100YoP Chapter Sixteen "I'm being a gentleman about it for the moment." (Patreon)

The building was still getting fixed up, but it was already taking the shape I’d envisioned for my club.

It was a modest building on the outside, advertised only as Dirt Cheap Cleaners. A couple machines on the front lobby, some stuff for cleaning around and a kid from around the block that I knew had been looking for a job completed the front. The idea was that it could also work as a laundromat if someone used it, even if it was mainly supposed to be a gimmick.

Around the back, however, there was a door that led to the rest of the building. And there, renovations were coming along nicely after I’d had the walls either knocked down or repainted. The bar was set up, red LED lights decorating the underside and the shelves behind it were already getting stocked up. Three stages were built in a triangular position, all decorated with lights and a pole.

I’d only left enough walls standing for rooms meant for private dances and for a VIP section with its own stage, plus what would be my office. The floor had been changed for some hardwood, and the best part of all?

“It’s finally here,” I breathed with excitement. “Ooh, I always wanted one of these.”

“How long have you been dreaming owning a strip club?” asked Farah from where she sat on the bar, seeming amused.

“Never, except for once during puberty,” I said. “But I’ve always wanted my own neon sign.”

Indeed, my custom neon sign of the club’s name lit up as Yua plugged it in. In proud red letters surrounded by a blue square, the words ‘No Strings Attatched’ decorated the wall behind the bar, between two liquor displays.

“I still say ‘Just-tits League’ would’ve been better,” said Billy.

He’d argued strongly for coming back once he found out what Namond did to me, and with Batman’s promise of asking Superman to keep an eye out for his army and on my mom specifically, I let him. He’d gone to work modding weapons and ammo as soon as he arrived, though he insisted on accompanying me almost every minute that I was out of my apartment.

“Yeah, but Batman threatened to tear out my spine,” I said distractedly, still looking at the sign with pride. “When’s the audio system getting here?”

“Should be tomorrow,” Farah said. “How’s the arm?”

I winced, looking down at my left arm in its sling. Life seemed... duller, now that I was missing my powers. Like my senses were slightly muted, my balance was tilted, and my energy was drained. I knew logically that I wasn’t doing worse than before I got my powers (except for the beating and all) but after a taste of being meta, it felt like my body was a prison.

“It’ll be a couple days before I can move it without expecting it to fall off its spot or some shit,” I said, giving the sling a slight jostle. “Regular healing’s a bitch.”

“Sucks for you,” Billy said, sounding slightly bitter.

“Yeah,” said Farah in a similar tone. “Real rough to deal with being a normal human, huh?”

We all looked at Yua. With a totally flat expression, our gang’s last remaining superhuman gave us a peace sign and a wink.

Bitch, we all affectionately thought.

I looked at Billy, “You spreading the word already?”

He nodded, “Half the boys are ready to spend opening night here, and the other half will probably join just to not get left out if they don’t choose on their own.”

“So that front’s taken care of, at least,” I said. “Anything I’m forgetting?”

“The meeting with the connect,” said Yua. “And Sonya after that.”

“Right, that was today,” I rubbed the bridge of my nose and nodded, already tired of meetings, “Mind driving me?”

“No,” said Yua. “Should I bring my knives?”

“Just a few, for safety.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yeah, things were coming along nicely.

Would’ve been nice if not for the feeling that everything was gonna be settled just in time for things to go to hell.

{[X]}

“Twenty-five percent,” Marcos said in a practiced Spanish that didn’t quite get rid of his Gotham accent, “Not a bit less.”

I raised an eyebrow, thought back to Butcher’s lessons, and countered, “Ten percent, not a bit less. Now that we got that out of the way, how about we negotiate like adults.”

Marcos snorted, then nodded. “Alright, let’s talk.”

Marcos Soto was a pretty high-up drug lord from the old country. A second-generation immigrant of the type that took excessive pride in their inherited nationality, he usually wore football shirts of Argentina with Messi or Maradona’s names on the back. He drank mate religiously, exaggerated the accent, and visited his extended family for the holidays every year.

We weren’t well acquainted, but when he heard that I’d actually been born there, he took an instant shine to me. Said something about how we had to stick together in this land of gringos.

For the sake of diplomacy, I never mentioned that mate tastes like ass to me.

“I’ve got sellers lined up,” I mentioned, stirring my coffee, “You’ll see returns within the month. Twelve percent.”

“You’re new, Sammy.”

“Not that new.”

“No, but you’ve never been a leader,” he pointed out. “I got bosses, and I gotta explain handing out product to some kid they never heard of. It’s not enough to see returns, they have to be big. Twenty-three percent, and we decide on a minimum of money I have to see every month.”

