The Black is an overworked single Father of Thousands

You’re probably all overloaded by the sudden plot build-up and the otherwise abrupt start to my story. I am too. Very confusing how we started deep into my beautiful time here in this fever dream of a city—Gotham. If Gotham was a person—man, woman, ambiguous eldritch thing—I’d marry them on the spot. Kiss their cracked sidewalks, their crime-slicked gutters, their asbestos-stained skyline. Love at first allergic reaction. But for the confused among you, I’ll let you peek into a few classified files, freshly declassified by yours truly. In classic multiversal tradition, let’s do this one more time.

Name’s Alex Cross. Same name on my home Earth and this one, which is either lazy cosmic planning or destiny being drunk again. I’m Venom—yes, that Venom. Same teeth, same voice, fewer murder urges (mostly). Except I’m not just the guy who bites heads and yells We Are Venom anymore. I’m also the King in Black. God of the Abyss. Void Incarnate. Current babysitter of two half-feral symbiote hybrids and most recently, five-month veteran of the most corrupt, exhausted, understaffed precinct in Gotham's GCPD. You might call that a downgrade. I call it a crash course in survival tactics and office coffee-induced food poisoning.

I don’t remember much about my past world. Or rather, I remember it selectively. Like someone ripped out the emotional parts and left only the muscle memory, instincts, and one disturbingly vivid memory of failing a cooking tutorial. Why? Plot purposes, probably. But I do remember what came after. The darkness. The void. Knull was dead, the throne was mine, and then boom—ripped into the bleeding cosmos and spat out like space phlegm into this glorious cesspool of a city. The sudden mental scream of a thousand symbabies lighting up my skull like a Christmas migraine was... euphoric. I landed. Cold, shirtless, starving, reborn, and unreasonably bisexual.

The lights of Gotham hit the senses like a steel pipe. Neon bleeding into smog. Sirens howling lullabies. People arguing about expired coupons in alleyways while someone gets mugged across the street. I loved it instantly. You don’t get Gotham. You earn Gotham. And lucky me—I was all in. First step? Get food. Second? Shelter. Third? Avoid triggering the extremely edgy vigilante population who apparently think capes make the man. Hint: They don’t. I met one once. Didn’t know his name, but he moved like silence had a grudge and smelled like chalk dust and rooftop moss. Tried to ask for directions. He vanished. Rude.

De-aging was another gift from the universe. One minute, I’m built like a heavyweight MMA champion, next I’m in a leaner, more… twink-adjacent meat suit. Not complaining, it came with very punchable cheekbones and low-maintenance stubble. But when I say I looked like a male lead from a gay K-drama, I mean it. The outfit didn't help either—low-rise jeans, worn boots, one suspiciously tight shirt. I walked into a bodega and three people tried to hit on me before I asked where the library was. Speaking of which—yes, I broke into Gotham’s public library. It was midnight, and I needed answers. The librarian? Paraplegic ex-fighter. Don’t ask how I know, but those arms still flexed with muscle memory, and that gaze had combat trauma written all over it. I avoided her. Barely.

When that failed, I resorted to Gotham’s public access net. Oh, the horror. Windows 1-looking sites, early 2000s malware pop-ups, and an actual “Are You Over 18?” gif that crashed my browser. No Stark, no Parker, no Osborn. But it did have forums full of wannabe vigilantes, conspiracy theorists, and anti-Batman blogs that read like religious texts. So I adapted. Hid. Learned. Stole sandwiches from carts. Slept under the old monorail tracks for two weeks. Watched the sky like it owed me something.

Then came the big break. Arkham Asylum blew its lid—again. One of Gotham’s “Oopsie Tuesday” events. A quarter of GCPD was either dead or in surgery. Perfect. All I had to do was find the right panicking sergeant, claim I was a cadet separated during the breakout, fake some credentials using actual paper and ink, and boom. Badge. Uniform. Street access. The system is broken, and Gotham? She’s held together by duct tape, spite, and three dozen caffeine-addicted civilians playing vigilante dress-up. So yeah—Officer Alex Cross, reporting for duty, freshly deputized by desperation and held together by zero qualifications and a really convincing fake mustache I wore during the initial background check. Yeah, I'm on that Hobo to Popo grindset -eww, can't believe I just said that.

