See No Evil: Coal (ch.6) (Patreon)

So, being a drug dealer wasn't all that bad. Honestly, it was probably one of the easiest jobs that I've ever had. I was sent to locations via my handler, who was basically just another flunky that happened to be above me, with a backpack filled with various amounts of weed to be delivered to addresses and locations at certain times. Even better, by virtue of me not having any interest in the substance, thus not tempted to smoke or steal it, I was rapidly becoming the go-to courier for petty levels of weed.

Admittedly, it was pretty weird selling pot when I hated drugs. With pot, it was just a case of me not liking the idea of not being in full control over my body. I didn't smoke for the same reason I never purposely got drunk -- fearing that loss of control and fearing that whatever stupid thing I did or said would forever be immortalized on the internet. With hard drugs… well, I've watched addiction destroy people's lives. I'd rather have battery acid in my veins than heroin.

But, beyond a little weirdness at the start that quickly wore off after the first week, it was a rather okay job. Hard okay. Five out of ten,at the brink of being below average. Mostly because of the whole 'go to jail if I get caught' thing.

"Here you go," I said, passing a plastic bag over to a couple in their mid-twenties that looked like they hadn't stopped being high once since they reached adulthood. The guy passed me a few folded bills before swiftly turning around, grabbing the arm of his girlfriend, and started marching away. My lips thinned as I looked down at the folded bills for a moment. I didn't need to, but I checked all the same and found that I was short-changed ten bucks.

A sigh escaped me as I tucked the money in my pocket and started walking after the couple. The guy looked over his shoulder at me, his eyes widening when he saw that I was in fact going to chase him down over ten bucks. The girlfriend looked momentarily confused when the guy started walking faster, going as far as to shoulder check someone else to get away from me. The guy splashed coffee all over himself, shouting at the guy. And that gave him the excuse to take off running.

As the guy broke into a dead sprint while dragging his girlfriend behind him, I took off as well. The streets were sparsely populated with a few rough-looking individuals since I was doing a deal in the rough part of town. The few that walked the sidewalk got out of our way, knowing better than to get involved. The couple turned the corner of the block, forcing me to speed up to catch up.

Only when I turned the corner, they were gone. I scanned the sidewalk, the street, and the sidewalk on the other side before I turned my attention to a narrow alleyway that was half blocked off with an overfull dumpster. Swallowing a sigh, I stepped into the alley, keeping my footsteps as silent as possible, and rounded to the other side of the dumpster. There were the guy and the girl, crouching behind it, looking up at me as if they couldn't possibly comprehend that I had found them.

"Really?" I asked, sparing a thought of thanks for my resting bitchface. Made being a two-bit thug a lot easier. "Really?"

The guy slowly stood, holding his hands up in surrender, "Dude, it's just ten bucks-"

"No. It's my ten bucks that you tried to steal," I corrected. My gaze drifted over to the woman, not liking how she had her hands in her purse. In a city like Gotham, she was just as likely to pull out a gun as she was pepper spray. "So, unless you have ten bucks you would like to give me, then give back the weed."

"Dude-"

"Don't dude me. Give me my money or give me back the weed," I interrupted before fully turning to the girlfriend. "And you get your hands out of your purse. The only trouble that will happen is if your boyfriend-" I started, only to be cut off in turn when the guy sucker punched me in the mouth.

I jerked back with the hit, but the blow didn't actually hurt. My face felt warm where he punched me, but compared to Tifa's punches, it was practically a love tap. As I stumbled back a step, surprised by the sudden punch to the face, the guy lunged at me, intending to follow up the strike with another hit.

My nostrils flared, anger surging through my veins as I ducked out of the way, following through with what Tifa had taught me. As I ducked, his fist sailing harmlessly beside my head, I countered by slugging him right in the nose. It hardly flattened with a spray of blood, but his head snapped back as he tripped over his own two feet. I could have followed it up, but my focus was solely on the woman as her hand leaped out of her handbag and my hands lunged for hers, fearing a gun.

Instead, I heard the hiss of pepper spray as it shot harmlessly against my jacket and shirt. Relying on what Tifa had taught me, my shoulder slammed into her as my hands pried the pepper spray out of her hands. She hit the wall with a grunt, releasing the canister, and the boyfriend tried to lunge at me while I was distracted. Naturally, I turned the nozzle towards him and pressed down, making his scream out in pain as his hands went to his eyes.

With him down, the woman lost her confidence and looked up at me with eyes filled with fear. I glanced down at my jacket and shirt, letting out a curse when I saw the stain, but the open button revealed my gun to both of them. Or, rather just her.

