“Another day, another murder,” Renee Montoya muttered to herself as she stepped out her car into the rain, in one of the garbage infested alleyways of the narrows.
She was glad it was raining, she liked the smell of rain; at least much more than whatever shit the rain was covering up.
“You say something Montoya?” Her partner, Harvey Bullock said as he got out the same car, albeit with a little more difficulty.
“I said you look like you’ve put on a little weight,” Renee replied as she slammed the door.
“Maybe lay off the free snacks at the station.”
“Fuck off dyke, if I wanted advice from you it wouldn’t be about eating food,” Harvey said as he reached into the car and grabbed his umbrella.
“The wife feeling a little unsatisfied Harvey?
Let me know when I should tag in,” she quipped back before locking the car.
“Yeah yeah, come on let’s get this shit over with, we don’t get any extra for overtime you know,” Harvey said as he walked past the car and towards the alleyway that had been cordoned off by the GCPD.
Renee smiled as she followed him.
A lot could be said about her partner Harvey Bullock—he was oafish, fat, lazy.
In fact, she had thought those same things when she was first assigned to be his partner, but after a few years working with him she realised that he was quite an intelligent man with a knack for detective work.
“Come on Montoya let’s get this done, I know they’re missing you down at Fox Glove,” Harvey said as he flashed his badge to one of the officers and was let under the police tape.
He was still an asshole though.
Renee flashed her badge and was allowed inside.
She walked into the alley and had to cover her nose due to the overpowering smell of garbage mixed with something fouler.
She stepped over a puddle and adjusted her coat.
Though the rain soaked through it anyway.
Harvey was ahead of her, umbrella tucked under his arm now, crouched beside the dumpster with a hand braced on his knee.
Steam hissed from the still-warm metal.
The body inside was curled up like a dried-out husk, skin blackened, most of the face cooked beyond recognition.
One eye had ruptured from the heat.
The smell was strong even through the rain—burned flesh, plastic, and something chemical.
“Christ,” Harvey muttered.
“Cooked like a goddamn steak.”
Renee stood beside him, keeping her distance from the worst of the smoke.
She stared into the open dumpster without speaking.
The body had clearly been dumped headfirst.
The torso was slumped at an angle, one leg twisted under the other.
The hands were curled, skin tightened and flaked.
A young officer stood nearby, shifting his feet back and forth, clearly not enjoying the rain.
“You the first on scene?” Renee asked, not looking away from the body.
“No ma’am,” the officer said.
“Fire department got the call just before three.
Dumpster fire.
They put it out, then called us when they saw what was inside.
I’ve been keeping the scene secure since.”
“Anyone see who started it?” Harvey asked.
“No witnesses so far.
Everyone we’ve talked to said they didn’t hear anything.
Just saw the smoke.”
“Figures,” Renee said.
The officer continued.
“We did find a wallet.
Right over there near the fence.
It was sitting just outside the dumpster.”
“Show me,” Harvey said.
They followed the officer a few steps to a small evidence marker.
The wallet sat in an open evidence bag next to a soaked hoodie and half-melted phone case.
An officer was jotting notes into a clipboard nearby.
“Gloves,” Harvey said, holding out his hand.
One of the uniforms handed him a pair.
He slid them on, knelt down, and picked up the wallet.
It was singed around the edges but still intact.
He flipped it open and started going through the contents—expired credit cards, a crumpled receipt, some damp bills.
Then he pulled out a driver’s license and paused.
“Well, no shit,” Harvey said with a short laugh.
Renee leaned over his shoulder.
“You recognise him?”
Harvey held up the card.
“Creedence Upshore.
I dealt with this prick a lot when I was working the harbour district.”
“You sure it’s him?” she asked.
“No doubt,” Harvey said, standing up.
“Height’s about right, body type matches.
Face is half gone but the bone structure’s there.
Plus I never forget scumbags.” He glanced back at the charred corpse.
“Though I’d say he was better looking before.”
He slid the license back into the wallet, then dropped it into the evidence bag and sealed it shut.
“Creedence was a dealer.
Sometimes muscle.
Worked for Iron Row.”
Renee frowned.
“Iron Row?
Don’t think I’ve heard of them.”
“Small crew out of the harbour,” Harvey said.
“Don’t deal in anything major.
Street-level stuff.
Heroin, meth, the usual.
Couple of brothels under their thumb too.
No serious connections, just parasites.”
They both looked back at the body.
“This guy though was a real piece of work,” Harvey went on.
“A few years back, he was tied to a triple homicide up in Gotham Heights.
Family got wiped out, pretty brutally too.
We had his name.
Had witnesses too.
But nothing stuck.
He walked.”
Renee folded her arms.
“Looks like someone finally decided to settle the score.”
Harvey grunted.
“I’m not sure about that.
Whoever did this didn’t want to make a statement.