Gordon was too busy counting body bags and chain-smoking stress to notice anything off. A few weeks in, and I got comfortable. Bought a car (stole it first, then bought it legally at auction). Got a crash pad near Crime Alley, because rent is cheaper when the Joker blows up your neighbors. Took a few bribes. Took a few names. Played the game. Met the other rookies—junkies, thieves, cons trying to go straight. Good guys, mostly. They’ve got scars deeper than mine and Gotham smiles on survivors, even if it never shows its teeth. I didn’t try to be a hero. I just did the work. That’s how you survive Gotham.

Which brings us to now.

Five months later, and I’ve got a badge, a beat-up apartment, two unstable hybrid children with teeth, a not-entirely-legal mini-armory in my closet, and one gorgeous, supermodel-looking Asian woman peeking at me through my window. Wait—what?

I blink. Tilt my head just slightly, eyes narrowing past the glare of the windowpane. There, across the street, perched somewhere she shouldn’t be able to stand on without gravity politely excusing itself, was her. Black hair. Sharp eyes. Still as death, yet coiled like something that could lunge at any second.

“She watches often,” Venom rumbles inside, a low ripple like a purr soaked in static.

I say nothing, just look back. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Probably doesn’t breathe like a normal person either. I’ve seen her before, shadows of her flickering through alley reflections, crouched beside gargoyles, vanishing into fire escapes like a living rumor.

I raise an eyebrow. She vanishes.

Friend?

“Stalker.”

potential friend?

“Jesus—no.”

Venom chuckles, but it’s a soft one, affectionate almost. I breathe out, smile faintly. Gotham doesn’t give you fairy tales. She gives you riddles in bloodstained wrapping paper. And just like that, the city wraps me back up in her arms, whispering promises of chaos and crooked justice. Alright enough bad shit poetic ass writings of monologue and inner broodings

Time to go back on duty.

Alex stepped out of coffee shop, humming the Animaniacs theme under his breath, badge clipped crooked on his chest and half a bagel in his mouth. His patrol car—a dented GCPD Dodge with three different hubcaps, a bullet-riddled rear window, and a haunting smell of old fries and ozone—was waiting, parked with exactly one tire on the curb. Venom, lounging somewhere inside his ribcage, muttered something about the alignment. Alex just tossed his bagel into the passenger seat and slid in like a man entirely unaware—or willfully ignorant—that Gotham was hanging by a thread.

“Good morning, city of nightmares,” he sang, clicking on the ignition and letting the car growl to life. “Let’s go see what children of the night are out causing public disturbances, yeah?”

We will find at least six muggings, three domestic disputes, and someone pretending to be the Riddler again, can we eat the last one?.

“Sure, the last one better rhyme this time. I’m taking notes.”

He pulled away from the curb with a leisurely swerve that nearly clipped a hotdog cart, then waved an enthusiastic sorry to the vendor with the biggest, most unapologetic grin he could muster. The vendor, jaw clenched and eyes twitching, nodded slowly like someone who had just realized the man driving a government-issued vehicle might actually be more dangerous than the clown prince currently running amok.

Every block was a low-level panic attack. Gotham in daylight still smelled like sweat, smog, and secrets. The recent Joker escape had tension hanging thick over the streets, like a fire alarm that just wouldn’t stop chirping. Civilians flinched at sudden sounds. Shops kept doors half-closed even during business hours. People walked fast, eyes never quite meeting yours. Most GCPD cruisers crept along like they were afraid of drawing too much attention. Not Alex.

Alex waved at everyone. Literally everyone.

A woman clutching her purse tight as she passed? Wave.

A group of teens spray-painting a wall with “HA HA’S BACK”? Double wave, followed by finger guns.

A man dragging a suspiciously joker-colored bag into a back alley? He slowed down, smiled like the Cheshire Cat, rolled his window down, and said:

“Hey buddy, that’s not a body, right?”

The man froze. Alex stared. Then winked. “Just kidding. Unless?”

The man stammered something and ran. Alex didn’t follow. He just kept driving.

