14? that doesn't feel like the right age.
As they continued through the sewers, Waylon led P through a series of winding passages and narrow tunnels. The air grew thicker and more humid as they went deeper, and the faint sounds of dripping water and distant city noises faded into the background.
After what felt like hours of navigating the labyrinth, they arrived at a large, open chamber. P's eyes widened in surprise as he took in the sight before him. Waylon's lair was an impressive and unexpected oasis amidst the grime of the sewers. The chamber almost perfectly mimicked an artificial swamp. The ground was covered in a mix of water and mud, with patches of vegetation and large, overhanging roots creating a dense, marsh-like environment. Bioluminescent fungi and moss cast a soft, eerie glow, illuminating the area with a greenish light.
As they moved deeper into the lair, P's thoughts drifted to the question of where he would sleep. He was exhausted, and the idea of resting on the damp ground didn't appeal to him. He looked around, hoping to spot a dry place to rest, but all he saw was the swamp-like terrain.
Just as worry began to settle in, P noticed a relatively dry shack in the corner of the chamber. The shack was cobbled together from various pieces of wood and metal, looking well-used but sturdy, with a small porch and a few rickety steps leading up to the door.
“This is... amazing,” P said, unable to hide his astonishment.
Waylon chuckled, his gruff demeanor softening slightly. “Welcome to my home, P. Ain’t much, but it’s safe and it works for me.”
As they approached the shack, Waylon gestured for P to take a seat on an old, worn-out chair on the porch. “You wait here. I’ll get ya somethin’ to eat.”
P nodded, gratefully sinking into the chair. He watched as Waylon disappeared into the shack, his mind racing with questions. How did Waylon manage to create such an elaborate hideout down here? And why did he choose to live in the sewers?
A few minutes later, Waylon returned with a steaming bowl of stew. “Here, eat up. You look like you need it.”
P accepted the bowl, feeling a wave of gratitude. “Thanks, Mr. Jones. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it, I’ll send you topside tomorrow with some money. I don’t got clothes your size, but you can get what you need up there.” Waylon pulled out an old, beat-up phone and started dialing. “I’m callin’ a friend, Harls. She’ll keep an eye on ya while you’re up there. It ain’t safe for someone like you to be wanderin’ around alone."
P watched curiously as Waylon spoke into the phone. “Hey, Harls, it’s Waylon. Got a favor to ask. I got a kid here, needs some help topside. Can you look out for him? Yeah, he’s in a bit of a bind. Thanks, Harls. I owe ya one.”
Waylon hung up and looked back at P. “Alright, she’s gonna meet ya topside. She’s good people. You stick with her, and you’ll be alright."
P managed a small smile. “Thanks, Waylon. For everything.”
Waylon nodded gruffly. “Don’t mention it, P. Get some rest now. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”
P stepped into the shack, grateful for the shelter. The inside was sparse but clean, with a makeshift bed in the corner. Exhaustion washed over him, and he barely had time to lie down before he fell into a deep sleep.
As he slept, P was haunted by strange dreams. Shadows shifted and morphed, and he felt sensations he couldn’t quite place. There were moments of intense clarity followed by sudden confusion. He felt a strange, exhilarating sensation of flying, swinging through the air with a sense of freedom and power. But as quickly as the dreams came, they slipped away, leaving him with nothing but a vague impression of movement and flight.
When he awoke, he noticed a mirror across from the bed, he looked into it and had a strange impression of unfamiliarity coupled with nostalgia, like looking at a, several year-old, yearbook and noticing, for the first time, a feature you'd never noticed. If someone had asked P how old he was prior to looking in the mirror P would have said around 16 or 17, but the face that greeted him in the mirror couldn't have been older than 15. Furthermore, P noticed that he had an odd shock of white hair in the middle of his familiar dark brown hair, and his eyes which he assumed were brown, were a sickly shade of green.
P rubbed his eyes and stared at his reflection, trying to make sense of the changes. His mind was still foggy from the dreams, and the sensation of flying lingered, a ghostly reminder of something just out of reach. He took a deep breath and stepped away from the mirror, focusing on the task at hand.