"This? This is mine now," I told her, trying to control my anger. "Do you have the money or not?" I snapped at her, making her flinch as her hands went to her purse. "Slowly! Take it out slowly." I was not getting shot over this bullshit.

"Please, we have kids," the woman begged, holding out a fist full of cash. Enough money that they didn't have to try to rob me. I was getting really tired of that.

"I don't care," I told her, not believing her for a second. "And you don't seem to care either. If you can't afford to take care of your kids then you shouldn't be wasting money on pot." I snatched the wad of cash from her, tempted to just pocket it all because of the irritation both of them caused me. Instead, I picked out two fives and threw the rest back at them, the bills scattering out from the throw. "Pleasure doing business with you," I snapped as I tucked the money into my pocket.

Call it professional pride or a bullshit excuse to let me pretend I was a half-decent person, or whatever you wanted. I wouldn't take more than I was owed.

But I would get what I was owed.

I walked down the alleyway, my eyes starting to sting from the fumes of the pepper spray that drifted upward. I slapped a card over the can and earned an F-Rank card called Half Empty Can of Pepper Spray. I disguised the movement by taking off my jacket, and sealing away my gun, folding it over my arm and using it to hide the stain in my dress shirt and to stop the fumes.

"What's with this city?" I muttered to myself, making my way back to the Iceberg Lounge, irritation rolling off me in waves. Another reason why the job was a hard okay -- people kept trying to rob me. Often enough that my response became 'not again' after two weeks of being a drug dealer. A sigh escaped me as I looked down at the stain, "Hope I can bum an extra shirt off of someone."

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I made my way towards the docks. Looking at my phone, I saw it was a photo of Tifa. She was smiling, striking a pose that brought my attention to a large piece of wood that was marked with white paint and hung above what served as a meal area. It was wrapped in Christmas lights, casting some light to combat the heavy shadows of our home. I saw Jack in the background looking thoroughly proud of himself.

"7th Heaven," I read with a snort. Well, if a name wasn't broken, no need to replace it. And it was fitting given that it was under 7th street. Reading the message underneath the image: I mentioned the bar I used to own back home and Jack went out to get this for me. Makes me feel a little homesick.

My promise to Tifa came to mind, promising her that I would help her find a way to go home. It has been weeks and I haven't even begun to make any kind of progress with the promise. I think Tifa understood why, and she hadn't said anything, but whenever she mentioned home, I felt bad.

Looks good. Can we expect an open bar at any point? I texted back, letting my feet carry me to the Iceberg Lounge. It was beyond tempting to hop in a cab, my feet were sore and chaffed from breaking in the shoes. My legs felt every muscle was pulled -- but, even still, I ignored the pain and walked the blocks. At the very least, I became increasingly familiar with Gotham.

My phone vibrated with a text from Tifa: Maybe. :)

As bad as I felt about Tifa being stuck here, I was glad that she was rolling with the punches and settling in. In the past weeks, I wouldn't know what I would have done without her. When she wasn't kicking my ass in the name of training, she was helping out with the others. A few had moved on from the group, but the homeless camp was slowly settling in. Tents were remade, the platform was furnished, the rubble was cleared out and the occasional appliance was brought down for me to fix up.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, the money weighing down heavily on me. My gaze caught the bright sign of Wayne Mart, the neon glow kicking up as the sun began its dip below the horizon. Hesitating for a brief moment, I turned on my heel and walked into the supermarket and B-lined for the easy to make foods. People walked by, barely paying me any mind as I walked down the aisle, finding canned food and hard goods.

Reaching into my pocket, I slapped a blank card against a can in the far back under the guise of trying to get the best expiration date and it instantly vanished. Something that I learned over the weeks was that certain items were stackable -- like canned food, for instance. So long as they remained the same item, I could squeeze up to forty-eight cans in a card.

Was it stealing? Yeah. But I kinda didn't care.

I was feeding over a dozen people, most of which couldn't bring anything for themselves. In recent weeks, the temperature dropped. It wasn't snowing yet, but it would start soon enough and the last thing anyone needed was for the injured to get sick as well. A cold was as deadly as a gunshot in winter. I was pinching every penny and putting it towards my debt, and my people needed food. I couldn't afford both, not really. Not in a way that mattered.

So, stealing.

Tucking the card back into my pocket, I snagged some ramen and macaroni and cheese. Enough that everyone could enjoy a full meal. Didn't feel the slightest bit of guilt about it either. My people and I needed it a hell of a lot more than a store manager's bottom line.