Cass watched it all from the sidewalk. Civilian clothes today: a faded Gotham Knights hoodie, dark jeans, and a frayed backpack slung low over one shoulder. Her hair was tied back, her posture loose. To anyone else, she looked like just another worn-out Gothamite, drifting between fear and routine. But her eyes? Her eyes were razor-sharp. Focused. Tracking him like he was a puzzle that made no sense.

She’d seen him work before, but not like this. Most cops—hell, most people—moved like prey here. He didn’t. He walked like he belonged. Like the danger was his. He smiled too much. Joked too much. Acted too carefree. And in Gotham, that kind of attitude was either a front, a symptom, or a warning.

Alex parked near Robinson Park, stepped out of the car with a bounce in his step, and immediately began feeding pigeons with the leftover crust of his bagel. He crouched, whispering to them like old friends. Several officers across the street stared in vague disbelief. One rookie nudged his partner. “Is that Cross?”

“Yeah. Don’t talk to him. He brought doughnuts last week and somehow made it feel like a threat.”

“...How?”

“He stared at everyone like he knew exactly how they’d die.”

Meanwhile, Alex continued whispering to his feathered horde. “You guys ever wonder if Batman talks to bats like this? I bet he’s got, like, a whole speech. ‘Welcome, my brethren, to justice.’” He paused, dramatic. “Wait, are you guys secretly agents of the Bat? Tell him I say hi and tell him to reel in his blackbat before I pull the ol' restraining order.”

They are not agents.

“You don’t know that.”

They pooped on the windshield last week.

“That could’ve been a warning.”

From the sidewalk, Cass tilted her head at the odd sight. 

He finished feeding the birds, saluted them, and returned to his car. Instead of driving, he climbed onto the hood and reclined like it was a chaise lounge. Sunlight hit the badge pinned to his chest. Somewhere, a child screamed in the distance. He adjusted his shades (he didn’t need them—just liked the vibe) and pulled out a half-filled notebook labeled Crime Ideas.

Not preventing crime. Just ideas.

Inside were things like:

• “Reverse pickpocketing: leaving money on suspicious guys.”

• “Stealing someone’s wanted poster and mailing it to them with a note: ‘Try harder.’”

• “Hijack ice cream truck, only serve it to known GCPD rats.”

• “Get a grappling hook. Why do they get all the cool shit?”

Cass watched. Closer now. Her steps light, her presence thinner than smoke. She kept to the blind spots, the spaces where shadows hung longer than they should in daylight. She wasn’t sure what he was yet. He wasn’t Bat material—too loud, too unpredictable. But not Joker either. Not Scarecrow. Not any of the usual suspects.

He was new.

And new in Gotham was dangerous but also quite fascinating.

Back in the car, Alex started the engine again, muttering to Venom.

“Alright, lunch break’s over. Let’s go find something illegal.”

You say that like it’s a dessert menu.

“Everything in Gotham’s a dessert menu if you’ve got the right taste.”

Cass, now half a block behind, kept walking. Still invisible. Still unnoticed. But the way Alex’s window rolled down ever so slightly? The way his mirror tilted?

He might’ve noticed.

Just a little.

He grinned, and muttered to no one in particular, “Stalker girl’s kinda cute.”

You flirt like a moron.

“I flirt like a king. Was just messing anyway, don't wanna deal with that load up considering how it ended with parker's rollercoaster of a love life”

The sun crawled lazily across Gotham’s dusty skyline, bleeding its orange light over rooftops littered with antennae and the ghosts of last night’s sirens. The rest of the afternoon had passed like a clogged artery: tense, sluggish, occasionally twitching. Sure, there had been some expected Gothamisms—a robbery here, a mugging there, one shootout that ended when the suspects tripped over their own Molotov—but nothing worth getting the gloves bloody over. The Croc thing earlier had been a fun detour, Blackbat's weird stalking behaviors, and especially with that shadowy acrobat girl showing up like some ninja ghost. But even she was gone now. Alex had offered her a Snickers. She didn’t respond and just walked to a distance and continued just watching from afar. Rude, but Gotham types were shy, especially the parkour ones.

