When I was eight, astronomy had hooked me like a lifeline. I'd curl up in our cramped apartment, fascinated by planets, stars, and moons, drawing the solar system on scraps of paper with stubby colored pencils, the Sun a blazing yellow orb, Mercury a scorched pebble, Earth a blue and green marble with its loyal Moon. I made small models from Styrofoam balls scavenged from the trash, painting them with whatever colors I could mix, stringing them together with thread to hang from the ceiling like a homemade mobile.
All the while, right beside me, the real world was collapsing: my father's fists raining down on my mother in drunken, drug fueled rage, her screams echoing off the walls; or my mother slumped on the couch, a needle in her arm, eyes glazed from a high that numbed her pain but left me alone in the storm. I'd lose myself in those drawings, pretending I was an astronaut blasting off, leaving the screams and bruises behind.
I pushed those memories away again, shaking them off like dust from my skin. Instead, I thought about planetary density, how Jupiter's massive gas volume hid a core denser than lead, or Neptune's icy mantle crushed beneath relentless gravity. And the Sun, oh! the Sun. I wondered how bright it truly was up close, not the warm glow we felt on Earth but a blinding furnace of plasma, hotter than hell, fusing hydrogen into helium in a nuclear ballet that powered everything.
"Could the human eye even comprehend it without burning away?"
I'd never find out. Not really. I didn't have a gift that let me fly and wander space, unraveling its mysteries one star at a time. I wasn't Superman, gliding effortlessly through the cosmos, or a Green Lantern, weaving willpower into constructs to seal the void. Hell, I was just Robert Reynolds, a scarred slum rat with addictions, bound to gravity and guilt.
As a child, I'd dreamed of meeting Superman, my symbol of hope. I imagined begging him to lift me in those invincible arms and carry me to the stars, show me the planets up close, maybe even save me from my hellish life. But reality was colder. We lived in different worlds: him in the spotlight of heroism, me in the gut of desperation. Superman rarely passed through Suicide Slum; his battles were with those who threatened the world, not street-level scum like us. Our paths never crossed. And if I met him now. If he knew everything I'd done, the thefts, the fear I'd put into people, my addiction. His disappointment would hit harder than any punch.
As a teenager, I'd been shocked when he died, run through by that rampaging monster called Doomsday. The whole world and the heroes mourned. I felt my heart break even further, like hope itself had shattered. Then he came back, stronger, a resurrection that reignited that childhood spark.
"I wanted him to be my savior… to pull me out of the abyss…"
On the other hand, my younger self had been terrified of Batman, the Dark Knight with pointed ears like devil horns, those white slits for eyes that pierced the soul. The way he intimidated everyone, even the worst villains, with nothing but his voice and presence.
"He reminded me too much of the voice in my nightmares… that rasping, sinister torment."
Batman lurked in the shadows, a boogeyman in Gotham's dark, and even though he fought for justice, he scared me more than any monster. He wasn't my favorite hero, but I was drawn to his inner circle, Nightwing and Robin.
I let it go again, the weight of it all too heavy for this rare moment of peace. I returned to space, letting the stars pull me back.
"Will I ever be able to fly?" I murmured aloud, my voice soft against the night. a silent vow to the cosmos. To fulfill that childhood dream: to break free from these chains and rise beyond the slums.
"My sense of adventure stirred.."
The Moon seemed to nod in agreement, its light a quiet promise. For now, though, I'd settle for this rooftop view, a strip of wonder in a life of grit.