This was cleanup.
Fast and dirty.”
Renee didn’t respond right away.
She turned away from the dumpster and started walking the alley, eyes scanning every surface.
The crime scene lights cast a pale glow on the wet pavement, throwing long shadows against the walls.
She crouched near the far end, where one of the bricks had fractured clean down the middle.
“Harvey,” she called.
He lumbered over and squinted at what she was looking at.
“Cracked wall,” she said, tapping the fracture line with her knuckle.
“That takes force.
Serious force.”
Harvey nodded and looked around.
“Not from the fire, that’s for sure.”
Renee stood and kept moving.
A few feet away, near a pile of broken pallets, she spotted a dark smear on the concrete.
She knelt down and examined it closely.
Blood.
Dried but not that old, not fully washed away by the rain.
“Blood spatter,” she said.
“At least two spots.
Looks like a spray pattern, something high velocity must’ve hit him.” She followed the trail and stopped at the base of the opposite wall, where a darker stain marked the bricks.
Brain matter, mixed with blood, streaked from the point of impact.
She looked up.
Just above that spot, a jagged smear of tissue stuck to the brick.
She didn’t need forensics to confirm what it was.
“He was dead before the fire,” she said, before going back to the body.
“The guys Skull’s cracked open.
That much force…
whoever did it didn’t just kill him.
They crushed him.”
Harvey let out a low whistle.
“Jesus.
I don’t wanna meet the guy who’s capable of that, reminds me of that super fella down in metropolis, You know his name?”
“Superman.” Renee turned toward the dumpster again, then glanced at a piece of fabric caught on a jagged nail sticking out from the nearby fence.
She walked over and plucked it off carefully with her gloved hand.
It was a dark blue.
Smooth.
Torn roughly at one edge.
“Bit of cloth,” she said.
“Doesn’t match anything he’s wearing.”
Harvey took it, turned it over in his fingers, then held it up to the light.
“Doesn’t look like cheap trash, either.
This could be from a blazer or coat, a fine one as well.
Definitely not from our victim.”
He motioned to one of the uniforms nearby.
“Bag this and get it over to forensics.
I want to know where this came from and if we can get match on it, expensive materials like that don’t just come from anywhere.”
The officer nodded and hurried off.
Renee glanced toward the fire escape.
“Any luck with surveillance?”
“Nothing pointing straight into the alley,” another officer called from the far end.
“We’re gathering footage from the nearby buildings, but there’s no direct angle.
No cams above the dumpster or either entrance.”
Harvey rubbed his jaw.
“Figures.
These back alleys always fall in the blind spots.” He turned to the young officer.
“Get me any witnesses in the area once you pin down time of death.
Someone had to have seen or heard something I don’t care if they were outside smoking, eating or taking a shit get them down the precinct.”
“On it, Detective,” the officer said and moved off.
Harvey gave one last look at the alley, then back at the body.
“This wasn’t a hit.
This was a fight.
A brutal one.
Someone did this up close.
And if that piece of fabric didn’t come from Creedence…” He shook his head.
“Then we’ve got a second party capable of cracking someone’s head open like a watermelon…
just our fucking luck.”
Renee said nothing.
She was staring at the wall again, her eyes fixed on the point where the blood had splashed outward.
Harvey took off his gloves and stuffed them in his coat pocket.
“I’m heading down to the harbour.
Gonna rattle a few cages, see if anyone’s heard something.
Upshore wasn’t liked, but someone’s gotta know if he was fucking around with the wrong sorts.”
He turned to Renee as he walked toward the tape.
“Keep tabs on forensics.
See what they can scrounge up from the remains, the alley, whatever.
We need a break somewhere.”
Renee nodded.
“Got it.”
Harvey gave her a short wave and stepped out into the street.
Renee stayed behind, eyes scanning the wall again, then the blood, then the cloth.
The rain hadn’t let up.
She pulled her coat tighter and exhaled through her nose.
This was going to be a long night.
___________________________
The Siren’s Call brothel reeked worse than the docks it crouched beside, a rotting pile of wood and sin in Gotham’s Harbour District.
Inside, the air was a swamp of sweat, smoke, and spilled liquor.
Dim bulbs buzzed overhead, casting light across peeling walls and stained carpets.
If you wanted cheap sex and didn’t mind if your cock fell of this was the place to go.
Kieran sprawled on a ripped leather couch in the back room, his muscular frame taking up half the space.
His skin was tanned dark from years under the sun, but his face was a roadmap of scars, nose crooked from too many fights.
His black tank top was damp with sweat, clinging to his chest as he leaned over a woman draped across his lap.
She was a wreck, skinny as a junkie, ribs poking through pale skin, her bleach-blonde hair tangled and greasy.
Her eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, as Kieran snorted a thick line of cocaine off her bare stomach.