So now he sat on his patrol car hood like a gargoyle in time-out, legs swinging back and forth like some oversized child left at a grim daycare. His fingers idly tapped out a rhythm on his thigh, each beat syncing with the mild buzz of the Hive in his head. Only 546 were awake. A sluggish turnout. Most were still hibernating in his genetic folds after their interdimensional bender against reality. He could feel a few jittering close to his lungs, like hamsters with anxiety issues. One of them—nicknamed Spleenboy—had tried chewing into his respiratory lining again.

"Tell Spleenboy that if he nibbles one more organ, we're making soup out of him."

“I told you, he’s teething,” Alex mumbled, eyes on the street across from him. “Little guy just needs enrichment. Maybe a chew toy.”

"You are not giving him an intern to gnaw on again."

“Fine. But he gets to nibble on a lung-shaped Jell-O cube.”

Venom growled softly, a rumble only Alex could feel crawling through his ribs like a bass note in his bones. The Hive pulsed—an anxious ripple through his nervous system. Gotham's aura was getting to them. The city had a smell, a psychic stink, something in the air that made even immortal parasites feel like they were being watched by a hungry shadow.

Just then, a radio burst to life inside the car, static giving way to panicked shouting. Robbery, jewelry store, heavy gunfire, officers pinned.

Alex turned the volume down with one finger and yawned. “Not today,” he muttered, lying back across the hood of the car, eyes half-lidded as he traced a crack in the windshield with a bored gaze. “I already had my bullet quota this week. Five shots, three grazes, one ricochet to the shoulder, and a tear in my left shoe. Unacceptable.”

People rushed by in the distance, a few slowing when they saw the grinning cop lounging on a squad car like it was a poolside recliner. None of them dared ask what he was doing. None of them dared not walk faster.

Then, like a soda can popping open mid-silence, a cheerful voice piped up: “Hello!”

Alex tilted his head just enough to spot the kid standing beside him. Bright blue eyes, Metropolis sunshine black hair, posture way too open for Gotham. Immediate suspicion.

He squinted. “Waddya want, Metro-kid?”

The boy blinked. “Wait—how’d you know I’m from Metropolis?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Because only Metropolis types wear that shirt in Gotham without flinching. It’s basically a target. Also? You don’t walk like you're expecting to get stabbed. You walk like you’ve never had your sneakers stolen while wearing them.”

The boy looked down at his S-shield shirt—one of those sleek athletic-fabric ones with reinforced stitching—and then chuckled. “Wow, I didn’t know Gotham cops noticed fashion.”

“We don’t. We notice things that get you killed. Fashion’s just a subcategory of that.”

“I’m Jonathan Samuel Kent,” the boy said, extending his hand with an almost sunflower-like innocence. “Nice to meet you, uh...?”

Alex stared at the hand for a beat too long before shaking it—firm grip, but not aggressive. “Officer Alexiamine Cross, GCPD. Don’t mind the name. My mother thought I was a girl when I was born.”

Half-true. The other half involved losing a bet with a Celestial entity with a bad haircut and questionable naming preferences. But that was a multiversal headache for another time.

Alex pulled a lollipop out of his coat and popped it into his mouth like a cigarette. “You really going around introducing yourself with all three names? What’re you, royalty?”

Jon grinned nashfully. “Kinda! -wait, no just a regular Human here hehe”


Yeah, this kid ain't fooling anyone.

He is Kryptonian.

Alex blinked slowly. “Yeah, I figured. No one else here smiles like that unless they’ve never been tear-gassed in a back alley.”

Jon looked both amused and mildly horrified. “Wait, has that happened to you?”

Fuck, he said that out loud, he's gonna look like a Fucking weirdo, play it cool Alex. This isn't cool, badass mute Ethan, this ain't no child of Gotham, don't spook 'em.

“Only twice.” Alex chewed the lollipop stick thoughtfully. “Okay, three times. One was my fault.”

A breeze whipped by. The kind that always seemed to carry whispers in Gotham. Half real, half paranoia, all part of the charm (A/N: I Gotta stop writing unnecessary details). Meanwhile, Cass stood across the street, still tailing, still watching. Her hoodie was pulled up now, eyes shaded but sharp. She had been trailing since midday, through intersections and alleys, across rooftops when he wasn’t looking.