In truth, these negotiations weren’t as important as Marcos might’ve thought they were. Any amount we settled on could be met without selling a single vial of dope, just by tapping into Cobblepot’s stolen riches.

It was hard to process just how much money a billion dollars was, until you realized that you could probably buy a small country, three yachts, solve world hunger and still have enough money to crash your three yachts at the same time and suffer no losses.

“I’m fine with the minimum, but twenty-three’s too much. You’re not my only source of product,” he really wasn’t, we had a bunch of coke, dope, weed and other crap we stole from Namond’s army. “Fifteen percent.”

“Ah, but we’re not just a source of product,” he pointed out, “Twenty percent.”

That was also true. Marcos was Namond’s contact, the source of that superior product that’d played a part in bringing his army together as much as the violence and opportunities had. For a cool ten million dollars plus the deals we crafted here and now, I would be buying the connect out from under them.

It was the first step in a long, and slow death for Namond’s army. Better than he deserved, honestly.

“... you’re not wrong,” I conceded, “So here’s the deal: eighteen percent, and every month a minimum of twenty-five thousand dollars. If trouble happens, cops get to close or whatever, and the supply chain needs help, my table’ll be open to making a deal for some aid. Muscle, money, whatever. But it’ll be a deal.”

Marcos thought it over, then slowly nodded. “It’s not a bad proposal. I’ll have to take it over to the bosses for revisal, but... between you and me? I like your odds.”

I smiled, “Gracias, Marquitos.”

“Hey, I’m just the middleman,” he said, raising his hands. “But I’ll pass your thanks along, Mr. Reyes.”

We shook hands, and I exited the booth with Butcher following after me. Approaching the counter of the old fashioned counter, I tapped Yua’s shoulder. “You about done?”

She looked up from the apple pie she had been eviscerating and nodded, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

“Let’s roll.”

{[X]}

The car stopped at a corner, and Sonya approached the window without really looking, keeping her eyes on a car that had probably been there a while, “Hey, you lookin’ for a fun time?”

“More like a conversation, really,” I said, and her head snapped over, looking at me with wide eyes. “Hola, Sonya.”

“Sammy!” she said, smiling widely before she shoved her upper body through the open window and wrapped me in a hug, making me hiss in pain. “Oh, shit, sorry. Are you okay?”

“Hah, you should see the other guy,” I said. “He’s practically unscathed.”

She snorted. “Well, it didn’t fix your sense of humor, at least. Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, right, this is Yua,” I said, gesturing at her. “Yua, this is Sonya Sobral.”

“... another Argentinean?” asked Yua.

“We’re a tight-knit community,” I said.

“Tight-knit, he says,” she mocked, poking my head. “Haven’t seen you in years, fucker.”

“I was busy,” I said. “Anyways, mind getting in?”

“Oh shit, really?” she raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d ever cave in. You know my rates, right? If your ‘friend’ wants to join in that’s—”

“Not for that,” I rolled my eyes. “This is business.”

Some of the mirth drained from her, and she nodded. She got in the back seat, sitting in the middle with her legs crossed and her arms stretched out.

Sonya was a very beautiful woman, to put it plain and simple. Tall with long and strong legs, a bubble butt, fine features, and subtle make up that didn’t do enough to hide the bruise on her jaw. She had olive skin and black hair dyed blond and set in a long, high braid that reached the small of her back.

She was wearing her street clothes: a thin black crop top and a miniskirt, plus fishnet leggings and black heels. She looked cold as hell, and I quietly turned up the heating in the car before talking.

“I’m starting a business,” I said. “A club between Harper Street and Fifth.”

“Huh, didn’t take you for an entrepreneur,” she said. “What do you need me for?”

“... it’s a strip club—”

“HA! Knew you were a freak.”

“—shut up, I have professional reasons. Anyways, I’ve got some dancers lined up, but I could use more. You still taking those pole dancing classes?”

“I could teach them,” she said with pride. “Still, dunno if I’ve got the time for that and my own shit.”

“About that... that bruise in your jaw?”

“... yeah.”

“... I’m... interested in more than just a club,” I said, and her smile turned brittle. “I’ve come into a lot of money as of late, so maybe a deal could be struck? You’re still with Orlando, right?”

“Yeah, but...” she gestured around vaguely, “I’m not exactly cheap, Sammy. I’m one of his best earners.”

“I’m aware, I remember your rates,” she almost smirked at that, “Just like I’m sure you remember what an efficient negotiator I am. And Yua here is even better.”

“I am?” the girl in question said, profoundly confused.

“Negotiation here means brutally beating someone until they give us what they want, querida,” I said.

“Oh,” she nodded. “Yes, I am an excellent ‘negotiator’.”

“... I’m filled with confidence,” said Sonya. “But unfortunately, I’ll pass.”

She made for the door, but I turned around and said, “Wait, please, hear me out.”

