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100YoP Chapter Eighteen "I like your shitty personality too."
🕑 Added 2022-03-09 02:16:50 +0000 UTC“So what now?” I said, arms crossed as I sat opposite of Butcher in his office. “‘Cause frankly I’m somewhere between ‘fuck out of ideas’ and ‘scared shitless that Batman is going to steal my bones’.”
“The situation is fucked, yes,” Butchie agreed, rolling a glass of scotch in his grip for a moment. “And you’re sure he’s planning to fuck you over?”
I gave him a flat look.
“He’s Batman,” I drawled. “He can’t live with me doin’ business in his city any more than I can live with Namond going much longer with his knees unshattered.”
“Still no luck findin’ him, then?”
“Fucker’s slippery,” I groused into my own glass of whiskey. “I’m running poor Farah ragged lookin’ for him when she’s not making sure my apartment’s clean of bugs or doin’ other shit for me. I’ll have to do somethin’ nice for her later.”
“You should,” Butcher nodded. “It’s good to have your soldiers like you.”
I grimaced, but sighed and let it pass.
“Still gettin’ used to it?” he asked with surprising delicacy, putting down his glass.
I clicked my tongue, “I dunno, man. It’s just... I don’t wanna be another asshole just using people and cuttin’ ‘em off like numbers, y’know?”
“I get it,” said Butcher, “But if this is the level you wanna play the game at, you’re gonna have to do it sooner or later. And you’re gonna have to do it a lot.”
“Until I’m another asshole trading people for a little peace of mind and a lotta profit?” I asked.
“What happened with Mikey wasn’t on you, Sam.”
“No. But if I do it, it will be.”
“... Sam?” he said, “I gotta ask you something, and I know your first instinct is going to be to give me some smartass answer, but I need you to contain that and take me seriously, okay?”
Hesitantly, I nodded, “Okay.”
“Are you feelin’ okay?” I blinked, surprised, and he carried on. “I just... I know that you never wanted all this boss shit. I know you’d be happy just lookin’ after your people. And I know this has to be weighing heavy on your mind.”
I shrugged, looking away as I fiddled with my glass. “It’s whatever, Butch. I can’t even be bothered to justify shit anymore. It pays good, it helps my people, it’s done.”
“Okay, that’s my bad,” Butcher said, unimpressed. “When I said ‘take me seriously’, I should have added ‘don’t bullshit me’.”
I gave him a flat look, which he returned in equal measure.
“I’m fine, Butcher,” I said. “Really.”
“Right, listen, I know you, okay? For better or worse, I’ve been watching you grow into a man for years, so I know that this is weighing on you. Don’t give me that ‘whatever’ bullshit.” I opened my mouth and he pointed a finger at me, shutting me up. “Don’t. You look at me and you tell me, how are you handling this?”
I frowned at him, but when that proved ineffective I just sighed, shrugged and leaned back.
“... I don’t fucking know,” I finally confessed, “I just... I’m not blind to the positive changes I can make from this position. I’m not. But I know myself well enough to know that I’m kind of an asshole. My first priorities are always going to be like, five people tops. Maybe six.
“And having this amount of power changes people. You and I have seen some real nice people become total assholes as soon as they got their own corner, their own errand runners, their own gang. Who am I going to be by the end of this?”
Butcher nodded, sat straight, and said, “Do you want to hear a magical piece of advice that fixes all your problems?”
I blinked, “Sure, yeah, that’d be great.”
“That doesn’t exist. Get over it, bitch.”
I gave him a flat look. He raised a hand, telling me to wait until he made his point.
“You don’t wanna be another asshole, don’t be another asshole,” he said. “Make every move keepin’ in mind that you’re trying to get the largest amount of people to tomorrow as possible. And when shit goes south, you pick up whatever’s left and you carry it forward. Like a fuckin’ boss.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just do what you can, over and over. If you’re good, it gets you through. If you’re not, you try again until you are. The only wrong answer is giving up or doing nothing.”
“And what if I stop giving a shit?”
“That’s what your family is for, Sammy,” he said. “To make you keep giving a shit under threat of getting your ass kicked.”
I chewed on that for a moment, downed my glass, and nodded, “Sounds solid enough. So how do I do that now, Butchie?”
“Well, you seem to have a grip on how Batman moves,” he said. “How do you prepare for him?”