He was looking.

Well, half-looking.

He could feel her slowly getting closer, using the running folks to hide her approach. Gotham had rules. And one of them was you’re never alone unless they want you to be.

“Hey,” Jon said, still oblivious. “Is it always like this here?”

“Define ‘this.’”

“Y’know... the spooky. The vibe. The... murdery background radiation? It's usually not this bad during day.”

Alex grinned, wide and toothy, he wasn't wrong; daytime usually isn't this bad, but the kid didn't know Joker was out. “Jonny-boy, this is Gotham. If you ain’t feelin’ like your spine’s a violin about to be played by a serial killer, you’re either already dead or you’re the one doing the playing.”

Jon’s eyes widened, but he laughed, genuinely. The kid had a good head on his shoulders. He’d probably lose it in Crime Alley one day, but still. Good head, for an alien half-breed at least -though his Human scent roughly masked his kryptonian one.

We should test him.

“What, like make him fight a gang?”

No. See if he knows which snack vendors carry alien-safe hotdogs.

Alex turned back to Jon. “Hey, you eat hotdogs?”

Jon blinked. “What?”

“Alien-safe ones. You know, for digestion. You’re half-solar battery, right?”

“I—I guess? I usually just eat regular stuff. Except shrimp. Shrimp makes me sneeze fire.”

Alex squinted. This kid needs to work on his hidden persona; he just asked an alien-related question, and still, the kid didn't notice. “Weird. Cute. Dangerous. I like it.”

Jon laughed again, this time more hesitantly. “Are all Gotham cops like you?”

“Nope,” Alex said, licking his lollipop. “Most of ‘em got therapy budgets and drinking problems. I just have voices in my head and an ancient space throne I refuse to sit on.”

Cass narrowed her eyes across the street. Her fingers flexed like they wanted to touch something. She’d seen a lot of strange in Gotham—doll-masked assassins, fear-toxin cults, crime princes in sad clown paint. But this Cop cap? if she wasn't sure of his status as a potential meta, she was now. She can barely get a read on him but from what she can assess, Cop cap knows who Jonathan is, what Jonathan is and yet he seems fine with it, unbothered, maybe even just bored.

And he was talking to a Kent.

That, more than anything, made her stay.

Alex turned his head slightly, like sniffing the wind. “Hey, kid.”

“Yeah?”

“You ever get the feeling someone’s watching you?”

Jon paused. “Sometimes. But usually that’s my mom.”

“Right. Add that to the list of things we’re not unpacking today.”

Venom chuckled in his chest.

The stench of old steam, rusted metal, and day-old pretzel grease still lingered in the alley like a ghost that hadn't been told to leave. Jon wrinkled his nose as Alex led him around the corner, stopping in front of a busted-up hotdog stand half-swallowed by the alley’s shadow. The vendor had long since vanished—probably around the time Joker’s latest fan club started firebombing local businesses—but the metal cart remained, red paint flaking like sunburnt skin and a small LED sign blinking “Hot Franks” in exhausted loops.

“Huh,” Jon said, tilting his head. “Are we… sure this is safe?”

Alex squatted down beside the stand, flipping open a panel near the wheel well like he’d done it a hundred times. “Safe? No. Sanitary? Definitely not. But if you’re looking for alien-digestion-safe nitrates and processed meat that won’t implode your stomach lining, this baby’s it.”

Jon’s eyebrows climbed. “How would you know that?”

Alex smirked without looking up, hands already moving through a tiny stash of supplies hidden beneath the cart’s fake bottom. “Cop intuition. And you mutter solar absorption ratios in your sleep.”

“I do not!” Jon said too quickly, face flushing crimson. “That’s totally—where would you—who told you that?”

Alex grinned, popping a cylinder-shaped meat thing wrapped in vacuum seal out of the stash. “No one. But only someone half-tethered to a star core would sniff their food and instinctively measure ultraviolet radiation like it’s spice. Relax, your secret’s safe. Gotham eats secrets for breakfast. Most folks just assume anyone too sunny is chemically imbalanced.”