She did, freezing with her hand on the door. Her smile faded.

“Look, I’m not trying to be just another asshole pimp here,” I said. “You know me. You know I’ve always tried to play the game my own way, right? I want to actually look out for my people.”

“... lots of people promised that,” she noted.

“Then keep me honest,” I pleaded. “I know that you get your bruises from talking back. So talk back to me. I don’t need a puppet without opinion, I need someone reliable. I need people that’ll make sure I meet everyone’s needs. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you and yours are taken care of.”

“Sammy...” she sighed, “I want to believe you. I want to, but...”

She let the sentence hang with another sigh, and I thought it over.

Sonya had been burned before, lots of times in fact. Bad pimps, bad costumers, bad friends, bad coworkers... she needed help more than most people I knew, and that was one of the leading reasons for why she’d been my first stop when I had finally found myself in a position to help.

But I knew her story wasn’t unique, just like none of ours was. People like me, smart kids that ended up with gangs because it seemed like the best option at the time, were a dime the dozen. People like Sonya, pretty girls that ended up walking the streets because of bad decisions and worse company, were even more common.

But the situation wasn’t common. For one, most people did gang shit to get money. I had money, and I was using it to do gang shit. And for another side, I wasn’t getting into the pimp business because I was interested in the lifestyle or company, I was doing it because I wanted to gain influence on the city before the army snatched it all up.

But more than that, I wanted... to be different. The same reason for why I’d become Spider, for why I’d always refused to kill civilians, for why I’d tried so hard to change. Because there were enough assholes running this city and I didn’t want to be another one.

So with all this in mind...

“How many?” I asked.

She blinked, confused. “Huh?”

“How many of the other girls do you want me to get from him?” she looked at me, and found no joking smile on my face. “All of them?”

“... all of them,” she nodded. “Do that and we have a deal.”

“No,” I rejected, making her draw back in surprise. “I’m doing that because now I can. If you decide to take the deal on your own, then we have a deal. I won’t have you martyr yourself.”

She blinked a couple times, then snorted, shaking her head. “You never change, Sammy.”

“No, but I’m working on it,” I said, unclipping my belt to take off my jacket. I emptied the pockets onto the dashboard—seventeen random papers, two empty plastic lighters, five half-empty plastic lighters, the one zippo lighter I actually consistently use, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, a switchblade, two brass knuckles (never leave the home without them), a d20, a shiny pebble, a chunk of green seaglass I’d found by the beach one time, another switchblade (wait, why did I have two knives?), and a bottlecap for a brand of beer I’d never had—and handed it over to Sonya, who looked kinda surprised as she took it. “What?”

“Why’d you carry so much junk?”

“I might be a hoarder,” I shrugged, reaching into my pocket to get my wallet. I pulled a hundred dollar note and passed that as well. “You mind waiting in that coffeeshop in the corner? We’ll pick you up in an hour or so.”

She took the money, looked down at it, then up at me. “You’re serious.”

“As cancer. He still lives in the same place?”

She nodded.

“Then go ahead. Like I said, we’ll pick you up.”

She got out, a little shellshocked, and wrapped herself up in my jacket as she walked off.

I watched her go in the mirror, then gave the address to Yua. She nodded and started the car.

After a while driving, she said, “How did you meet her?”

I raised an eyebrow, surprised, but answered without commenting on it. “I was walking down a street when I saw someone from a rival gang was getting a little too rough for my taste. I intervened, then I helped her get home. She found me a week later and thanked me, and we’ve been friends ever since.”

“Oh,” she said. Then, “She’s very beautiful.”

“She is,” I agreed. “She also takes female customers, if you’re interested.”

“No, I’m good,” she said. “And I fear it’d make things uncomfortable.”

“Nah, Sonya’s a real professional,” I said. “She wouldn’t let a little thing like that get in the way of amicable conversation.”

“I see,” she said. Then, a little later, she added, “Sir?”

“Yes, Yua?”

“Why have you always concerned yourself with my state?” she wasn’t making eye contact, totally focused on the road, but I could see her frown. “I’ve noticed you go out of your way to include me in group activities, and you seemed overly concerned with my health.”

“Can you really call it overly concerned?” I questioned.

“I am as a weapon to you, sir,” she said. “My health is only as important as it relates to my ability to efficiently represent you and deal with your enemies.”

I sighed. God, it was Billy fresh out of Blackgate all over again. Luckily, I knew what to do by then.

“Maybe you are,” I said, not wanting to outright reject her belief system, “But you’re something else before that.”

“What?”

“My friend,” I smiled, and she turned to look at me, blinking in surprise. “And I take care of my friends. That’s just how I was raised.”

“Oh,” she said, turning back to the road. “I see.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, but let the matter drop. We spent the rest of the ride in a comfortable silence, until we reached the right building.