“... well first, I gotta stop thinkin’ of him as a person and more like a force of nature,” I said. “Too many resources, too much strength, too much... everything. He’s not going to reason with me and he’s not going to give up just because I’m a pain in the ass, so the clear answer is to focus on surviving him until he has to focus on whatever dumpster fire comes next from Gotham.”
“And how long do you think you can keep this up?”
“If I do it right? Forever. If I fuck up? I give me a week or so.”
“No pressure.”
“No pressure,” I agreed. “So there’s gonna have to be a lot of covering up. More separation between street-level soldiers and the people at No Strings Attatched, more chaos on the street to keep him to busy to build a legitimate case... and I’m going to need a way to get my powers back soon.”
“I thought you said that was going to take time.”
“It is,” I nodded. “So... I’m gonna have to ask for a solid.”
{[X]}
“Seems like a rather bold move to ask for a check-up after Master Wayne’s visit,” Alfred said, emptying the syringe of my blood into a test tube. “But I suppose you are owed as much while we’re allied.”
“Right,” I said, “And here’s the part where I pretend any observations you get from this aren’t going to end up in a file marked as ‘How To Beat Sam’s Ass Into Next Week’ on your big shiny computer.”
“Don’t be crude,” he chided me. “The file is marked as ‘How to Beat Spider into Next Week’. We have some class.”
“There is so much bat shit on every stalagmite around us right now, man.”
“And yet, none falls on you. Justice is rare in this day and age, I suppose.”
I snorted. “A’ight, you win this one. How long is this going to take?”
“A few moments, no more,” he said, putting the tube into a little box attatched to the computer. “What are you hoping to find?”
“Anything, really,” I shrugged. “The way these things go, I’m bound to come head-to-head with Namond, if only because he fuckin’ wants me dead. I’d rather not have to rely on guns and Wayne’s high esteem for me to carry me thru the day.”
“Quite,” he said, tapping at the keyboard. “Now then, let’s see... what’s... huh.”
“What?”
“That’s odd...”
“I’m sure it is, but you ain’t answer my question.”
“Could it be...?”
“Now you’re just bein’ a dick.”
Alfred nodded. “Quite.”
He tapped away at the keyboard for a moment, making a graph appear showing two lines superpose. The grey one showed a pretty steady, but slow ascencion, while an orange one showed a rather sudden spike somewhere between a few points of data. The latter wasn’t much higher than the former, but it was a noticeable difference.
“What am I lookin’ at?” I asked.
“The grey line is the projected recovery rate of the ‘meta-factor’ that the computer drew up last time you recieved my care,” said Alfred. “The orange line is what actually happened. Something between then and now made the process speed up, though going by the fact that you haven’t recovered your powers I’d say it wasn’t permanent. I’ll need another sample to comfirm, though.”
“That’s... hm,” I scratched my chin. “What do you think could’ve caused it?”
“You’d know better than me, sir,” he said. “Have you done anything unusual these last few days?”
I thought about it.
It probably wasn’t the fact that I’d become a business owner, although considering the universe I was living in I couldn’t fully deny the possibility. I set that option in the ‘maybe’ list.
Something I’d drunk or eaten? No, there’d been no unusual ingridients. I’d really been too tired to tired to cook (not to mention all the time I spent with my arm on a sling) so I’d been settling for pasta and store-bought sauces, and I really doubted the answer to losing my powers was there. That went on the ‘no’ list.
Physical effort? Well... I’d been taking it easy in training with Stephanie, mostly helping her get set up around Gotham’s informants, but I had been getting into a lot of fights.
Actually, I’d been getting into metric shittons of fights. And most had involved fuckers with weapons. Could it be...?
“D’you think it could be related to adrenaline?” I asked. “Or just... high heart rates, strained muscles, shit that happens when you’re in a fight.”
“Mm, you have been quite busy of late,” Alfred granted, turning to type some stuff on the computer. “The next sample should help confirm it, but perhaps you’re onto something.”
“Right,” I nodded, “... when’s the next sample?”
“About half an hour should work,” he said, looking at me. “More than enough time for us to talk.”
“Mierda.”
“Language,” he chided. He walked around the operating table I was sitting on again and pulled out a serving table with a full teaset ready on it. He turned on an electric kettle as he spoke, “I keep this around for long nights, when I’m on monitor duty.”
“That happen often?” I asked.
“Not as much now, but it’s never become unnecessary,” he opened a wooden and looked at me. “Your type?”
“Short girls that could kick my ass,” I replied automatically. “But if you meant tea, red.”
