Late night. Otisburg district. A freight truck rumbled through empty streets.
The driver, Joel, had been running this route for years. Knew every shortcut, every pothole, every blind corner where pedestrians didn't check before crossing.
Drivers in Metropolis balanced speed with pedestrian safety.
In Gotham, Joel had learned early that making money required abandoning conventional thinking. And sometimes, conventional pedestrians.
He'd survived this long without arrest thanks to good driving skills, better speed, and a few reliable associates who specialized in cleaning up evidence.
To be fair, his driving was good. He rarely hit anyone. The fact that fewer pedestrians walked this route nowadays probably wasn't his fault.
Probably.
"Life finds a way," he muttered around a mouthful of burger, humming tunelessly.
No major incidents this year. He could almost consider himself a law-abiding citizen.
Almost.
Then he saw it.
A streak of colored light racing down the street ahead, moving fast enough to blur.
Joel's eyes went wide. The burger fell from his hand.
He leaned forward, squinting, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Motorcycle with illegal modifications? No, wrong shape.
Some kind of rocket-powered go-kart? Closer, but still wrong.
Experimental vehicle from one of Gotham's mad scientists? Maybe.
The light streaked past, close enough now for details.
Joel's brain struggled to process the information.
"Is that..." He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Looked again. "Is that a wheelchair?"
SYSTEM: Modified Electric Wheelchair (Active)
Current Speed: 75 mph (120 km/h)
Power: Maximum
Style: Blinding
Attention Attracted: Excessive
Jude gripped the armrests, wind whipping past his face.
The intermediate wheelchair driving skill had been worth every asset point. Seventy-five miles per hour in a vehicle that weighed maybe forty pounds. Every bump in the road translated directly to his spine, but the streamlined body design and shock-absorbing seat kept him from being thrown clear.
LED light strips lined the wheelchair's frame, pulsing in rainbow patterns. He looked like a mobile rave. Like something from a cyberpunk fever dream.
Like the most conspicuous vehicle in Gotham.
Worth it, he thought, grinning into the wind.
The streets blurred past. Otisburg fell away behind him. The East End loomed ahead, darker and more broken.
A few prostitutes on street corners watched him rocket past. Considered flagging him down, maybe robbing him.
Decided against it.
How the hell do you shoot a target moving that fast?
A few brave souls tried anyway. Gunshots cracked in the night. Bullets whined past, missing by yards.
Jude barely noticed. Intermediate driving skill meant he could drift through corners, weave between obstacles, adjust his trajectory mid-flight. The wheelchair responded like an extension of his body.
A few people managed to snap photos on their phones. Blurry images of rainbow lights and a young Asian man flying through Gotham on a modified wheelchair.
The good news: photographic evidence meant this wasn't an urban legend.
The bad news: photographic evidence meant people would believe it.
Jude turned off the main road, diving into the East End's narrow streets. The wheelchair barely slowed. Any alley wide enough to fit became a viable route. He slalomed through trash piles, vaulted over potholes, drifted around corners like a will-o'-the-wisp made of neon and audacity.
The system's navigation overlay guided him home. Much more reliable than commercial GPS, which frequently tried to route people through active crime scenes or off bridges under construction.
Finally: the narrow alley leading to Drake's building.
Jude hit the brakes. The wheelchair spun, drifted sideways, stopped precisely at the alley entrance.
10:12 PM.
He stood, pressed the release mechanism. The wheelchair's sides folded inward, collapsing into a compact bundle. He hefted it under one arm and walked through the alley.
Drake's apartment building rose ahead, dilapidated and familiar.
"Not bad," Jude muttered, checking the time. "Tomorrow I can probably cut another minute off."
Whether Gotham would develop a new urban legend about ghost wheelchairs remained to be seen.
But honestly, in a city this crazy, what was one more?
He carried the folded wheelchair into the building, whistling tunelessly.
On a rooftop several blocks away, Selina Kyle stood in shadow.
She'd been tracking the young man since his first day in Gotham. The outsider who'd somehow survived. The one with no skills, no weapons, no connections, who'd walked into Crime Alley with no money and was somehow still breathing.
She'd saved him from that shooter on the bus. Curiosity, mostly. Wondering how long he'd last.
Now she watched him disappear into his building, carrying what appeared to be a folded racing wheelchair, and questioned every choice she'd made.
"I thought Gotham couldn't get crazier," she said to the empty air.
She was wrong.
Joel was still driving, one hand on the wheel, cursing steadily.
"Outrageous. Never seen anything like it. Gotham gets weirder every damn day."
A shadow passed overhead.
Fast. Large. Silent.
It covered his truck completely, then slid forward toward the rooftops.
Joel barely noticed.
"Scarecrow, Penguin, that new Mr. Freeze guy—more freaks every week. And that stupid urban legend about the bat monster."
He spat out the window. "Screw 'em all."
The windshield exploded inward.
Glass showered the cabin. Joel jerked back, arms up to protect his face.
When he looked up, something was inside the truck with him.
Dark. Massive. Inhumanly still.
Not human-shaped, exactly. Too broad across the shoulders. Too tall when it unfolded. The cape spread like wings, filling the narrow cabin.
And the eyes.
White lenses. No pupils. No humanity. Just empty, pitiless focus.
Like a nightmare given form.
Like fear itself wearing a costume.
Joel's mouth went dry. His hands shook on the wheel. Every urban legend he'd dismissed, every story he'd laughed at—they all crashed down at once.