It had snowed the previous night, and there was a solid seven inches of snow decorating everything to the consternation of every pedestrian I could see. We locked the car and walked up to the building, where I pressed every doorbell on the buzzer and, once a few had picked up, I said, “Hey, I got the stuff.”

The door immediately started buzzing, and I held it open for Yua.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she said.

“With the crime rates of this city, it’d be weirder if it didn’t,” I muttered. “Now, which floor was it...”

I called the elevator, and we rode it to the fourth floor. Once there, muscle memory took over and I walked up to apartment 402, where I knocked hard with the side of my fist.

“Have you been here before?” asked Yua.

“Once, to talk about how he treated his workers,” I said. “I wonder if he remembers me?”

The door opened as far as the chain lock allowed. A sliver of Orlando’s face appeared, letting me see his eye dilate when it fell on me, then widen. He then screamed “OH FUCK” and he closed the door.

“Oh, he does,” I cheerfully said, before winding up and kicking the door.

And sure, I was missing my powers, but I was still one well-built, tall motherfucker. And this was still Gotham, where every fund that wasn’t absolutely vital got embezzled by everyone that even looked at the numbers. The door burst open easily and we, after I recovered my balance, walked in to find Orlando trying to climb out the fire escape.

“Yua, could you...?”

“On it,” she said, marching forward and grabbing him by the back of his pants, before pulling and tossing him through a glass coffee table. “Oops.”

“Maybe be a bit more gentle going forward?” I said.

“I’ll try. Sorry, sir.”

“No problem. Could you hold him down?” I asked, then I looked at where Orlando was just miserably lying there. “Or, I guess up?”

“On it,” she repeated, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and pulling him into a sitting stance.

“Perfect,” I said. I grunted a little as I crouched down to his level, and smiled at him. “Hey, Orlando. How’ve you been?”

Orlando was a fairly overweight black man, coming from a life of doing well for himself and having poor impulse control. There were a few gray hairs starting to appear in the corners of his goatee, but for the most part his hair was black and, on the upper side, well kept in a tidy afro.

His glasses had been knocked off by Yua’s tender mercies, so he was squinting at me, but I could see the fear in them.

“I-I’ve been good,” he blubbered, “I’ve been treating them girls real good, just like you said, I promise!”

“Right, and that’s why I just saw Sonya with a bruise on her face?”

He paled considerably.

I stood up and walked around his apartment, taking it in. Cyan walls, a zebra-print couch, golden decorations, and little flourishes on everything. Not to mention that Orlando himself was wearing a purple suit just... in his house, for some reason.

“You’re really dedicated to the pimp stereotype, huh?” I commented, walking into the kitchen and getting a big goblet decorated with plastic jewels. “I mean, I’m not judging. If you’re gonna be it, you might as well commit to the bit, right?”

“Y-Yeah, whatever you say, Mr. Reyes,” he said, twisting his head to keep his eyes on me despite Yua’s iron grip.

“Hm...” I twirled the goblet between my fingers, then put it back. “How many girls work for you, Orlando?”

“T-Twenty,” he said.

I whistled, impressed. “Damn, that’s eight more than last time we spoke, right?”

I selected a bar stool from a selection he had next to a bar that connected his kitchen and living room, finding the red seat comfortable enough.

Orlando audibly swallowed before answering, “T-Ten more, actually.”

I nodded, walking back to be in front of him and dragging the stool behind me. “Not bad. Not bad at all, Orlando. I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you?” he seemed less nervous now that I was complimenting him on his pimping. He’d always been starved for approval.

“No problem,” I said, taking a seat and crossing my legs ankle-to-knee. This let me look down on him while adopting a relaxed posture, and it put him right back out of ease. “So, how about fifteen hundred each?”

“P-Pardon?”

“I’m offering to buy your workers off, keep up,” I chided him. “Fifteen hundred each, more than enough to get some new workers or start a different career.”

“Y-You can’t buy my girls!” he objected, starting to struggle against Yua’s grip to no avail. “They signed on with me!”

“Orlando, buddy, you’re working off of a misconception,” I told him. “It’s not that I can’t buy your workers. It’s that I don’t have to. I’m being a gentleman about it for the moment, but you should ask yourself if you’d rather lose or sell.”

Orlando looked at me.

I looked at him with a smile. Then I stopped smiling.

He chose to sell.

{[X]}

It took me a second to remember to turn off the faucet, distracted as I was by the sight of my face with all the gauze and bandages off.

“Man,” I said, “Like I wasn’t ugly enough already.”

My finger traced what was sure to turn into a scar, the wound tracing the right side of my right eye, curving through the eyebrow and around the eye in a crescent moon shape.