“Hm,” he said, grabbing a baggie and putting it in a teapot, folding his hands behind his back as we waited for the water to heat up. “I have a theory I’ve never been able to voice, and you’re in the unique position where you’re connected enough to understand but disconnected enough that I can tell it to you. Would you mind?”
“Go for it, man.”
“Thank you,” he said. “My theory is that Master Bruce would have probably ended up doing something in the same scale as this whole... masked crusader business even without the tragedy that shaped him all those years ago.”
I raised an eyebrow, “How’d you figure?”
“He was always gifted,” he said, a proud smile appearing on his face despite the serious air he affected. “It almost diminishes the effort he put into his education when I say it like that, but it’s true. He was always so sharp, so clever and curious. I always knew he’d be something special.”
“You could argue that heir to Gotham’s biggest company is pretty fucking special,” I pointed out.
“Yes, and yet... I never shook the feeling that he’d be horribly bored if he’d tried to dedicate himself to it,” he said, giving an amused shrug.
“I guess that makes sense,” I said, frowning, “Why’d couldn’t you tell this to any of his army of kids? Or him, even?”
“I couldn’t tell Master Bruce because he sees the version of himself before his crusade as being lesser. He resents that he didn’t appreciate his parents enough, despite having loved them with his whole heart,” Alfred sighed, and his shoulders slumped as he spoke. “He thinks of that version of himself as... younger, as one that would have grown up to fit the mold of his public persona.”
“... I guess I get that,” I said, thinking of my first seven years in this life. They were a messy blur, but still... “It’s easy to look back and resent not having appreciated what you had.”
“Quite, but I digress,” Alfred cleared his throat. “The reason I couldn’t tell his sons was because they’re all cut from the same mold, and they’d resent the comparison. Master Bruce’s personality is... an acquired taste, and one that lingers bitterly afterwards, I’m afraid.”
I snorted, “The man ambushed me in my own home when I was hungover to tell me he was gonna kick my shit in if I didn’t shut off a business that multiple people rely on. I think you’re being a bit too gentle here.”
“Quite,” Alfred said, giving the most dignified snort I’d ever heard while the kettle started whistling. “But we digress again. All of them were extraordinary people before they donned their respective masks. Master Dick was a genius acrobat with a moral compass as close to infalible as you can get. Mistress Barbara made her own costume and started going out on her own until Batman simply had to accept her, not to mention her skill with computers. Master Jason was a natural fighter in every way, and with a lot of incentive to use it. Master Tim was actually chasing after Batman and Robin before they ever even met, and like you, he figured out their identities. And Mistress Cassandra—”
“Actually,” I interrupted him, raising a hand, “I’d rather hear it from her.”
The gesture didn’t mean much since I could mostly remember her backstory, but it still had to mean something if she chose to tell me about it. I wouldn’t take that from her.
He paused, then gave me a nod as he poured hot water into the teapot. “Very well, Master Samuel.”
“I’m too—” I blinked, “Well, I was gonna say I’m too broke to be called master, but I guess I’m kinda rich now. In any case, don’t do it.”
“As you wish, Master Reyes.”
“Dick,” I said amicably. “Anyway, where are you going with this?”
“My point is that while I don’t believe in nature over nurture, I do find that some people have natural talents that they need to exercise, consciously or not,” he said, dragging the table over, “And your origin makes me think that the way you found to exercise yours, that wit that carried you through school and dangers, was to position yourself into further problems.”
“Alright, I’m not dumb,” I said, annoyed. “You’re saying I’m starting a criminal goddamn empire because I’d get bored otherwise?”
“Are you not?” he challenged, “Can you honestly tell me that you’ve made all your decisions lately based on what would get the best results, instead of just what felt comfortable and familiar? What felt safe? More than that, Cassandra told me that after you quit the Blackgaters and you found that your mother needed money—”
“The fuck—? She told you about that?” I frowned.
“We gossip over ice cream. Please understand, she meant no harm through it,” he said.
“I... I guess I can’t fault her for that,” I said. “I got my friends and my gang, and she’s got you and a bunch of emotionally stunted rich people that dress up and fight criminals.”
“Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you should say it, Master Reyes,” Alfred chided me. “The point I was going to make is that the first money-making scheme you came up with was henchman work, no?”
“Well yeah,” I shrugged. “Between the skills I had, the burnt bridges, my age, my experiences, and the need to have mom go to Metropolis for something better, it was the best option.”