“I’m just from Metropolis.”

“Sure you are, super-boy.”

On the far end of the block, half-hidden behind a corroded streetlamp, Cassandra shifted her weight in silence. Her eyes locked on them like a hawk unsure whether to pounce or pout. She’d been trailing the strange cop—Cop Cap, as she’d named him in her head, after his weird badge-and-wings insignia stitched into the shoulder of his jacket—for the better part of the afternoon. She’d found him first. Watched him first. Had been right there when he gave that Croc a concussion with his car bumper and then followed him back to his apartment.

But Jon… Jon had walked up, all smiles and sunshine and of course people talk to Jon.

She sank behind a thin tree trunk, blending into the sharp edge of its shadow. The breeze toyed with her hood, and her jaw twitched when she saw Jon laugh at something Alex said. It wasn’t fair. Not really. She liked Jon. Trusted him. He was Damien’s… complicated friend. But still. She’d found Cop Cap first.

Cass didn’t even know what she wanted to say to him. Just something. Anything. Maybe “Hi, you have confusing body language, be my friend.” Or “Plushies, soft, like your face,” Or even “What are you? you have very unpunchable face”

But now the moment was cluttered.

She inched closer, slipping behind a parked truck with a squeaky brake line, then darted behind a mailbox. Civilians didn’t notice her. That was the point. But she could hear the tick of the Hive in him even from here, like thousands of little feet scratching at a door. It pulled her in, and she hated it a little.

Jon took a bite of the hotdog Alex had managed to reheat with what looked suspiciously like a built-in plasma coil hidden in his gauntlet (he used his taser). “This is… actually really good?”

Alex chewed on his own, face unreadable except for the satisfaction dancing at the edge of his eyes. “Mmhm. Rich people don’t even know these exist. One time Penguin tried to buy the recipe. The cart exploded.”

Jon blinked. “Wait, are you serious?”

No, not really

Alex shrugged. “Deadpan and delightful. It’s kind of my thing.” He squinted down the street, absently noting the shadow tucked behind the mailbox. His mouth twitched. “And speaking of things... we’re being watched. Again. Probably your fan club.”

Jon went stiff. “Wait, seriously?”

“No need to panic. It’s a short person.”

Jon turned, eyes scanning until they landed nowhere and everywhere. “Where?”

Alex leaned in, stage-whispering: “Behind the blue mailbox. Tree-stalker. I see you.”

Cass didn’t flinch. But her head dipped a little, shoulders tight like she’d been caught drawing on the wall. She slowly rose, as if materializing from the sidewalk itself, and stood perfectly still, arms crossed in civilian silence.

Jon blinked, recognizing her too late. “Cass! Wait, you’ve been there the whole time?”

Cass tilted her head. Didn’t answer.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

Jon grinned sheepishly. “Yeah! She’s, uh, new to town. I think. Cass, this is Officer Cross—he’s… different.”

Cass took a step forward, then stopped.



after some deep pondering on how to start a conversation without coming out as a potential stalker.

She just settled to give him a small nod. Simple. A quiet hello. He nodded back like it meant something.

Jon, trying to ease the sudden silence, smiled too brightly. “Cass doesn’t talk a lot.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Alex said, offering a lollipop from his coat. “Words are overrated. Body language is louder.”

Cass looked at the candy. Blinked once. Then took it, carefully, like it might bite back.

It was the first time she’d felt like Jon was the third wheel.

“Run along now, Super-boy. Miss Cass and I have some talking to do.”

Cass tensed first. Jon, maybe too used to being the strongest person in a room, only followed her cue a second later—his hand instinctively brushing her arm in a silent ask: Trouble? She didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. But she shifted just enough to put herself a quarter step in front of him, her right foot angling back—a silent anchor into cracked Gotham concrete. Cass didn’t think Alex would hurt them. Not from what she’d seen—how he crouched beside Ollie like a tired, weird older brother or held Ethan's wrist with steady gentleness while bandaging a scraped knuckle—but the way his spine coiled now, like something massive and ancient pressed just behind his flesh, made instincts sharpen.