After loading up, I walked out of the aisle, keeping my head down. Making a wide loop around the store, I walked by the general supplies section and my gaze lingered on a shoe sole that promised pain relief and arch support. My hand twitched to my deck of cards to snag it as well, but I curled my hand into a fist.

This time, it was nothing but pride that stopped me. It was easy to justify the food to myself because it was an unquestionable need. People needed to eat. The shoe sole? That was something that I wanted. Badly. But I didn't need it. So I wouldn't take it. What was left of my pride wouldn't let me.

It was stupid. It was petty. It wasn’t enough to balance out the scales of karma, but it didn’t matter. 

Walking out of the supermarket, I ignored my growing exhaustion and power-walked towards the docks in the hopes I would get there before nightfall. The streetlights flicked on as I walked through the streets -- despite the time, the crowds grew thicker as I walked through the party streets. A girl nearly spewed her guts over my shoes, but I deftly dodged out of the way while her friend rubbed soothing circles into her back just outside of a club.

I paid it no mind -- not the pretty girls, not the nice looking cars, or the music so loud that I could feel the sidewalk vibrating underfoot. Gotham was a different beast at night, and its nightlife wasn't for me. Just as I caught glimpse of the Iceberg Lounge, which stuck out of the water down the way, my phone vibrated again.

Will you be back tonight? Tifa questioned, three dots showing that she started to type a follow-up question, but they vanished a second later as she decided against it. I looked down at my phone, then at the Iceberg Lounge.

A small sigh escaped me as I typed out my response: Depends on if they have any jobs for me. I was used to only getting around six hours of sleep and pulling the occasional all-nighter before I found myself here. And given how no one wanted to work at night, well, I had pulled a few in the past few weeks.

Tifa didn't respond, probably not liking that answer-

Be careful. Tifa sent a few minutes later, the moment my fingers touched the entrance to the back entrance to the Lounge.

Texting back a quick ‘I will’, I opened the door and stepped into the Lounge. Over time, I learned that there were two backstages. Backstage for whatever act was going on in the Lounge’s main hall. Then a backstage for Mr. Cobblepot’s real business. I had absolutely no clue how large the Penguin mob was, but it was at least a hundred people strong. But I had a feeling that the number was a lot more.

Despite the numbers, I quickly found a familiar face.

“Vinny,” I greeted a short and stocky man that was dressed in a fine suit. He was a handler, basically someone that organized jobs for associates, like me, to do. The exact structure of the organization was lost on me -- Before I was recruited I was called a runner. Now I was a dedicated runner, also called an associate. Meaning that I was the lowest rung officially associated with the mob.

Vinny looked up from his phone as he leaned against a wall. I was in the same featureless hallway marked with rooms that I had visited when I first came here. He glanced down at my appearance, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment, then the stain on my shirt. “Another one?” He asked, sounding faintly amused despite his voice having a gravel-like quality to it.

“Another one,” I confirmed with a sigh. “Guy tried to cheat me by ten bucks. Girlfriend had pepper spray,” I explained, earning a snort from Vinny as he scratched at his cleanly shaven jawline that could be used to measure right angles.

“You chased them over ten bucks?” He questioned, though I wasn’t sure why. It was hardly the first time I did something like this.

“Would have chased them down over a penny,” I told him before digging into my pants and handing over the cash. A couple hundred bucks in bills of various quality. I had absolutely no clue if that was a lot for weed or if it was dirt cheap. Doesn’t matter. I held out all of it for Vinny to take, who would then contribute it to my debt.

Vinny let out a small sigh as he grabbed the money, “Are you looking for something else?” He asked, knowing better than to ask if I was sure I wanted to hand everything over. “And you need another shirt?”

“Yes to both,” I said, starting to unbutton my dress shirt after hanging up my jacket on a door handle. Vinny tossed me another and I wasted no time putting it on. I was hardly the most insecure guy, but it was a little embarrassing revealing just how scrawny I was standing next to a guy whose bicep was roughly the size of my head.

"Mr. Cobblepot has a job for you," Vinny said, his voice turning serious. My hands paused at the third button, looking over at Vinny sharply. He simply jerked his head at the room that I had hung my jacket on the handle of. I swallowed a lump in my throat as I quickly finished dressing, my mind racing, firing off thoughts, and what-ifs.

Was Mr. Cobblepot not happy with the progress I was making? Including my side-gig, I had made a couple of thousand dollars progress towards my debt. Nothing outstanding, but I didn’t think it was bad for two weeks of progress. Counting the fifteen thousand for the… the job that I did for him, I was closing in on twenty thousand dollars down.