“Was it? If you’d stayed with, ah, Butcher, was it? If you’d stayed with Butcher and sent the pay from working at his establishment to her, would the help not have been sufficient?” Alfred said, pouring two cups. “She wouldn’t have stayed in the lap of luxury, true, but you would have still been going above and beyond your duties as her son. But you felt the need to almost immediately jump to another criminal activity.”
“That’s... I mean, I—” I blinked, and I fell into my own head.
Because honestly... was Alfred right? I mean, the idea hadn’t even ocurred to me. I could barely remember the day, honestly, but I remembered... getting dropped off by Butchie, still trying to process the day when I found out there were new needs and... I’d jumped straight to living alone with mom gone.
Then again, I’d thought of myself as an adult even then. But I could have still been Butchie’s roomate. Why had I felt the need to live alone?
The idea simply hadn’t occurred to me.
And what about the day I lost my powers? I just let Russ boss me around, and I fought like a fucking normal against Candy. I’d thought I was protecting my identity, but after getting tossed down a whole-ass story and getting my arm dislocated I should have taken the kid gloves off.
But I was acting like I was a Blackgater again, because it was comfortable. Because...
Because it was harder. Because my powers hadn’t felt earned like I’d gained every other skill. Just like I’d jumped to money laundering through a strip club because it was familiar, and selling the product I stole from Namond because I knew how a good corner was run and I figured I could apply it wide-scale.
I was just doing shit that reminded me of being fifteen and one of the Blackgaters’ top muscle.
“Holy shit,” I said. I looked down and realized that at some point Alfred had handed me a cup of tea. I took a sip, then told him, “Hey, Alfred?”
“Yes, Master Samuel?”
“Two things: first of all, this is the best damned tea I have everhad.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And second, you should know that getting shot in the head didn’t rattle me as hard as this whole conversation.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir,” he said. “What will you do in light of it?”
I shrugged. “Shit, just be better, I guess. Smarter, at least.”
“And will part of this involve—”
“I can’t close down No Strings Attatched,” I said immediately, then felt pressed to expand on it. “I mean, I get that, if you’re right, I started it for stupid reasons. But people are already depending on it. I’m unionizing the workin’ girls, I’m makin’ sure the dealers don’t sell near schools, I’m... I mean, you see how I’m tryin’ to make things right, right?”
“And do you think this counterbalances all those harmed by it?”
“... is it really a matter of ‘balance’?” I asked, frowning. “I mean, sure, shit stacks as you do it, but... I don’t think we can count the amount of people I help against the amount of people I hurt and see if I’m good or bad by which number’s bigger. And what about the addicts, the workin’ girls, everyone that would get hurt by the game even if I weren’t playin’? I’m trying to make it so they’re hurt less, so how does that figure into the calculus?
“I think... I think I’m doing a good thing,” I said, before I frowned and ammended, “No. I’m deciding I’m doing a good thing.”
“Do you really think that’s how it works?” Alfred challenged.
“And how many detractors does Batman regularly ignore?” I countered. “How many people question the justice in dressing in a costume and going around brutalizing people? He helps people, right? Well, how many kids are going to be spared from addiction by the measures I’m going to put in place? How many sex workers are going to be safer because of my actions? It’s still getting fixed around, but...”
“I understand,” Alfred said, “But wouldn’t the ideal solution be a lack of crime and drug use in the first place?”
I scoffed. “That’s a fuckin’ pipe dream and you know it. The game is the game. Always.”
Alfred sighed and shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
“... hey,” I said, shrugging, “Better if someone with a conscience runs it, right?”
“And what about your conscience?” he asked me. “You can see that people are coming out of it harmed, can’t you? Even if you help out some, can you rest easy with how many lives are being ruined, if not indirectly finished as a consequence to your actions?”
“... I dunno,” I shrugged. “But I can’t do nothing.”
We sat there, drinking our tea in silence for a bit. The uncomfortable truth sat between us: the human condition by itself meant the elements I sought to control would always be present, but that failed to change the inherent immorality of taking a position of power within them.
The only way to come out of the drug trade clean is to never have anything to do with it. Fighting it just meant wearing yourself down against something that people would throw themselves at willingly, and participating in it meant responsibility over deaths by murder, overdose, and who knew what else.
I finished my cup, and he generously poured me another one. As he did, he looked at my hand.
“What do the letters on your fingers stand for, anyhow?”