The powder vanished up his nose with a sharp sniff, and he groaned, head tipping back, pupils blown wide.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he slurred, his voice rough as gravel.
He ran a calloused hand over the woman’s thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
She flinched but didn’t move, just lay there like a broken doll.
Kieran grinned his gold tooth flashing, and grabbed a beer from the table, chugging half before pouring the rest over her chest.
The liquid ran down her skin, mixing with the coke residue.
He leaned in licking it off and laughed when she shivered.
“Keep still, babe,” he muttered, shoving her legs apart.
“Ain’t done with you yet.” He cut another line on her stomach with a pocketknife, the blade nicking her skin.
A bead of blood welled up, but she didn’t react, she was too far gone.
Kieran snorted the line, then kissed her hard, teeth clacking against hers.
His hands roamed her body , as the room spun around him, coke fueling the fire alreadyy in his veins.
The door creaked open, and one of his guys shuffled in.
A scrawny kid named Tommy, barely twenty, with a pockmarked face and nervous eyes.
He froze, clutching a burner phone, clearly wishing he was anywhere else.
“Boss,” Tommy stammered, his voice cracking.
“Got bad news.”
Kieran didn’t look up, his face buried in the woman’s neck.
“Fuck off, Tommy.
I’m busy.”
“It’s Creedence,” Tommy blurted, stepping a little bit closer.
“He’s dead.
Cope found him in an alley in the Narrows.
Somebody killed him rhen burned him.”
Kieran froze, his hands tightening on the woman.
He lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
“The fuck you say?”
Tommy swallowed hard.
“Creedence.
He’s gone, boss.
Cops have taken his body downtown…”
Kieran’s jaw clenched, his veins bulging in his neck.
“Who did it?” His voice was a quiet hiss, like a dog about to snap its leash.
Tommy shifted, his eyes darting to the floor.
“Dunno.
Nobody saw.
Just…
he was messed up bad.”
The room went quiet, except for the woman’s shallow breathing.
Then Kieran exploded.
He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her off his lap, throwing her to the floor.
She hit the carpet with a yelp, scrambling to her knees, her torn dress slipping off one shoulder.
“Get the fuck outta here!” Kieran roared, kicking a beer bottle at her.
It shattered against the wall, spraying glass.
She stumbled to her feet, clutching her dress, and bolted for the door, disappearing into the hall.
Kieran turned to Tommy, towering over him.
“I want every fuckin’ body we got out on the street.
Find who did this.
I don’t care if you gotta burn the Narrows down.
You hear me?”
Tommy nodded fast, backing toward the door.
“Y-yeah, boss.
I’ll tell the guys.
We’ll find ’em.” He turned and practically ran out, the door slamming behind him.
Kieran stood there, his chest heaving, fists clenched with rage.
The coke made his heart pound like a jackhammer, but it wasn’t just the drugs that was making him mad.
Creedence was one of his top guys, a freak just like him, one of the few in Iron Row with a weird power.
Kieran himself could blow up his skin, his spit, his blood—any part of his body whether it was attached to him or not.
Creedence had some weird super strength shit.
Now he was gone, and Iron Row was down to just a couple of freaks.
‘This isn’t good…’ he thought to himself.
The other gangs they’d smell blood in the water.
They’d come for his territory, his product, his power.
“Fuck!” Kieran grabbed the table and flipped it, sending bottles and coke crashing to the floor.
He kicked the couch, tearing a gash in the leather, then punched the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster.
His knuckles bled, but he didn’t care.
He was coked up and needed to take his anger out on something.
He stormed to the door and yanked it open.
“Get your ass back in here bitch!” he bellowed down the hall.
The woman appeared, hesitant, her eyes showing her fear.
Kieran grabbed her arm, dragging her back into the room.
He shoved her against the desk, the wood creaking under her weight.
“Stay fuckin’ put,” he growled, his hands already tearing at her dress.
He had the perfect thing to take out all his frustrations on.
___________________________
Ethan grunted as he lay flat on his back on the bench in his small apartment.
The barbell wavered above his chest, loaded with an assortment of different heavy items; dumbbells, sandbags, and rusted engine parts chained together.
The setup looked like a pile of junk, but it weighed a lot which was all that Ethan needed.
His arms shook as he forced the bar up for the ninth rep.
His heart was beating out of his chest and adrenaline was flooding his system, he could feel the strain in his muscles but the burn was put to the back of his mind.
With a final push, he completed the tenth rep and racked the bar.
The loud clatter echoed off the bare walls.
He sat up and breathed heavily.
He grabbed a worn towel from the floor and wiped the sweat from his face and neck.
His body still buzzed from the exertion and his ability being active.
He closed his eyes and concentrated until the rush in his veins faded.
His pulse slowed as he deactivated the power.
The pain in his muscles was expected, but the slight tang in his heart was not.
