8 Chapter 8
MAY 20th, 1999Somewhere In Gotham Sewers
Brendan's POV
I groggily pry open my heavy eyelids, feeling a bone-chilling cold seep into my very core. My body shivers uncontrollably as if submerged in icy waters. I wince at the putrid stench assaulting my nostrils, a foul combination of sewage and decay. Slowly, I become aware of my drenched clothes clinging to my skin, the fabric heavy and sodden with the filth of the underground. Each movement sends a shiver down my spine.
Taking a moment to assess my surroundings, The tunnel I am in has old mold and grime-covered brick walls while a stream of wastewater passes parting two sides of walking pavement, then my bleary eyes focus on a group of figures standing at a distance. Their hushed whispers reach my ears, muffled echoes bouncing off the damp walls of the tunnel. Rags and tattered clothing hang loosely from their emaciated frames, a clear indication of their destitute existence. Makeshift tents, constructed from discarded materials, dot the subterranean landscape, providing meager shelter to those forgotten by society.
With a sense of urgency, I instinctively check my pockets, my heart sinking as I discover the absence of my hard-earned cash. The probable suspects are in front of me, However, a flicker of relief courses through me as I realize my Vibro units remain securely fastened to my arms. The only possessions that truly matter right now.
One of the onlookers breaks from the group and approaches me, his face lined with hardship and his voice gruff "Looks like you're finally comin' to, kid. The boss says you can scram now. Best get outta here 'fore you cause any more trouble. Consider that missing money as your payment for the boss's troubles in savin' your sorry ass," he grumbles, his words laced with a silent threat.
I feel a surge of anger at his words, but then I remember the green, scaly hand that pulled me from the river. That hand belonged to only one guy and I had been looking out any news report or sighting hinting at his arrival in the last few months but it looks like he came to the city quietly and already started building up his organization, if I play my cards right I could get a potential ally but worst case scenario I become someone's dinner. It's a risky move, but I have to take the chance.
Suppressing my true intentions behind a mask of innocence, I address the man, my voice tinged with sincerity. "If there's any way you could help me get an audience with your boss, I'd be eternally grateful. I want to personally extend my thanks for saving my life."
The man eyes me suspiciously, his gaze searching my face for any hint of deceit. "You think we're arrangin' some fancy meet-and-greet down here? The only reason you're still breathin' and not stripped to the bone is 'cause the boss said so."
Annoyance surges through me, but I restrain my retort "Look, I ain't lookin' for trouble. I just want a chance to meet your boss. And hey, if it sweetens the deal, I can lend a hand fixin' those damn lights," I say, pointing to a row of flickering wall-mounted fixtures, their feeble glow casting eerie shadows on the tunnel walls.
A flicker of hesitation dances across the man's weathered face, momentarily interrupted by a young woman who steps forward, her ebony skin reflecting resilience and wisdom beyond her years. Placing a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, she interjects with a hint of condescension. "Enough, Andre. If the boy claims he can fix things' 'round here, then let him meet the boss. It's his funeral, and who knows, maybe we'll finally get somethin' fixed. Lord knows we won't find an electrician in this godforsaken place."
"Absolutely, I can handle any repair job as long as there are tools around," I quickly respond, seizing the opportunity presented before me.
Reluctantly, Andre gestures for me to follow, and together we navigate through the sea of downtrodden individuals. This peculiar congregation is a motley crew, a diverse tapestry of humanity bearing the visible scars of hardship and malnutrition. Their hollowed faces tell stories of struggle and survival. Eventually, we reach a bend in the tunnel, revealing an open tent cluttered with an assortment of worn-out electronics. It's as if a time capsule of antiquated technology has been unearthed, relics salvaged from bygone eras. Scrapyard finds, no doubt. I grab a worn screwdriver and get fixin'.
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3rd Person POV
As Brendan was busy fixing the electronics, The man named Andre grabs the black woman by her arm and drags her to an isolated corner and says with a hint of worry on his face " "Sunny, have you lost your damn mind?" Andre's voice was laced with concern. "We can't let the kid meet the boss. He'll gut him like a fish. Have you forgotten what happened to the last fool who dared disturb him? The boss ripped his hands clean off and tossed him into the murky cistern. The idiot drowned while bleeding to death !"
Undeterred, Sunny's voice rose defiantly. "Who gives a damn? The kid wants to play Mr. Goody Two Shoes and thank the boss. So let him. Besides, if he's even half as good as he claims, we'll finally get our hands on some working equipment without payin' a damn thing."
A shadow of worry still clung to Andre's face, his voice tinged with apprehension. "And what happens when the kid's done? What happens when the boss realizes we let this intrusion slide? He's gonna be fumin' mad, Sunny, and I don't wanna be on the receiving end of his wrath."
With a nonchalant shrug, Sunny dismissed Andre's concerns. "Relax, Andre. The boss depends on us as much as we depend on him. If we're all dead, who's gonna bring him his food and other supplies? He can't exactly stroll out in the open, now can he?"