I looked down at it. S-H-W-G. Spider, Huntsman, Weaver, Golden.
“Syrupy Hot Waffle Goodness,” I deadpanned. “To remind me what matters most: breakfast.”
“Ah, well, as long as your priorities are straight,” he returned in an equal deadpan.
A smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. I couldn’t notlike Alfred.
“And if you answered me honestly, you would say?” he asked.
“... I told you,” I said, “It’s to remind me what matters most.”
He mulled that over, then nodded. “As good a reason to tattoo yourself as any, I suppose.”
“Yeah, I thought that too.”
{[X]}
Sex work is, by nature, a line of work fraught with dangers. Although the risk of getting shot was lesser (though not by as much as you’d think) than in drug dealing, the police and dangerous clients were still an ever-present danger for the working girls.
So, I took it as my job to make preparations against as many problems as I could.
First of all, to make things easier and better in the long run, Sonya and I created a union for sex workers which we, inbetween giggles, named ‘the Seamstresses’ Guild’.
Seeing how I wasn’t sure the GCPD could read, let alone knew who Terry Pratchett was, I felt comfortable making the reference. It even gave plausible deniability, to a certain extent.
Through the union, we negotiated and got all the workers affiliated with me a healthcare plan. Regular check ups to catch dangerous diseases early, condoms and mouth dams distributed at my place for the girls that stopped by, health insurance, barebones life insurance and a pretty solid dental plan if I do say so myself.
It was hard, but thankfully Sonya and I were willing to work together to figure it out. We settled on her getting all the credit, though. I needed my workers to trust her if I wanted to use them as an information network, and that went a long ways.
Then, came the issues that arose when you made women walk the streets. Cops, muggers, rapists, all the horrors that the Bats struggled against but never quite stamped out. And I certainly wasn’t going to do it.
So I had to remove the streets from the equation.
My first thought was to set up a bordello, but that wouldn’t work. Having a single building frequented by clients was just asking for a police raid, and I wanted to delay the inevitable police investigation for as long as I could, especially since I suspected Batman was going to bring his good buddy the commissioner with him.
So, there was only one obvious solution:
I had to invent Uber for Prostitutes.
{[X]}
“You fucking want me to fucking make what the fuck?” asked Farah, jaw hanging loose.
“Uber for Prostitutes,” I said, then hesitated. “Well, Uber for Sex Workers. I’m trying to be more respectful with my language towards them.”
“You’re the worst pimp ever,” she informed me, before she shook her head and focused back on the subject. “Why would I— why would you even ask me to— why are you trying to get me to make this?!”
The worst pimp ever explained his thought process.
We were talking in one of the VIP rooms of No Strings Attatched, trying not to get distracted by Billy throwing money at the dance he’d insisted on inviting. I got the feeling Farah had been raised pretty conservatively, because her eyes kept wandering over to the dancer then she focused back on me, cheeks blushing for a second.
Still, by the end of the explanation she was nodding along, to my surprise. She pinched her chin and chewed her lip, seeming to give the idea some serious consideration.
“It’s... I mean, it’s not perfect, so I see how that makes sense,” she scratched her chin, “None of the risks in the streets, no problem with weather ‘cause they’re just waiting in their house or whatever... actually, where would they meet?”
“I was thinking of making a list of safe motels and other neutral places, and the app randomly chooses one,” I said. “At first I figured the worker could choose and the client either agrees or doesn’t and fucks off, but this way there’s less chance of user error and shit.”
“That’s a good idea,” she nodded, “Though, eventually the GCPD is gonna narrow the possible locations down, as soon as they find out about this.”
“Right,” I scratched my chin, “I could make a new list every week?”
“That’s not really practical, you’re already busy with everything else,” Farah said, “And don’t think about asking me. I ain’t even got time with all the shit you’re making me... code...”
“Got an idea?”
“... yeah,” she nodded, smiling, “An algorithm that picks places according to criteria like proximity or police routes and shit like that, and it makes a new list every week. I could connect it to the cops’ server and make sure it doesn’t suggest a place they suspect—”
“Whoa, whoa, hold the fuck on,” I said, “You have access to the GCPD’s shit? Like, their files and all that?”
“Yeah?” she shrugged, “I made a backdoor when I was twelve ‘cause I was bored.”
I blinked, then very seriously said, “Farah, you are a delight to have around.”
“O-Oh, that’s... that’s very nice of—”
“I mean, you’re a huge pain in the ass,” I said, “But you’re very handy.”