My hand then fell to my shoulder, where the places where the wood had gone in were sewn shut, then down to my chest, tracing the minefield of bruises decorating my body. Then it went down to the place where Namond had stabbed me with the vial, which still had vein-like marks of stretched and scarred skin extending outwards from it.

I pressed down experimentally on the wound, then winced as it flared with pain, not totally healed.

I sighed, then chose to leave it alone. I disinfected my wounds again, then started covering them with bandages and gauze once more. I was just done with my face when a knock came upon my door, making me look up.

“... is it too much to hope you’ll just go away?” I asked the air.

Another three knocks rang out.

“Thought so,” I sighed, putting on a shirt and resting my arm on the sling once more. More knocks again, and I called out, “I’m going! I’m going!”

I opened the door, half ready to punch someone in the face, and drew short at seeing Cassandra Cain—Wayne there, smiling at me. She was wearing a green hoodie and a leather jacket, plus some very flattering jeans and a backpack from the official Batman Fanclub.

“Uh,” I said, making a good show of those brains I’m so famous for. “Hi?”

She smiled, then gestured at my apartment.

“Oh, yeah, come on in,” I said, stepping aside. “Uh, I’m not going to be signing much of anything for now, I hope you don’t mind.”

[No problem,] she signed, looking around. [Like what you did with the walls.]

“Hm?” I looked at the graffiti that my asshole friends had insisted on decorating my apartment with. “Right, yeah, that. That was Farah with some help from the guys. They said my apartment was boring.”

[It was,] signed Cass, smiling at me. [This has more personality. More you.]

“If you say so,” I said, then remembered I had the door open and closed it before one of my neighbors could collect teasing material about me having a girl over. “So, what brings you over?”

[Got dad to give me the night off,] she signed, before taking off her backpack to pull out a CD of Coraline and a bag of microwave popcorn. She smiled, a little shyly.

I smiled back.

In a matter of minutes, she was resting against my side with a plastic bowl of popcorn on her lap, munching noisily as she watched with rapt interest as the stop-motion kid walked around a fantastical bioluminescent garden on my laptop. My right arm was wrapped around her shoulders, and I distractedly traced patterns on her arm as I watched.

As time passed, she started leaning harder against me, and I let her weight pull me down until she was resting on top of me, bowl of popcorn half-finished and set aside next to my laptop.

It was a little uncomfortable with the sling, so I made to remove it. She stopped me, shifting around to straddle me, then took it off for me. Once it was set aside on the floor next to the couch, she moved my arm around until it was comfortable and with no stress being put on my shoulder.

I smiled at her and she smiled back. Then I thought about the bandages on my face and my smile faltered.

I tried to change my expression, but it wasn’t fast enough. She put her hands on my cheeks and leaned down to plant a kiss on my forehead, before resting hers against it.

“Pretty boy,” she said, eyes staring into mine.

“... hm,” I smiled. “Pretty girl.”

“The prettiest,” she nodded. “But you match.”

I raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. “I’ll take your word for it, Cassie.”

She huffed, unsatisfied, but let her body fall on top of mine and cuddled up. My legs were dangling off the other end of the couch, tangled up in hers, and my right hand was under her shirt, scratching her lower back. One of her arms was wrapped around me, while the other held the side of my face.

I wasn’t paying much attention to the movie, honestly.

Her head was nuzzling into my neck, and I pressed a kiss onto the top of it. She nuzzled closer, and put a kiss to the side of it. Which then turned into a nibble, sending a thrill up my spine.

I raked my nails down her spine, making it curl up in pleasure. Choosing to tease back, Cass started sucking at my neck, her free hand grabbing onto my left shoulder for a second before she realized the mistake and instead grabbed my side.

My hand wandered downwards, stopping right above her waistline, fingers tracing the line of her belt.

“You mind?” I asked.

She shook her head, then buried it into my chest. I realized her ears were red.

That’s just fucking delightful, I thought.

I squeezed her ass and pulled her up a little, right into a searing kiss. She melted into it, pulling her left arm free to grab onto me with both hands as she pressed the kiss tighter, teeth almost clashing because of her inexperience.

I squeezed a little, and she moaned into my lips. Her leg curled a little, as if trying to wrap around me. My hand went up her back and I scratched all the way down her back, making her whimper a little. She retaliated by putting her hands under my shirt and starting to fondle my chest.

Her mouth opened a little, and my tongue traced her lip.

“Eep!” she pulled back a little.

“Sorry, too much?” I asked, worried.

She paused, looked at me, then dove back in like a starving wolf, which was a good enough answer for me.

She was a little timid in exploring, but extremely enthusiastic with what she did do. She made these tiny moans and pants that drove me crazy, and she pressed her body tight against me.

I pulled back for air, a thin line of drool connecting our lips, and I looked up at her.