Andre's worried eyes met Sunny's gaze, an unspoken understanding passing between them. "You better pray to whatever gods you believe in that you're right, Sunny. 'Cause if you're wrong, we'll all end up as minced meat."
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Brendan's POV
As I sat in the dimly lit tunnel, meticulously fixing the electronics, doubts crept into my mind. I couldn't deny that what I was about to do might be one of my riskiest moves since arriving in this city. After last week's shootout and the harrowing encounter with the Tweedle brothers, I knew I had to expedite the creation of the shocker's suit. The urgency stemmed from the fact that I could be walking down the street and some idiot in a suit could jump out and pop me. To achieve that, I had to find the precise frequency for the suit to operate, but my own research at home wasn't progressing fast enough. Desperation had set in, forcing me to consider acquiring a supercomputer for the calculations. However, checking my bank balance revealed that I couldn't even afford a server. That left me with two viable options, or rather three if I included the Batcave's supercomputer, but I was in no position to get involved with Batman just yet. The other two choices were Wayne Tower downtown or S.T.A.R. Labs, the scientific research facility in Robinsville. Since Wayne Tower was off-limits, S.T.A.R. Labs became the most likely target.
The idea of simply walking up to S.T.A.R. Labs and asking for access to their advanced molecular modeling and vibrational testing algorithms seemed absurd. I needed a team, a crew of capable individuals who could get me inside, hold the fort while I retrieved what I needed, and make a swift getaway. The plan would require the skills of four or five highly proficient individuals, each with their own unique talents. Considering the high security at S.T.A.R. Labs, I required strong muscle, which was precisely why I was risking my neck in this dank tunnel.
As my internal monologue concluded, so did my work on the electronics. I walked up to Andre, catching his attention. "Hey, man, I'm done with your stuff," I announced. Andre shot me another scrutinizing glare before checking the lights, pedestal fans, heater, and other items I had repaired. After his inspection, he returned to face me.
"Follow me. If you want to meet him, we'll have to walk a fair distance," Andre directed, leading me through another tunnel. I followed his lead, and as we navigated the intricate maze of passages, we descended a series of rickety ladders. The rungs creaked under our weight, adding a nerve-wracking soundtrack to our journey. Each step took us deeper into the bowels of the city, immersing us in the dimly lit realm of the sewers. The damp walls, adorned with layers of moss and grime, closed in around us, heightening the sense of eerie claustrophobia.
We maneuvered through the labyrinthine corridors, meandering through narrow passages and twisting bends. Gradually, the sound of rushing water grew louder, heralding our approach to a sight of breathtaking magnitude. Before us loomed a colossal hole, unleashing an immense torrent of water that plummeted into the abyss, its roar echoing through the chamber. The sheer force of it was mesmerizing, a powerful display of nature's might.
Intrigued by the spectacle, I turned to Andre, my voice nearly drowned out by the deafening cacophony. "What on earth is that?" I asked, gesturing toward the awe-inspiring deluge.
Andre cast a solemn gaze toward the cascading water, his voice strained against the noise. "That, my friend, is what we call the Meld. It's where the excess water from the Gotham River converges with our sewer system. This is the point where it mixes and is directed outside the city, ultimately finding its way to a water body near Slaughter Swamp."
Taking note of this significant location, I recognized its potential for future endeavors. The sheer amount of water passing through here was extraordinary, and if harnessed correctly, it could prove to be immensely profitable.
Curiosity fueled further questions, and I couldn't resist inquiring about our current whereabouts. "So, where exactly are we now?" I asked, my voice brimming with genuine curiosity.
A knowing smile played upon Andre's weathered face as he continued leading the way. "Kid, we're currently on the second level of Gotham Underground. You'd be amazed to know that the city extends just as far below the surface as it does above. Right above us lies a sprawling, half-finished underground train system. It was abandoned back in the '80s when the Wayne family met their tragic demise and the project lost its funding. Nowadays, the underground serves as a sanctuary for the homeless and criminals, providing refuge from the harsh winters and a place where they can evade the watchful gaze of the law."
As we ventured deeper into the depths, Andre, a seasoned denizen of the underground, regaled me with its history. The origins of this subterranean realm traced back to the late 19th century, a time when the city's rapid expansion necessitated the development of a comprehensive sewer system. Initially conceived as a practical solution to address the sanitation needs of a growing population, the network of tunnels evolved over time, carving out a hidden world beneath the city's surface.
Different eras witnessed various criminal organizations seeking refuge and exploiting the sewers for their illicit activities. During the Prohibition era in the 1920s, bootleggers and smugglers seized the opportunity to utilize the intricate tunnels for discreet transportation of illegal goods. The sewers became a thriving underworld, housing hidden speakeasies, secret meeting spots, and concealed caches of contraband.
In the subsequent decades, organized crime families established their presence in the sewers, using them as conduits for drug trafficking, stolen goods, and covert trades. Within the dark recesses of the tunnels, a sinister tapestry of deceit and power struggles unfolded. The sewers became a strategic battleground for heroes and villains, their conflicts reverberating through the underground chambers.