Alex caught the shift, the sudden recalibration in both of them, and let out a short amused breath. “Relax. Not here to bite, not unless Jon starts trying to tell me more about Gotham’s tragic infrastructure,” he said, flicking a grease-stained napkin off his coat with theatrical flair. “I just need Superman Junior to give us a minute. I’ve got a message for Miss Cass here—one that’s not really meant for ears that can hear through walls.” His grin widened, something dangerous and knowing behind the crooked charm. “Besides. I think I already know what he is.”

He’s humming, Venom said inside Alex’s head, their voice like gravel dragged across a cello. The solar blood sings when it’s happy. And nervous. And full of hotdogs.

Jon opened his mouth, closed it, then looked to Cass. The moment held—like watching a hawk and a wolf try to decide who blinks first. Cass didn’t like being read. She especially didn’t like being dismissed. But after a breath, her hand tapped Jon’s wrist—three quick beats, two slow. It’s fine. He’s not a threat yet.

“Uh… alright,” Jon muttered, eyes squinting slightly as he backed off a few steps, hovering near the rust-bitten remains of a payphone. “But I’m just over here. So if anything happens, like if you… spontaneously combust or something, I can totally intervene.”

“That so?” Alex raised an eyebrow. “You gonna laser my spleen out, Boy of Steel?”

Jon's eyes widened slightly. “What?! I—No! I mean—wait, I never said that!”

“You didn’t,” Alex said, voice lilting. “But your bones did.”

Cass, who had been completely silent through the entire exchange, shifted her stance—right shoulder barely relaxing now that Jon was out of reach. She still hadn’t spoken, but her gaze flicked to Alex's hands, then his jaw, then the tension in his back. She catalogued everything the way others breathed. When she finally moved, it was only to tilt her head, just enough to say: Talk.

Alex leaned on one foot, arms crossed. The Gotham wind tugged at his coat, caught in the static buzz of leftover alley steam. “Y’know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re good. The real kind. Not press-polished good. But I know enough about masks to know yours isn’t just for show. Your silence is the sharp kind. You could cut a throat with it.”

Cass said nothing.

Alex waited until Jon wandered a few meters ahead—right up to the edge of the broken sidewalk where rainwater pooled like little mirrors. The kid had that whole “casual wanderer” thing down, hands jammed in his hoodie pockets, eyes scanning the skyline like he was watching clouds and not quietly monitoring everything. But Alex knew Kryptonian hearing when he saw it. Or more specifically, when he didn’t hear it—no shuffle, no breath, no heart stutter from that direction. The kid was tuned in, pretending he wasn’t. Which was fine. Alex could play the same game.

He leaned his shoulder against the side of the half-dead hotdog stand, the metal groaning just a little too loudly under his weight. His voice dropped just enough to sound like muttering. “I can tell the Waynes are working with Batman.”

Cass didn’t react. Not a flinch, not a blink. Just slowly peeled the paper off the second half of her lollipop. Her hair shifted in the breeze—Gotham wind, thick with rust and stories. She stood a little behind him now, tucked between the broken lamp post and a boarded-up kiosk that used to sell imitation cigars. Her body language was neutral, but Alex had learned long ago that she was never neutral.

“I don’t know how tight y’all are,” he went on, “but since you're probably the only Wayne I've met who hasn’t tried to call me in or outshoot me in a back alley, maybe you can pass a message.”

She is listening, Venom purred inside his skull, amused. Very quiet. Very sharp. We like this one. She would make a good hunter.

“She already is one,” Alex muttered back under his breath, which made Cass glance his way just slightly. He smiled at her like nothing happened.

He didn’t know all the Bats. Didn’t care to, really. But the pattern was obvious. He’d lived in Gotham long enough to realize most civilians didn’t dodge bullets like they practiced it, or vanish between buildings like shadows in a dream. The Waynes had too many near-kidnappings to not have some kind of contingency setup, and Bruce—mister “charity by the millions” Wayne—was the epicenter. It didn’t take a World’s Greatest Detective to figure out that Black Bat was probably one of them, and if he had any hope of getting her to stop shadowing him 24/7 like a bat-themed ghost with trust issues, he needed leverage.