Cass was flushed, but she had the biggest, goofiest grin on her face as she looked down at me. I could feel the same expression on my own face. I started to feel my way up her abs, and her smile turned smug when she saw the amazement I felt at how freaking defined they were.

Seriously, it was like they were carved out of stone, except softer? You could grind meat on the damn things.

I was almost totally lost in appreciation for abdominal muscles. Then I looked to the side and saw Steph, staring with a hanging jaw and a flushed face.

I blinked, processed the sight, then started gesturing for her to fuck off because we didn’t even have a training session today, Stephanie! Cass looked at me, then turned around to look at what I was seeing.

She frowned at me, pulled out her phone, took a picture, then ran off.

“Oh, that’s just a problem waiting to happen,” I groaned. Cass turned back around and smiled at me, making me raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling enigmatically before she tilted her head to the side. She got off of me (aww) and walked to her backpack. She pulled out a phone with a Wonder Woman cover and turned it on. She tapped at it a little, snorted, then came back to me and straddled me again (yay!). She showed me the phone, “Read it?”

I took it. There was a text from ‘Sopiler’ that read “i think sam is cheating on you” accompanied by a picture of me on the couch with Cass on top of me. You couldn’t really see Cass’ face from the angle of the picture, but it wasn’t a very flattering picture of me since I was angrily mouthing the words ‘fuck off’ to the photographer.

I read it to her, and Cass snorted. She took the phone from me, pointed it at me, took a picture with flash on, and tapped away at it before showing me the phone again.

The picture was me, lips bright red and faced banged up, grimacing from the flash and squinting at the camera. There was also a text that said “yuo sure?”

Again, not a very flattering photo.

I heard, a little muffled, the sound of an amateur superhero shouting the word ‘FUCK!’ and then ‘Sorry guys!’.

Cass chuckled while I sighed, then looked down at me.

I raised an eyebrow.

She thought it over, then shook her head. “Movie first.”

I sighed, “Fine.”

She patted my cheek twice, then nuzzled up to me again.

After a while, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Turning over, I found Steph peeking over the side of the window, before she retreated when she saw I spotted her.

I sighed again. What a pain.

{[X]}

“Are you... mad... at me?” she asked me for the third time.

“Why would I be mad at you?” I asked, pausing in my re-reading of Good Omens. “You did what you thought was right with what you knew at the time. You’re a hero, it’d be stupid to get mad at you over it.”

“Yeah... but,” Steph struggled to say, “It kinda... feels... like you’re mad.”

I thought what she said over, as I sat on her back and she struggled to do push-ups.

“Maybe a little,” I admitted. “Now keep going. Thirty more pages ‘till you’re done.”

“Uuuuuuugh,” she groaned, but she kept doing the push-ups. “My gains... better be... massive!”

“You’ll be a walking gunshow,” I promised.

We were working out on the rooftop again. Or rather, Steph was. My role in this was more supervising and directing.

Sidenote: I was fucking sick and goddamned tired of having my left arm out of commission.

I finally got done with my reading for the night, and I stood up. Steph promptly collapsed and started panting for breath, face down on the yoga mat.

“How’re you feeling?” I asked.

“Dead,” she whined. “Deceased. Passed the hell away.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. And here I had some contacts to introduce to you lined up and ready,” she stiffened, and her head slowly perked up. “But, if you’re too tired...”

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“You are a bad, horrible man.”

“Yo tambien te quiero.”

A few minutes later, she was wearing her mask and a jacket over a purple hoodie, while I was just chilling in my civvie clothes.

“Why do you wear so much purple, anyways?” I asked her.

“It’s my favorite color.”

“Oh. I kinda expected a deeper reason.”

“Nope, just my favorite color,” she shrugged. “Probably should wear it less often if I’m gonna be a notorious superhero, though.”

“Hero,” I corrected. “Superheroes have superpowers. That’s what makes me a supervillain.”

“I thought that it was the way you’re super pedantic,” she said. “And doesn’t that mean you’re just a villain now?”

“... shut up.”

“Ooh, scathing,” she mocked.

“Yeah, well—” I froze when I saw someone walking up out of the corner of my eye, and I gestured for her to come a little out of the shadows. Once the figure was close enough, I walked out, greeting the man with a pat on the arm. “Hey, Dog. How you doin’?”

“Could be worse, Sammy,” he huffed, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. Dog was skinny and short, which would make him seem young if not for the scraggly, patchy beard that pulled at his cheeks and the sunken features that came from a lifetime of substance abuse. He wore baggy, inexpensive clothing. “‘Course, it could be better, but it’s not too bad for an old man like me, y’know?”

“Shelter been treatin’ you alright?” I asked as I pulled a pack of smokes from my pocket and offered him one.