“Oh fuck you.”
I laughed as she glared at me, then gave her a one-armed hug.
“I’m kiddin’, I’m kiddin’, I like your shitty personality too.”
She punched me again, but I could see a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and she returned the hug.
Billy cheered as the dancer started grinding on his lap.
“We really should’ve had this talk in your office,” said Farah.
“Yup.”
{[X]}
It took Farah a couple weeks, but soon enough the app was finished, and it was already doing numbers.
She had to use a very targeted Craigslist add aimed at a pretty dimwitted member of Namond’s army to get it out there, but soon enough more and more people started downloading the app.
Between all the girls I had in my employ from subverting pimps and Sonya helping me manage, taking over most of the sex trade in Crime Alley and some of the adjacent neighborhoods was done in days. And since a good chunk of the customers belonged to Namond’s army, I’d been gaining a lot of information in regards to stash houses, meeting places, businesses used for money laundering and such.
In that time, rumors about me started spreading. Having Billy show up in my costume had helped, but the suspicion that I was Spider still spread like wildfire among Gotham’s underbelly. Add to that to rumors about the kinds of jobs I’d done for the Blackgaters, plus my time as a henchman, and my being the former right hand and current best friend to the head of the goonion...
More than a few people were learning my name, which was as much of an advantage as it was a problem.
On the one hand, popularity brought recruits. People wanted to join with me because I was something new and exciting, with none of the baggage Namond carried from all the older gangs under his influence. Every day, my reach expanded with more and more people joining up and eventually getting assigned their own corners.
Butcher, Sonya and Manny were lifesavers in this, since I would’ve had a hard time organizing it all on my own. With their help, I made sure only the most resourceful, trustworthy candidates wound up in charge of their own corners. There were a few dumbasses in the mix, but they were left with clear instructions that would give them some time before the cops caught up.
The goonion was also instrumental in gaining territory where I just didn’t have the muscle for it. Thanks to the information from the working girls, I managed to send them out on several skirmishes with plans that minimized damages on our side. Keeping the fatalities down was hard, but as far as I knew no one had died directly because of my orders.
That included civilians. Through my influence and the influx of money from drug dealing, I was funding a few soup kitchens and homeless shelters that I’d volunteered at a few times before, knowing that they could be trusted with the money.
And although it might be the ultimate act of evil, I was considering buying some property in uptown Gotham. It’d be relatively cheap, and it would allow me to have some places with decent rent. Renovating them would be a bitch and a half, but they could make a difference.
My nameless gang was growing to fit the money I’d gained from robbing Penguin, and in the process adding more wealth that it had to grow to match. It was almost a perpetual motion machine, but I couldn’t fool myself into thinking it was ‘too big to fail’ or anything dumb like that.
Cops were bound to show up sooner or later, and all I could do was set up security nets anywhere I could fit them.
Although then again, training Spoiler was probably the opposite of what I intended.
“C’mon, you call that a punch?” I goaded her, backing up a little, “It felt like a tickle!”
She charged in, ducking under a right cross and landing a punch on my stomach, then she tried to knee me in the balls. I caught her attack with one hand and shoved her back, then threw a punch at her face that she weaved around.
“Better! Come on, show me your moves!”
She grunted with effort, but threw a kick at my face. I caught it, then kicked her other foot out from under her and sent her sprawling to the floor.
“Wanna call a break?” I asked her as she worked to stand up.
“I’m good,” she panted, “Just need a... just need a second...”
“Hm,” I said. “Well, I’m calling a break, so sit down and drink some water.”
She did so with a relieved sigh, stretching her legs out and crawling over to where she’d set our water bottles, throwing one at me and grabbing the other.
It hit my face, but I managed to catch it. I walked over and sat down next to her with a sigh, saying, “You’re improving a lot, y’know?”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” she muttered, taking a pull from my bottle. “Feels like you’re still kicking my ass.”
“Yeah, but I got like, a decade of practice,” I shrugged, then frowned, “That’s my bottle, by the way.”
She blinked, then handed it over.
I wiped the lip while I said, “I’m a bad metric to measure against, Steph. Trust me, you’re doin’ well.”
“Hm. I wanna focus on the flattery, because it’s great for my ego, but I’m too busy being sad that I can’t make a joke about indirect kisses,” she pouted, grabbing her bottle from my hand. “Way to ruin the joke, Sam.”