Luckily, he had exactly that.

“I’ve got Joker’s current location.” He said it like it was nothing, the same tone you'd use for reading off a diner special. “Warehouse on Brighton and 9th. Old boxing gym he’s retrofitted for his freakshow. I wouldn’t bring in SWAT—they’re already tagged. Every fifth one has laughing gas on their boots. Cute, right?”

Cass didn't move. But her pupils tightened a fraction. Not fear—never that. Calculation. Her fingers twitched once, like a pianist testing a phantom key. She was already memorizing the location.

“Don’t ask how I know,” he added, wagging a finger. “Let’s just say… I know a guy. And that guy thought I wouldn’t notice the way his eye twitched every time someone mentioned the word ‘clown.’ You pick up a few things after the fifth time someone tries to double-cross you in the middle of a drug sting involving fear gas and off-brand Funko Pops.”

Cass's lips pressed tighter. Still silent. But something new settled in her stance. A strange stillness. Watching him like she was waiting for a second shoe to drop—and wondering if it would explode.

“I’m not interested in playing hero,” Alex said, rolling his shoulders. “But I am tired. Tired of dodging rooftops because Little Miss Cape wants to test my reflexes every night like it’s a game. Tell your bat-friends they can have the Joker. Freebie. All I want is for her to stop crawling through my air vents.”

You mean you miss her, Venom purred.

“I mean I miss sleeping.”

He glanced back toward Jon, who was now attempting to coax a stray cat down from a broken windowsill with half a hot dog and the most disarming smile ever to come out of Kansas. The cat hissed at him anyway. Gotham cat.

Alex sighed and turned back to Cass. “Look, I’m not trying to be shady. But I’m also juggling more than most mortals are built for." He wasn't wrong; acting casual and happy-go-lucky was his way of coping with the stress. 5 months of mundaneness gone, in less than a day, he's got to deal with two teenagers under my roof who think ceiling-walking is normal, one of whom just started showing signs of symbiote craving—do you know what kind of protein shakes I need to keep in stock for that? And now with Batgirl junior breathing down his neck, he doesn’t get five minutes to take a proper nap without worrying she’s tagging my dreams.

Cass said nothing. But her eyes moved—one flick toward Jon, one back to Alex. She was filing the information. He could feel it.

“And don’t act like the Waynes don’t dabble in the dramatic,” Alex added with a grin. “Y’all fake more kidnappings than daytime soap operas. Pretty sure Jason Todd is a soap opera at this point.”

Cass’s eyes narrowed—but only slightly. The name had landed. Not hard, not sharp. Just enough to mark territory.

Careful, Venom whispered. She’s measuring you. She doesn’t like you talking about her pack.

“She’ll live,” Alex muttered.

Cass stepped forward at last, a single measured pace. Close enough to show she wasn’t threatened. Not close enough to trust him.

She reached into her hoodie, pulled out a tiny notebook and a pen stub, flipped it open, and scribbled something. Then she ripped the corner clean and held it out.

Alex took it. The handwriting was clean. Efficient. The note read:

“If you’re lying, she’ll know.”

He whistled low. “Wow. Your threats are adorable. You should do Hallmark.”

Cass tapped the paper, then pointed to her eye, then back at him.

Got it.

Alex tucked the note into his jacket and nodded once. “You know, you’re a lot scarier than your press makes you out to be.”

She shrugged. A single, delicate lift of the shoulder.

Then, as if the whole conversation never happened, she turned on her heel and walked past him—right back toward Jon. The boy offered her the rest of his hotdog, which she took silently, eyes still on Alex.

Alex watched them for a second. Gotham’s weirdest and weirdest-er. Somehow, they made sense together.

He exhaled and muttered, “God, I hope this works.”

If not, Venom said, we eat the Joker and move to Blüdhaven.

“Deal.”

And with that, Alex vanished into the steam rising from a nearby sewer vent, his silhouette melting into the city’s noise like he’d never been there at all.

Wait, his forgot he had a car, "How many minutes has it been?"


lost track


Yup, definitely gotten a car ticket, as a cop that's equivalent to a badge of shame.