He’d have to make a note of that and investigate it later.
Ethan walked to his desk and picked up a tattered notebook filled with handwritten data.
He opened it to a new page and wrote clearly, separating each observation:
June 23.
Bench press test.
*Normal maximum: 250 pounds.*
*With ability active (4x strength boost), theoretical maximum: 1,000 pounds.*
*Loaded approximately 1,000 pounds using sandbags, dumbbells, and miscellaneous items.*
*Completed 10 reps.
Difficult but achievable.
Felt capable of lifting more.*
He leaned back and looked at the whiteboard leaning against the wall.
The board was covered with notes from tests he conducted that night in his tiny room, each recorded in neat sections:
*Push-up test.*
*100 push-ups without ability.*
*400 push-ups with ability active.
Hands sore from floor grit.*
*Grip strength test.*
*Tested with bathroom scale.
Broke at 400 pounds with ability active.*
*Vertical jump test.*
*50 inches without ability.*
*200 inches with ability active.
Nearly hit ceiling.*
All were tests he could perform in a few hours with no special equipment.
Ethan chewed on his pen and considered the results.
The fourfold strength increase was consistent, but the bench press felt different tonight.
He sensed he could have managed another rep or two, perhaps even more weight.
The power might not be fixed at a fourfold boost.
With training, he could potentially increase it.
He added to his notebook:
*Growth possible?*
*Attempt 1,050 pounds bench press next.*
*Test maximum push-ups with bodyweight plus 200-pound backpack for endurance.*
He paced the room.
His boots thudded on the creaky floorboards.
If he treated the power like a muscle, he could develop it gradually, like adding reps or weight over time.
He planned to begin with bodyweight exercises and perhaps install a pull-up bar in the doorway.
Speed was another priority.
He recalled the dealers unnatural quickness, being able to outrun him while he was at a full sprint.
Ethan also made a note of the time he had the ability active, at the moment the longest he’d done it for was two minutes which was the same amount of time that passed during his fight with the dealer and the subsequent stealing of his power.
He stopped in front of the whiteboard and studied the organized array of numbers and notes.
The power belonged to him now, but it remained unfamiliar.
He resolved to refine it night after night until it became an extension of himself.
But first he would need to find the true origins of their abilities, and for that he needed some specialised equipment.
Ethan stripped out of his sweaty clothes and headed to the shower, he passed by his drugged up parents on the ground and stepped over them.
The shower in his apartment was just as disgusting as the rest of it, but at least the water was clean.
‘Cleanish…’ he thought to himself.
He turned the shower on and stepped inside washing off the sweat and muck from the night he’d spent exercising.
It was just past dawn now, his school would open in an hour or so for the clubs that some students had.
This meant he could get there and run an analysis on his blood and hopefully find the answers he was looking for.
After washing he stepped out of the shower, avoiding the towels that hung up like they were plague infested.
He headed back to his room and got a fresh towel that he kept separate from the primates that he inhabited this apartment with.
As he dried himself and got dress, his mind was racing with different ideas as to the source of his abilities.
Theory after theory moved through and was just as easily tossed out of his mind; he even considered the idea that he was actually an alien.
It would make sense considering how different he was to his parents, but that theory was easily disproven when considering that junkie would also need to be an alien.
‘Unless I simply possess the innate ability to steal powers regardless of their source?’ He considered.
Going by that logic he should be able to steal away superman’s powers.
Though he doubted they worked that way.
It was much more likely it was linked to humanity, though if he had the opportunity to test it in the future he wouldn’t decline.
Ethan dressed in his school uniform minus the blood stained blazer and exited his apartment out into the cold autumn air of Gotham.
As he walked down the side of the road a thought occurred to him; he’d never actually messaged Barbara back when she had sent him a text yesterday.
With everything that had happened it slipped his mind.
Taking his phone out of his pocket he turned it on and saw that he had several other messages from Barbara.
Barbara: Sorry if it seems a little creepy, me messaging you out of the blue, I looked up your number on your phone when you were fixing the fuel line on your boots.
Barbara: Wow I really am creepy aren’t I?
Barbara: I perfectly understand if you don’t want to talk to me, especially since I just popped up out of nowhere.
Barbara: Is it bad I just messaged you out of the blue?
Barbara: I’m going to stop talking now…
Barbara: Sorry again…
Barbara: Also feel free to message me anytime.
Barbara: Alright I’m going now.
Barbara: Bye-bye
Barbara: bye…
Ethan looked down at the flurry of messages—all sent within five minutes of each other—with a raised brow.
Based on her behaviour it would indicate that she liked him far more than should be possible considering they’d only just met.
He typed back a message and sent it.
(AN: So the police are now investigating the murder of the drug dealer, will they be able to catch up with Ethan?
Hope you enjoyed.)
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