“Don’t want your fucking germs,” I grumbled, taking a sip. “So, how’s the superheroing?”
“Stopped a couple muggings and a car-jacking,” she proudly said, “Haven’t had a chance to dismantle anything more complicated, but I think if I can talk Batgirl into going with me we could mess up a stash house or something.”
“Don’t do one of mine, please,” I deadpanned.
Her grin dropped slightly, and she cleared her throat, “Yeah, uh, I’ll keep it in mind.”
I raised an eyebrow at her, but decided to let her choose when to talk about it.
We sat there in silence for a while. Seeing that it looked like we weren’t going to go back to excercising for a while, I started doing stretches, and she followed suit shortly after.
After a few, she looked over and, in a shockingly timid voice, said, “... hey Sam?”
“Mm?”
“I... okay, you said you started working for the Blackgaters because you needed money, and things just kinda spiralled from there, right?”
“Mm.”
“So... what’s with this whole thing you’re doing now?” she asked. “At first it was just laundering money, so you opened No Strings, then—”
“No Strings Attatched,” I corrected. “It’s like A Pimp Named Slickback, you gotta say the full thing.”
She rolled her eyes, “The point is, you started a fucking gang.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So... I just don’t get it,” she shrugged, “I can’t wrap my head around it. You help my mom, you train me, you said you’re making sure the sex workers are safe... but you’ve killed before. You joked about it a few times.”
“I have.”
“But they weren’t just jokes.”
“They weren’t.”
“See, that’s what fucks with me,” she said, sounding genuinely frustrated. “Dad was an asshole in the house and outside of it. So what makes you so goddamned different?”
Ah, I thought. I stopped doing stretches and sat down, and she sat opposite to me.
I gave the matter some thought, then said, “Do you know what the mafia, the yakuza and many different African-American gangs have in common? Besides the obvious.”
She shrugged.
“They started off as ways to protect a community when the law just wasn’t doin’ it. They were out to make a profit, sure, but they helped. They were an unsavoury, necessary part of the community. They protected citizens, boosted the economy, all that shit.
“But something always went wrong with these organizations. The fuckin’ human condition or somethin’ always ended up making the focus turn from protecting the community to exploitin’ it to turn a goddamn profit. Isn’t that frustrating?”
Stephanie frowned at me. “... where are you going with this, Sam?”
“My point is... I’ve got more than enough profits for a while, and for as long as I keep takin’ shit from other gangs and villains, it’s gonna keep comin’,” I leaned back and smiled at her. “How long do you think I can keep it up, Steph? How long do you think my gang can keep its focus on helpin’ the community? Because personally... I’m betting on a real goddamned long time.”
“... the community doesn’t need you,” she said. “The Bats, the police... they can—”
“Really?” I asked, “Because I’ve got ten years of experience dodging the Bats and the cops that says otherwise. And besides, I think you’re just playing devil’s advocate.”
She sneered, “Oh yeah? How do you figure?”
“If you really believed they were enough, you wouldn’t be gearing up to go out there on your own.”
Steph pursed her lips and looked away.
I continued, “The law is lawless and the Bats can’t be everywhere. I’m sure of it now, Steph. I can help with this. I will help with this.”
She frowned, still looking at the ground instead of at me. She hugged her leg to her chest, rested her chin on her knee and sighed, before looking at me and saying, “Maybe you have a point. But... I’m not going to make an exception for you. I find some of your gang doing criminal crap, I’m going to stop them.”
“I expected you to,” I said. “You’re gonna be a hero, Steph. Only natural for you to stop villains.”
She blinked, then gave me a smile.
“You know something, Reyes?” she said, standing up and taking a fighting stance. “For criminal scum, you’re pretty alright.”
“Back at you, Brown.”
Comments
thevolunteer
It’s not even close. Alfred deserves to have his name on a memorial somewhere
Draconic Hermit
Alfred, showing how he's Consistently Considered best Dad of the DC Universe. When Jason punches his way out of his grave or wakes up from whatever Lazarus Bullshitery he's going through, his feelings on Spidey is gonna be conflicted to say the least. On one hand, he's a criminal who's dating the latest Batgirl who just puts Hood's older brother instincts on Maximum Overdrive, on the other he's trying to do what Todd was gonna do when he was ready. So he has people willing to help put the clown in hell for however long it takes for him to get bored, but the guy in charge of 'em is Plowing his litter sister on a web hammock dangling from a skyscraper.