Shoving my worries to the side, I opened the door and was immensely relieved when I saw that the room was empty. I was afraid that Mr. Cobblepot was here himself and, all things considered, if I never talked to him until I paid my debt off in full I’d be better off for it. Instead, I saw an empty room not dissimilar to the one I had sat and waited in a few weeks ago. On the couch was a black duffel bag.

"You and three others are going to be making a deal down at dock 9. You're going to be handling the drugs," he informed me as he stepped into the room. I looked at the black bag for a moment, much like I would a rattlesnake I was trapped in the same room with. I didn't like how sudden this was. "It's a reward. Mr. Cobblepot's version of a reward, at least. You've been doing good and people have noticed. Mr. Cobblepot called you a real go-getter -- probably the first time he's complimented anyone that wasn't a woman in his entire life."

The praise was meant to make me lower my guard, but instead, it raised it right up. I was dealing in petty levels of pot for two weeks. Sure, I might have made a decent impression, but this felt… way too fast.

"Is this some kind of test?" I questioned, trying to hide my suspicions. I made decent progress towards my debt and I made a decent impression. Mr. Cobblepot didn't strike me as the kind of person that gave out rewards of any kind. That whole bit about him that Vinny said sounded like he was blowing smoke. And despite what Vinny might say, I was pretty sure that I was beneath Mr. Cobblepot's notice.

Unless he knew about the cards. The cards that I continued to use. The cards I financed for a million bucks.

If Mr. Cobblepot knew how I was using them… then this started to become a lot easier to believe. And a whole lot scarier. Because if he knew I could combine things, then he was never going to let me leave the mob.

"You could look at it that way," Vinny allowed. "You've been dealing a couple of grams of weed and the occasional ounce, but this is feeling out how you handle yourself at the next level. Even splitting the take four ways and your fifty percent kickup, you'll still be pulling more in an hour than you have in the past two weeks.

I was no math wizard, but when it came to money I was a certified master mathematician. I made just under two thousand dollars total in the past two weeks from dealing pot doing near nonstop runs. That meant whatever was in that duffle bag was worth at least… three metric fuck tons of cash.

Likewise, provided that I got caught, I would go to jail for… forever, basically. If I got caught with a few grams then I'd probably get a slap on the wrist, a finger waggled at me and told not to do it again. With a pound, several pounds, intent to distribute becomes very clear. Then the book would get thrown at me in court and I would end up buried beneath the prison.

"When?" I asked, hoping to get some time to think it over. That hope died a dog's death with Vinny's answer.

"Now," Vinny informed.

"At night? With Batman?" I asked, unable to keep the edge of fear out of my voice.

"Batman has way more important things to deal with. Word is that he's chasing down Killer Croc for snacking down on like, twenty Jokers," Vinny reassured and now I was afraid for completely different reasons. Waylon was a frequent visitor to the… 7th Heaven. What if Batman followed him back? Any sympathy he might have would vanish like smoke in the wind when he found out that I was a mobster and a murderer. "He's not going to bust a deal like this. Hell, something like this would be beneath his notice on a slow night."

My doubt must have shown because Vinny followed that statement up, "Every newbie is afraid of the Bat. I sure as hell was. But, the thing is? I've never seen him. Been working for Mr. Cobblepot for about five years now, doing jobs way bigger than the one you're going on, and never once have I ever seen him." He explained, reaching out and placing a hand on my shoulder. "Batman? The whole Batfamily he has going on? They're like three people. They can't be everywhere at once. Their greatest trick is to make you think that they will be there to bust every deal, but they won't. They can't."

Vinny squeezed my shoulder and grabbed the duffel bag before shoving it into my chest. "Don't be worried about Batman. He's not omniscient. He's not unstoppable. He's just a man that can only be in one place at a time and in a city like Gotham for every deal that he busts, there's ten thousand that he doesn't."

That made a disturbing amount of sense. I knew Batman was the deciding factor when it counted -- when the stakes were too high to fail, Batman would save the day. He was the one to turn the tide in a disaster. But outside of those intense moments when one man's action could decide fate of countless others?

Batman was a man fighting the ocean with a bucket. He could throw water back at the sea, one scoop at a time, but the tide would always wash over the beach and recede when it willed.

"For people like Mr.Cobblepot, Batman is a factor and a concern. Guys like us? We probably won't ever see Batman in our lives. The odds are a billion to one," Vinny continued, letting go of the duffel bag so I could hold it. I considered his words, trying to reconcile what I knew of Batman and the undeniable logic of what Vinny just said. More than that, I noticed just how heavy the bag was.