The history of the sewers was etched on the moss-covered walls, their faded graffiti serving as a testament to the countless individuals who had traversed these hidden paths. Abandoned hideouts and remnants of past criminal operations stood as haunting reminders of the city's underbelly.
After a considerable walk, we reached a dimly lit corridor that culminated in a sturdy metal door. Andre turned to face me, his gaze serious. "This is your last chance to back out. Do you really want to go in there? Do you even know who my boss is?"
I responded with unwavering confidence. "Yeah, I'm sure. I know exactly who he is, and I can handle myself."
Andre's expression remained inscrutable, but a hint of concern flickered in his eyes. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he said, walking away, leaving me to contemplate the gravity of my decision.
I tightened the straps of my Vibro units, determined not to take any chances. With a deep breath, I pulled open the door and stepped into the dark room. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that the floor extended only a certain distance, beyond which it was submerged in water. The room was eerily silent.
Summoning my courage, I called out into the darkness. "Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for saving me, and I wanted to talk to you about your... skin problem. I can help you get rid of it if you want."
There was no response. The water remained undisturbed, and the room remained motionless. Against my better judgment, I cautiously approached the water's edge and called out once more. "Are you in here? We can really help each oth—" My words caught in my throat as I caught sight of a pair of yellow eyes peering at me from the reflection in the water.
I spun around, my heart pounding, and with a thump, something landed in front of me. A deep, guttural voice reverberated through the room. "I saved your life on a whim, but you are about to lose it because I really, really hate people disturbing my peace and quiet. So, you better have a damn good reason."
Looking up at the towering figure before me, I beheld Waylon Jones, also known as Killer Croc. He stood at an imposing 8 feet tall, his hulking frame weighing 650 pounds. Waylon suffered from a rare skin condition, a form of regressive atavism that transformed him into a creature reminiscent of a crocodile.
"You don't really want to kill me, Waylon," I said, meeting his gaze even though fear gnawed at my insides. This man could tear me apart with his claws and fangs. "Because I am your only ticket to fixing your current condition."
He roared at me, his grip tightening around my waist as his face loomed close to mine. "How do you know my name? And what are you talking about?"
With a trembling voice, I began recounting everything I knew about him, hoping my knowledge held true in this iteration of the DC universe. "Your name is Waylon Jones. You were born in Tampa, Florida, 28 years ago. Your mother died during childbirth, and your father abandoned you. Raised by your alcoholic aunt, you suffered from this rare form of regressive atavism that caused your skin to resemble that of a crocodile. Bullied throughout your life, you killed one of the school guards who abused you when you were 16. That landed you in a juvenile detention center. Upon release, you took revenge on your abusive aunt and served six years in prison, during which your condition progressed. Afterward, you joined a circus in Miami before arriving here in Gotham. Does that sound about right?"
Waylon snarled, throwing me against a wall before lifting me up and holding me with my back pressed against it. His eyes locked onto mine as he demanded to know how I possessed such intimate knowledge. Coughing, I mustered a response and lied through my teeth "My dad took me to one of your shows a year and a half ago when we visited Miami. When I heard about sightings of a green, crocodile-like creature, I knew it had to be you. So, I gathered information about you through my connections in the Falcone Mob because I need someone with your strength for a certain job. And in return, I can help you become normal. As for the river incident, it was just a stroke of luck that you found me while I was protecting a little girl from kidnappers."
My dad never took to Miami, he was too bogged in his work and old brendan's mother's passing, heck old Brendan didn't have any aunt either.
He studied me, contemplating the information I'd shared. "What do you mean, become normal? No doctor I ever met could fix me," he replied, his tone filled with curiosity. I had him hooked; now I needed to reel him in.
"Your condition isn't something that can be cured with medicine. It's a genetic problem that normal doctors can't solve. But there's a highly intelligent individual in this town who can help you. Imagine walking down the street, feeling the warmth of the sun like a normal person, enjoying a meal in a diner with someone who accepts and likes you. No more fear or revulsion from others when they look at you. No longer being seen as a monster."
As I delivered my spiel, Waylon gradually released his grip, and a somber expression replaced the aggression on his face. Sensing an opportunity, I pressed on. "If you have any doubts, take a look at this." I revealed my Vibro units and fired them into the air, causing a resounding bang and a powerful blast that dispersed much of the water. The look of awe on Waylon's face was unmistakable.
"I created these in my basement. I have genuine intelligence, and you possess the brawn. I want us to be partners. If we work together, I promise to do everything in my power to help you get better. Unlike others, I see beyond the freakish appearance and understand that you don't wish to harm anyone else. Your recent acts of helping those homeless individuals prove that. So, what do you say, partners?"
I extended my hand toward him, the silence surrounding us as our only company.
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A/N : So Brendan is planning a heist, he saw the gotham's underground's vastness, and he finally meets his first partner ( friend ??) in this Gotham. What are your thoughts about the chapter, do let me know whether you liked it or not, who is inteliigent individual Brendan is talking about and can you guess who the other members of the heist team will be ? also shout out to Djabilong for his support with powerstones