He opened the door to the shack and stepped outside, where Waylon was already awake and preparing for the day. The big man looked up and gave P a nod. “Mornin’, kid. How’d ya sleep?”
“Strangely,” P admitted. “I had some weird dreams, but I don’t remember much about them. Just... a feeling of flying.”
Waylon grunted. “Dreams can be tricky things. Sometimes they mean somethin’, sometimes they’re just nonsense. Don’t let it bother ya too much.”
P nodded, though he couldn't shake the feeling that the dreams were important somehow. “So, what’s the plan for today?”
“First, we get you topside,” Waylon said, handing P a small bundle of money. “This should be enough to get you some clothes and a meal. Harls will meet you and make sure you’re safe. Just stick with her, alright?”
“Got it,” P said, taking the money. “Thanks again, Waylon. I don’t know what I’d do without your help.”
Waylon waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it. Just take care of yourself up there. The city ain’t kind to folks who don’t know their way around.”
P nodded, feeling a mix of gratitude and apprehension. He followed Waylon through the winding passages and narrow tunnels once more, until they reached a hidden exit that led to the surface. Waylon gave P a reassuring pat on the back before sending him on his way.
As P emerged into the harsh light of the city, through the manhole cover Mr. Jones directed him to, he squinted and took a moment to adjust. The streets were bustling with activity, and the noise was almost overwhelming after the relative silence of the sewers. He looked around, trying to spot Harls, when a cheerful voice called out to him.
“Hey there, you must be P! Waylon told me about you.”
P turned to see a woman with blonde hair in pigtails, dressed in bright, mismatched clothes, and a wide smile on her face. “I’m Harls. Nice to meetcha!”
“Nice to meet you too,” P said, feeling a bit overwhelmed by her energy. “Thanks for helping me out.”
“No problem!” Harls said, looping her arm through his. “C’mon, let’s get you some clothes and food. Can’t have you walkin’ around lookin’ like a lost puppy, can we?”
Barbara Gordon, known crimefighters as Oracle, sat in her wheelchair in the back office of the Gotham City Library. It was a quiet morning, the kind she both cherished and found restless. With only a few patrons wandering the aisles, she had time to keep an eye on the city through her network of surveillance cameras and informants. Her monitors displayed feeds from various corners of Gotham, a city that never truly slept.
She adjusted her glasses and focused on the main screen, which currently showed a view of a manhole cover in a less-than-savory part of the city. A boy, looking no older than 15, emerged from the underground, squinting against the sunlight. His disheveled appearance and the shock of white hair in the middle of his otherwise dark hair immediately caught her attention.
"Who are you?" she muttered to herself, typing rapidly to zoom in and enhance the image. The boy looked around, clearly disoriented, and Barbara’s curiosity piqued.
A moment later, a familiar face entered the frame: Harley Quinn, once a notorious villain and now a semi-reformed wild card in the city’s underworld. Dressed in her usual flamboyant style, Harley approached the boy with a wide smile, looped her arm through his, and led him away.
"Harley Quinn? What are you up to?" Barbara wondered aloud. She knew that Harley had been trying to stay out of trouble, but her unpredictable nature always kept Barbara vigilant.
Switching to another camera feed, she tracked their movements through the crowded streets. The boy seemed to be trusting Harley, and Barbara knew that Harley would never hurt a child, but Barbara’s instincts told her there was more to the story. She pulled up Harley’s recent activities and contacts, looking for any clues that might explain this odd pairing.
"Interesting," she murmured as she pieced together bits of information. The boy's sudden appearance from the sewers and Harley’s involvement couldn’t be a coincidence. Her mind raced through possibilities: was he a runaway, someone in trouble, or perhaps a new player in Gotham’s ever-complicated game?
She pressed a button on her comms system, connecting directly to Signal, Gotham's daytime hero. "Signal, it's Oracle. I've got something on the radar you might want to look into. A young boy just emerged from the sewers near East End, and Harley Quinn picked him up. Sending you the live feed now."
"Got it, Oracle," Signal's chipper voice replied. "I'll check it out."
As she continued to monitor the situation, Barbara couldn’t shake the feeling that this boy was important. Maybe he was the key to something bigger, something that could tip the balance in Gotham once again. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, gathering more data and preparing for whatever might come next.