“Well enough,” he shrugged, taking the smoke and cupping his hands around my lighter. Once he got that first breath of nicotine in, he nodded towards Spoiler, “So... this your friend?”

“Right,” I said, while lighting my own cigarette. “Dog, meet Spoiler. Spoiler, this is Dog.”

“Nice to meet you?” said Spoiler, a little cautious. “Um, Sam didn’t really explain why he wanted us to meet.”

“Dog here is pretty good at keepin’ an ear out for important goings-on,” I explained. “He’s a favorite down at the GCPD, though I wouldn’t spread that detail around if I were you.”

Dog hummed agreeably, chiming in with, “I, uh, I kinda like having my ribs not broken, yeah.”

“Got it,” said Spoiler. “In that case... what can you tell me about the gang war? And Big Man, while you’re at it.”

I clicked my tongue, but didn’t give much more of a reaction. I’d been trying to keep details of the gang war away from Steph in hopes that her common sense would jump in and keep her from throwing herself head-first into trouble, and so far it had. But all good things had an end.

“Well, I can tell you it’s going well for Big Man,” Dog mused, scratching his chin. “The Blackgaters kept ‘em out of Crime Alley, the Bowery and Robbinsville for the most part, but the Big Boys took over Burnlem, Otisburg and Newtown, plus half of Amusement Mile.”

“Fuck a duck, I thought it’d be longer before they fucked with the Mile,” I grumbled, “Joker’s still out, then?”

“Yeah, but who knows how long that’ll last, y’know?” Dog gave a sad shrug. “Anyways, anything south of that is still bein’ fought over, but a lot of leaders are turnin’ up dead and having their gangs taken over by Big Man, which...”

“... which gives him more muscle to take gangs with,” Spoiler finished, “It’s a vicious cycle.”

“It’s goddamn bullshit, that’s what it is,” I muttered.

“It’s not all bad,” Dog said, “Big Man’s people are held together with spit and a prayer. There’s infighting every day, almost everywhere.”

“So with Big Man behind bars, they’d fall apart,” Spoiler said, sounding hopeful.

“Fall into chaos, more like,” I said. “I doubt it’d be all that tidy.”

“Nothing ever is, man,” Dog shrugged. “Anyways, I’ve got some more specific stuff, but you’re gonna have to pay.”

“What kinds of specifics?” asked Spoiler, sounding worried about what the price might be.

“Higher-ups in Big Man’s army, stash house locations, that sort of thing,” said Dog.

Spoiler swallowed nervously, “... and what would you ask for it?”

“Twenty bucks per informing.”

Spoiler blinked. Then she blinked again.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“... okay, I... sure, yeah,” she reached into her pocket and handed one of the black business cards I’d had printed out for her. It was totally blank, except for a cellphone number in royal purple letters in the dead center. “Any time you have something to tell me, find a way to call that number and I’ll pay you for the tip.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Dog, putting the card in his pocket. He gave Spoiler a considering look, then asked, “Are you going to be talking to more homeless folk?”

Spoiler’s head twitched in my direction, maybe to look to me for confirmation, but she stopped herself. Instead, I saw her think about it for a second, before Steph nodded and said, “Yes, yes I am.”

“Good,” said Dog. “That’s... that’s good.”

He rubbed his hands, a little awkwardly, and I decided to break the silence. “You’re gonna be at the shelter for the holidays?”

Dog smirked, showing a number of missing teeth through the open corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’re making that gooey rice shit again, right?”

“Risotto, yes.”

“Can’t wait,” he said.

We bid each other goodbye, then Spoiler and I went our own way and he went his.

After a while walking, during which Steph took off her mask while nobody was watching, she asked me, “You cook for the homeless?”

“Couple times a month and during the holidays, yeah.”

“Sam, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you might not be all that good at this villain stuff,” she laughed.

I gave her a soft shove, saying, “I’m literally a pimp and a drug dealer now, but sure. A few nice acts make me a fucking saint.”

We laughed, and walked to the next meeting.

Stephanie insisted in involving herself on the underbelly of Gotham, and for that she was going to need to be well informed. I could only hope that my help saved her life if it needed to.

This was a dangerous game she was playing, and the only way to win was for her to cheat as thoroughly as possible.

“Wait, what was that first one?”

{[X]}

Everything was ready for opening night. Music was playing, drinks were stocked up and on display, and the guest were steadily pouring into the building, looking around with wide eyes.

Between acquaintances, Blackgaters and Goonion folks, plus whoever those invited, the place was full up soon. Peter, the kid I had in charge of running the laundromat and door to the business, was quickly asking me to check the security cameras to give the word on whether or not people could come in.