A sigh escaped me as I shifted the duffel bag so it rested on my shoulder. "Yeah, but do you think I'd be here if I didn't have the worst luck?" I questioned, earning a smirk from Vinny as he slapped me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise.

"Well, Lucky Micky is going with you so his good luck should balance out your bad," he offered a weak reassurance. Then his smirk grew a fraction. "And are you really going to carry it like that?"

So he did know. Meaning Mr. Cobblepot knew about what my cards did.

That was oddly reassuring in a way. It meant that I was more than just another faceless goon. At the very least it meant that I had some value as a smuggler. I had direct value because of the cards. But it was worrying. 

A hand slipped into my pocket as I pulled out a blank card and slapped it against the duffle bag. Vinny's eyes widened a fraction as the duffel bag vanished, but he was otherwise unsurprised. I showed him the face of the card, knowing that he would be curious, but his brow furrowed in confusion.

Something else I had learned about the cards in two weeks. I was the only one who could see what the card contained. To Tifa, Jack, and everyone else, the card looked blank. What's more, the reason Mr. Cobblepot didn't just take back the cards was because they would be useless to him. When I handed them over to Tifa, she wasn't able to use them. The cards were attuned to me.

"Huh, that’s weirder than I thought it’d be," Vinny muttered, quickly moving on from his surprise. "But useful. Follow me," he ordered, walking out of the room with me close behind. I fiddled with my tie and jacket as I walked. Really wishing I had time for a quick shower or something to just give me time to think. To come to grips with what I was about to do.

I didn't have a choice. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. If Vinny was telling the truth about Mr. Cobblepot, and given what my cards could do, I completely believed that this was a test. My cards were wasted dealing pot -- it was plain as day, even if I wanted to stay at a petty low-risk level, I could at least see that. So, this was Mr. Cobblepot's test to see if I could handle the kind of jobs my skills were better suited for.

Because he thought my cards were just useful for storage. If he knew that I could combine things, improve them, then he would be doing the exact opposite. If he knew what my cards could really do, he would stick me in a room and pay me to combine items for him until my debt was paid off. And keep me in that room until my dying day if he was able to. He wouldn’t be risking me as a smuggler. 

If I said no? Maybe nothing would happen. But I couldn't imagine telling the boss no in a mob was ever a good idea, much less when I was already in deep shit with him. So, maybe, I would get a set of concrete shoes and a dip in the harbor.

Vinny led me to a car that was indistinguishable to the one that I traded to Jeremiah for a hat. Outside it was three other men, each a solidly built guy wearing sunglasses even though it was nighttime. A matching set of sunglasses was handed to me by Vinny as we walked up. “Keep those on during the deal and don’t take them off for nothing. Take out the drugs before you get there, keep your mouth shut, and if there’s trouble -- trouble that the buyers start, then you follow their lead.”

“Got it,” I said, taking a bracing breath as I slid the glasses on. They were a surprisingly nice fit. Nice enough that I was worried that somehow Mr. Cobbplepot knew my frame measurements and this was somehow a power play of his. Once my eyes were hidden, I looked over the three guys, sizing them up just like they were sizing me up.

“Good. Get going,” Vinny ordered, speaking to the one that stood next to the driver seat. The three of them slid into the car with well-practiced ease, leaving me the last one in at the backseat. Buckling my seat belt, I glanced at the window to see Vinny talking on his phone as he walked away. Then the car revved up and drove off, leaving me alone in the car with the three men.

“So, you’re Vergil?” The guy in the back asked me, making me look over to see that he was sticking out a hand for me to shake. Slightly caught off guard by the friendly greeting, I shook his head. I didn’t think mobsters were one for small talk. Once I nodded, he continued, “My name’s Michael. Everyone calls me Micky though. That’s Darren and Joseph.”

“Nice to meet you?” I said, earning a grin from Micky.

“So, is what they say true?” Micky asked, his tone curious. I frowned at him, wondering what that meant.

“Depends on what they say,” I responded neutrally. Was he talking about my cards? Because I would prefer it if everyone and their mother didn’t know about them. Mr. Cobblepot was expected, and Vinny since he was my handler, but I didn’t like the idea of the rank and file knowing. It would make me stand out too much.

“That you're in debt to our boss?" He asked and I couldn't tell if I was annoyed or relieved. It was better than my cards being common knowledge but I also didn't care for my personal life being known either. "That's why you're snatching up every little job you can. And giving everything back to our boss."

"All day every day," the guy in the passenger seat, Joseph, offered as Darren, the driver, pulled away from the Lounge. "I've seen you working through the night too. First I thought you were just trying to make a name for yourself -- and I can respect that. But handing over all that cash? You have to be in debt."

From the sound of it, they were taking a shot in the dark. So my personal life wasn't commonly known either. Good. But I also didn't like people gossiping about me. I would honestly prefer stifling silence than a game of twenty questions.

"Yeah, I am," I admitted easily enough, my tone frosty.

"Knew it," Joseph said, thoroughly pleased with himself. "I said that's the hustle of someone trying to pay something off as fast as they could."

"How much are you in for?" Micky questioned, looking at me.

"Too much," I deflected, glancing out of the window. My eyes narrowed as I saw that we weren't going straight to the docks. My heart lurched in my chest, my mind jumping to the conclusion that they were going to concrete-shoes me. My hands curled into fists in my lap as I resisted the urge to grab my gun and make a quick escape. "Where are we going?"

"We have some time before the deal. We're getting some fast food from WcDonald's. You want something?" Darren answered before Micky slugged me in the shoulder.

"On us since you're about to get your cherry popped," he offered. "First deal is always the hardest. I about pissed myself my first time. Almost screwed up the deal when a pipe or something fell and I just thought 'Batman' and flipped."

"Have any of you seen him? You know, in person?" I quickly asked, wanting confirmation about what Vinny had said. And wanting to change the subject from how deep in the hole I was.

"Nah," Micky shook his head. "You'd think he'd be there every time with how people talk about him, but I've never seen him. But I don't take high-risk jobs, soo…" Micky shrugged his shoulders carelessly as Darren pulled into a drive-through. This wasn't what I pictured when I thought mobsters -- waiting to order food for a quick snack before going to a massive drug deal worth thousands of dollars.

"Me neither. None of us have," Joseph informed. "The only ones that would have are high ranking members. If an associate like us saw him then they're not a part of the enterprise anymore. Losing half your teeth and breaking your legs are a hell of an argument to find something else."

"Fucking prick," Darren muttered. "The guy has Justice League money backing him up. Bet you he's never worked a day in his life and he just gets off on the idea of beating the shit out of acceptable targets."

"Not this shit again…" Joseph grumbled with a shake of his head.

"Yeah, this shit again, dickhead. You expect me to believe that the Justice League just… helps people? Because they want to? They have all that power and they just spend their days saving people's lives and shit, don't even want a thank you or nothin'? Nah, not buying it." Darren shot right back, telling me that this was a commonly shared opinion of his. The car moved forward as we neared the intercom. "What do you lot want? Vergil?"

I should order something off the dollar menu or something. It was the polite thing to do. But, as food neared, I realized just how empty my stomach felt. And how long it was since I had anything other than canned soup or ramen noodles.

"Two big burgers, fries and a Dk. Pepper," I ordered with exactly zero shame. Micky let out a snort at that before rattling off his own order.

Though, the topic at hand… maybe it was because I was a fan of DC comics and the heroes for a few years, I felt compelled to defend them.

"With powers, you have to look at the law of averages. How many assholes with powers are there in this city alone?" I asked, making Micky speak up.

"Poison Ivy, Killer Croc, the Riddler, Two-Face-" he started, only to be interrupted by Joseph.

"Assholes with powers, not assholes in general. And how did you not start with the Joker if you're including assholes without powers?" He questioned, and from the look of it, Micky rolled his eyes. The gesture was obvious despite the fact he wore sunglasses.

"I was doing supervillains. So, Riddler and Two-Face count. Then the Joker, Firefly, Scarecrow, Mad Hatter, Mr. Freeze, Clayface, uhhh… would Catwoman count as a supervillain?" Micky questioned and before the group could go off on a tangent, I dragged their attention to the point.

"It's like the opposite of bad apples. The entire bushel is rotten but there's always going to be at least one good one," I pointed out.

"Eh, still don't buy it," Darren dismissed the argument with the ease of someone that had already decided their opinion as he handed over his card and got the food in exchange. "If I had the powers of Superman? I'd be another asshole. No doubt. Can't think of anyone that would be any different."

His words brought my attention to the deck of cards in my pocket. A what-if tugging at my thoughts. A what if I had gone to Batman instead of the clinic. Explained everything, what I did, and against the odds he let me be a hero or something. Join the Team, save the day and be a hero. My name would probably be… Wild Card or something.

That little fantasy quickly vanished like smoke in the wind when I remembered I was on my way to a drug deal. Not to bust one like a hero, but to sell weed.

Once my food was handed to me, I took a big bite of my burger, but it tasted like ash. And regret. But I ate it all the same, along with the second burger, then the fries and I drained the cup of soda and ice.

"Shit, you clearly don't have the jitters," Joseph noted as he ate his food at a much more subdued pace.