The night was going well. Which didn’t help the knot of nerves in my stomach as I poured two glasses of scotch in my office. Mine with no ice, Sonya’s with two cubes. I carried the glasses to her, and she took hers wordlessly, eyes glued to the window that let me look down to the people coming and going, drooling over the dancers.

I stood beside her, taking a sip out of the glass and pretending I didn’t hate the taste. Classy club owners were supposed to drink scotch and shit like that.

Eventually, Sonya sighed, then turned her head slightly and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Why all this, Sammy? Honestly.”

I pursed my lips, tilting my glass this and that way, then said, “In great part, for money laundering. But... I guess I see the opportunity in all this. In carving my own piece of Gotham now that I got the money for it.”

“So you’re planning to be a boss?”

I grimaced, sighed, then nodded, “Fuck, I guess I am.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m not really an ambitious person, Sonya. Tomorrow being slightly better than today feels fucking hard enough already, but...” I scratched my neck, awkward. “... look, before I could excuse not looking after you and yours by saying I was just a soldier, or just a henchman. But now I have billions, Sonya. Fucking billions.”

“That much?” she said, eyes wide and troubled.

I nodded, just as weirded out by it as her. I gestured at the crowd, “And I got these people here just by asking a few people to spread the word and greasing a few palms, so I have to ask myself if this means I’m respected. Like, I knew some people were afraid of me, but this is... so much more than I expected.”

“... you don’t think you have a choice,” she said, blinking. “You think you have to be a crime boss.”

I shrugged. “I mean... if I can do all this and more, wouldn’t it be fucking monstrous to just keep all the money and power and do fuck-all with it? There’s got to be someresponsibility, there’s got to be... something!”

Sonya looked at me, closed her eyes, and opened them after facing the window again. I mimicked her, taking a sip of my glass.

She took a deep breath, downed the rest of the glass, and said, “You’re... Sammy, you’ve always been nice to me. But that’s not enough. If I’m being given a choice for once, then I want to fucking make it count.”

I said nothing, drinking as she sought the words she needed.

“I need to... to see all the sides of this,” she explained. “So, I’m going to ask you something personal, and I want you to be honest. Okay?”

I nodded.

“Who was your first time with?”

I blinked, surprised, and thought about it. I walked over and sat on the desk, and Sonya followed.

She waited, standing in front of me, and I talked. “She was... I don’t remember her name, but she was nice. Nice eyes, soft and brown. A little older than me.”

“Was she a workin’ girl?”

I nodded. “It was in my Blackgater days. Some of the guys felt I should ‘become a man’ or some shit like that.”

“How old were you?”

“... younger than I should have been, probably,” I said.

“And her?”

“Like I said, a little older than me, but still younger than she should’ve been. A little older than the age you started at.”

She grimaced. Then she looked at me steadily and said, “Did it work?”

“Huh?”

“Did it make you a man, Sam?”

“Fuck no. It was...” the words caught in my throat as I came up blank for the right way to say it. I swallowed and tried again. “She told me I was her first client. I think that’s why her pimp sent her to me, actually. Half the time we spent in that room, we just talked. And she said... she said she wanted her first time to be with someone nice. I guess I was the closest thing available, because...”

I ran a hand through my hair, sighing. “We did it, and it was... well, awkward as any first time, I guess. But by the end of it she gave me a kiss and a smile and I thought to myself that even when I tried to do something good, I came out doing shitty thing after shitty thing.”

Sonya looked at me for a moment. She grabbed the bottle of scotch, re-filled our glasses, and sat next to me on the desk. After a while, she said, “One of your Blackgater friends told me once that you don’t really... bring up having sex with any of your flings. He said you let them come to you.”

I grimaced. “I guess that’s how he saw it. I just... I like it, it’s fun. A lot of fun, if the person is right. But there’s always gonna be a part of me that thinks of it as another shitty thing I learned how to do because I was a Blackgater.”

Sonya took a long sip of her glass, then pressed her shoulder against mine. “... I feel old, Sammy. I’ve been a workin’ girl since I was twelve, and every fuckin’ day I think how lucky I am that I never caught anything, or got hooked on something serious. I’ve seen shit that still keeps me up at night, and I’ve fucked some of the most legitimately evil people I never could have imagined existed.”

I said nothing, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I leaned my head against hers.

She continued, “So many people treated me like... a tool. Like an object. I’ve worked with four pimps so far and to each one I was just another hoe. So I had to be sure that you knew what this job is. That you...”

She drifted off. I grabbed her hand.

“If you wanna back out, you can,” I said. “Now, a week from now, a month, a year, it doesn’t matter. Anytime you wanna leave, you can leave with your severance pay.”

“And if I want out from the life?”

“Then say the word and I’ll help you.”

Even as I said the words, they felt hollow. What would she do, if she tried? What would Ido, if I tried?

I knew she realized this too. Still, she asked, “Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“... okay.”