"You'd better not puke in the car if you get too nervous," Darren warned. "We're already down one because it got stolen. The boss is, ah, frugal so unless we pool cash together, we won't get another. So until then, we have to take care of all our rides."

For a moment, I thought that was a shot at me, but it didn't seem to be. That wasn't too surprising. After about two weeks and no one mentioning that I had killed two guys of the mob I was now a part of, or so much as giving me a cold shoulder told me no one knew the details of my recruitment. As far as I was aware, Mr. Cobblepot gave the order to hunt me down but I showed up on their doorstep instead.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, going to toss the small stack of them in the bag to trash it all, but I paused. Instead, I tossed most of them and left a single clean napkin that I had only touched one side of.

There was relative silence as everyone else ate their food on the way to the deal. And I noticed the moment that we crossed into the dock area, the friendly air seemed to vanish, replaced with tension and seriousness. There was enough light that I could see a large nine on the side of a warehouse.

We pulled in and I saw that the interior hadn't changed much since I was last here. When I killed two people. The boat was gone, but there was another truck in the warehouse facing us. Its headlights were on, blinding us if it weren't for our sunglasses. My heart started thumping in my chest at a steady rhythm, preparing myself for what was about to happen. What I was about to do.

"Vergil, get the bag out of the trunk. Don't say anything. At all. Let me do the talking. This should only take a minute," Darren said as he opened his door, signaling the three of us to get out as well. With my napkin, I smudged whatever fingerprints that I had left on the seat buckle and the door. I eyed the other car doing the same, a dark red car, a color that was matched by the coats and clothes the men that stepped out of it.

Jeremiah got out of the driver seat, his eyes flickering to mine and I had to fight my knee jerk reaction of doing the guy nod to acknowledge that I had seen him. Figured it would be a bad idea given that this was a drug deal and I didn’t want that misinterpreted as a signal.

Pretending that I wasn't watching them like a hawk, which they returned as they walked towards Darren, Micky and Joseph. Darren stood in front of the others while Jeremiah did the same for the guys in red. Using my napkin, I popped the trunk and acted like I got the duffel bag from inside and not my card. Slinging it over my shoulder, careful not to touch it with my hands, I closed the trunk and stuffed the napkin and the card into my pocket.

I wasn't going to leave evidence if I could afford it. Just in case.

Walking up to the standoff, Darren jerked his head at me, prompting me to place the drugs on the ground between the two men. Taking a step back, I tried to keep my nervousness in check, it really settled in what I was doing. As I stepped back, a guy from their side stepped up and unzipped the duffel bag. He reached in, taking a pound block of weed wrapped in gray plastic wrap.

He held up a hand before slowly dipping into his pocket with two fingers to pull out a knife. I fought off an urge to frown, but figured it was probably smart to make sure that we hadn't cheated them by giving them oregano or something. With a flick of his wrist, the knife was unsheathed before he stuck it into the package.

On the tip of the blade was white powder.

That wasn't weed.

That was cocaine.

I was confused at first -- my first thought was to wonder if Vinny had given me the wrong bag somehow. Then my second was if I should say anything about that obviously not being weed, which we were clearly here to sell. My confusion lasted right up until the guy tasted the cocaine and nodded, confirming that's exactly what he wanted. That cocaine was what we were here to sell. It was indeed the right package. I was the only one here that was surprised by this little revelation.

That moment of realization hit me in the gut like a punch from Tifa.

Weed was one thing. Cocaine was a whole different beast. It might not be the hardest drug out there, but it was too hard for me. I swallowed thickly and kept my hands clasped in front of me, swallowing my anger at… being… I dunno. Tricked. Not informed we were dealing with a serious drug and a whole lot of it. For being involved in something that I didn't sign up for.

Then a thought wormed its way into my head. I knew pretty much next to nothing about the worth of cocaine, or even how much was in that bag. But cocaine was expensive. A real rich man's drug. I had counted myself lucky if the bag had forty thousand in there, but if it had closer to… a hundred or two hundred thousand… our cut would be ten percent and divided four ways and I kicked my entire cut up to Mr. Cobblepot? That was over two thousand dollars. The same amount that I ran myself ragged earning over two weeks in a fraction of the time.

And Vinny said I would be earning more than I have in those two weeks.

This wasn't a test. It was bait. Bait to make me bite and drag myself into deals like these. Deals that would give me thousands of dollars in a single go.

Honestly? I think I just felt myself bite when a guy stepped forward and showed a bag absolutely filled to the brim with money. I stepped forward with a gesture from Darren, looking at more money than I had ever seen in one place in my entire life. Rolls upon rolls of bills. Thousands upon thousands of dollars. A hundred thousand dollars. At least.

I was so lost with the sight that it took me a split second to register a gunshot then the feeling of wetness spattering across my face. My head snapped around to the source, watching Darren's body fall as a bullet hole punched through the side of his head, splattering me and the money with drops of blood. As his body fell, it revealed the culprit, even as both sides of the deal wasted a precious second pointing their weapons at each other.

A man dressed in black with a black balaclava concealing his face stood behind my dead associate, with a gun in his hand that marked him as the one that had killed Darren. The gun bucked in his hand and I felt something hit me in the side, as if a bee had snuck into my shirt and stung me. The sudden pain was more alarming than anything as my shoulder hit the ground next to the money.

Micky and Joseph dove for the car, taking cover as a group of people seemed to emerge from the shadows. Gunfire echoed in my ears, my side aching as something wet slipped between my fingers. A guy from Jeremiah's gang went down, red spots standing out against his shirt at his chest. He dropped to the ground, clutching at his chest and his hand came back red when he looked at it.

Oh. We were being attacked. And I got shot.

"Oh, fuck," I cursed, the moment of dumbfounded stupidity ending as I made a mad scramble to get to cover as I pressed a hand to my side. I felt the wet spot growing, my shirt sticking to my side as I scrambled behind the car with Joseph and Micky, both of whom had their guns out and were firing at the enemy. Once my back hit the car, taking cover and in relative safety, I looked down at my hand to see too much blood on it and a hole in my jacket, right at the edge of my side. Another inch to the right and it probably would have missed me.

Being shot didn't hurt that much. I felt more of a pressure and warmth and that was a fucking lie, being shot fucking hurt so fucking much! Waves of agony slammed into me so suddenly that I half worried that I had been shot again. Instead it was my brain registering that I was hurt after a short delay.

"Fuck, kid, how bad?" Micky asked, ducking down as he went to reload.

"I-" I started, readying my own gun as I went to answer him, only to watch as a bullet tore through the glass of the car and right through his throat. Micky went down instantly, dropping his gun as his hands went to his neck. He gargled on his blood. It gushed from between his fingers as he desperately tried to stem the flow. A breath was caught in my chest as I looked up, seeing Jeremiah with a guy slung over his shoulders as he tossed the guy in the car and started to crawl inside as well.

I looked to my right and realized what was about to happen.

"We have to move," I shouted at Joseph, who fired at the enemy. I didn't even know how many they were or and I had yet to fire a single bullet. I gripped my gun with white knuckles, forcing myself into a crouching position as I got ready to run. As if to agree with me, the car with Jeremiah behind the wheel lurched forward. Joseph didn't move, forcing me to grab him by the jacket and drag him out of the way as the car slammed into ours hard enough to knock it out of the way with a horrible sound of screeching metal that somehow drowned out the gunshots.

Joseph got the memo a second later, starting to move with me as I ran towards a large crate covered with a blue tarp and hoped that it was thick enough to stop a bullet. Then, I heard a pained shout next to me as Joseph went down, stumbling as he clutched at his leg.

I tried to drag him with me, but he collapsed into a heap and I was left in the open. I moved to the cover and fired my gun, trying to give Joseph some covering fire to give him time to get moving. I saw that there were five guys attacking us, a few of them dead as they laid motionless on the ground.

In return, bullets tore through Joseph. His body jerked with the impact, slumping to the ground as my shoulder slammed into cover. My side throbbed with white hot pain. I looked at his body for a moment, seeing the drugs and money beyond them. The group of people started to push up, their bullets slamming into my cover with worrying amounts of force.

Four against one.

I didn't like my odds.

I swallowed thickly, looking to my sides as I held my gun like a lifeline. There was the exit just to my right, the same way that Jeremiah had left, but it was too exposed. I'd be dead before I reached our totaled car to use it as cover. And I could feel the people closing in like a noose. I had seconds left to live and I could feel them slipping by me.

What did I have? What could I do? A hand covered in blood reached into my pocket to pull out my cards. I had a few of them. I grabbed my busted up refrigerators and threw them to the side. Mid-flight, the refrigerators exited the cards, slamming into the ground hard enough that concrete cracked. And I moved.

I crouched low, using them as cover and as a distraction, and felt bullets miss me by inches.

But, even still, I made it out of the door and I took off running into the night. Bullets pinged at my feet, forcing me to jump into the bay water to lose them, but I did lose them. Wounded and deep in shit, but alive.

And that was more than I could say for Darren, Joseph, and Micky.