A week had passed since our first official mission in Santa Prisca, and the world seemed to have shifted its pace. Not drastically—Gotham was still the same concrete jungle and shadows, its sirens echoing like an eternal lament—but something inside me had solidified. That operation, where we had gone beyond reconnaissance and destroyed an entire shipment of K-Venom, had given us credibility in the eyes of the Justice League. Batman, ever the implacable judge, had granted authorization for supervised patrols—nothing high-risk, but permission to operate in and around Gotham, testing our team cohesion. "You've proven you can improvise," he'd said during the final debriefing, his deep voice echoing like a verdict. "But don't push the limits. Report everything." It was a small but significant victory. For the first time, I felt I was no longer the rookie carrying the team on my shoulders; I was part of it.
But while the team celebrated this "freedom" with lighter training at Mount Justice—strategy sessions with Kaldur, light sparring with Robin and Artemis, and even casual games with Wally to relieve tension—my life in Crest Hill continued to remind me that the real world didn't forgive past mistakes. I left home that night, the sun already setting behind the distant towers of Gotham, tinging the sky a dirty orange that looked like blood diluted in pollution. My father was in the living room, watching the news with that distant look he'd adopted since the trial; my mother, in the kitchen, preparing something simple for dinner, as if cooking could ward off ghosts. I told them I was going out—"Training with friends," the usual excuse—and they nodded without question. They knew, deep down, that my life had changed since I killed Victor Zsasz. But we didn't talk about it. Not anymore.
As I closed the front door, the damp Gotham air hit me like a slap—cold and sticky, heavy with the smell of impending rain and distant factory smoke. But what really hit me was the sight of the house's facade. There it was again: fresh graffiti, done during the day while I was away. The red paint still dripped in thick drops down the reddish brick wall, forming words I knew by heart: "MURDERER," "JUSTICE FOR ZSASZ," "META-MONSTER." They covered the garage door, climbed up the living room window—which was now cracked in a thin web, probably from a rock thrown by some anonymous bully—and spread across the sidewalk like a stain of dried blood. It wasn't the first time. Nor the second. Since the jury's verdict—"self-defense," they'd said, acquitting me of all charges after I burned Zsasz alive to save a girl—this had become routine. Months of harassment: anonymous calls in the middle of the night, stones thrown at windows, graffiti that appeared like ghosts during the day. My family suffered because of it. My father, a quiet man who worked at a logistics company, now came home with tired eyes, murmuring about "eyes following us at the supermarket." My mother, with her quiet strength, cleaned everything without complaining, but I saw the dark circles under her eyes growing, the way she locked the doors twice before going to sleep.
I stopped there on the sidewalk, staring at the words blurred by the recent rain. "MURDERER." It was ironic—I had saved a life, but to many in Gotham, I was the villain. The city's first public metahuman, labeled a menace. The trial had been televised, my identity mercilessly exposed. And now? Constant attacks. Not just graffiti—last week, someone had tried to break into the yard at night, leaving a burned doll on the back door as a "warning." My family didn't deserve this. They were innocent, only guilty of having me as a son. I needed to act. "It's time to move you out of here," I thought, feeling the fire elemental stir in my chest, a spark of rage I had contained. I had resources now—contacts in the League, bounty money for clandestine patrols with Artemis, and my tech-filled basement that could get me a safe house in another city. Maybe even outside of Gotham. But that required planning. For now, I had one patrol to do.
I walked through the streets of Crest Hill, the suburban neighborhood that seemed like a bubble of normalcy amidst the chaos of Gotham—spacious houses with manicured lawns, trees lining the sidewalks, lampposts emitting a yellowish glow that battled the growing darkness. But even here, shadows crept in: rumors about "the meta boy" made neighbors whisper, and I saw curtains rustle as I passed. My destination was Artemis's house—a modest building on the outskirts, with a weathered brick facade and windows with half-open curtains. We'd met on the rooftop since we began our clandestine patrols, weeks before Batman's official authorization. It was our ritual: leaping across rooftops, intercepting minor crimes, testing limits without the weight of the full team. And lately, something more was growing there—an intimacy that went beyond the fights.
I climbed the outside fire escape, the metal steps creaking softly beneath my boots. The wind up there was stronger, carrying the distant scent of rain and industrial soot. Artemis was already there, as always—dressed in the suit I had designed for her, the adaptable fabric now in black stealth mode, molding itself to her athletic body like a living shadow. The fitted top accentuated her firm curves, the trousers clung to her long, muscular legs, the compound bow strapped to her back, ready for action. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her almond-shaped eyes met mine immediately, with that mixture of impatience and amusement.
"It took a while this time, Forge," she said, crossing her arms, the wind ruffling a few loose strands of hair. "I thought you'd given up on me."
I smiled, setting my training bag down on the floor. "I was thinking about the way here. Family stuff."
She raised an eyebrow, but didn't press—she understood secrets better than anyone. "Alright. Shall we go, or are we going to stay here chatting until the sun comes up?"
I chuckled softly and, without hesitation, began to change. We were getting closer—after weeks of patrols, accidental falls that left us pressed against each other, and those glances that lasted a second longer—there was no more shame. I took off my black shirt, feeling the cold air hit my bare torso—defined muscles, light scars from fire tests, pale skin contrasting with the shadows of the night. Then, my pants, leaving me in just my underwear for a moment. Artemis didn't look away—her eyes scanned my body for a second, a subtle blush rising to her cheeks, but she disguised it with a sarcastic smile. "Quick, huh? You won't catch a cold?"
"Not with my internal heater," I replied, donning the Cloak. The base suit slid across my skin like cool silk, the titanium-carbon plates magnetically snapping into place at my chest and shoulders. The utility belt clicked at my waist, the magnetic shield at my back, and the helmet expanded from my collar, sealing with a low hum. The HUD activated—night vision, thermal, motion analysis. I was Forge now, ready for the night.
Artemis adjusted the bow on her back. "Come on. Gotham doesn't patrol itself."
We leaped onto the neighboring rooftop—she with feline grace, I a little more clumsy, still adjusting to parkour without the grappling hook. I wasn't good at it; my training in the basement focused on strength and technique, not on jumping buildings like it was a video game. But with her guiding, I followed: a short jump, a rolling landing, then a run along the ledge before the next leap. The wind whipped against my face under the visor, the elemental keeping my body warm against the night chill. We moved like shadows—from rooftop to rooftop, avoiding the lit streets, listening to the pulse of the city below.
The first intervention came quickly. We were hopping through an abandoned shopping district when we heard screams—a woman's high-pitched, panicked voice echoing from a dark alley below. My HUD picked it up: three shadowy figures cornering a middle-aged woman, a purse lying on the ground, a knife glinting in one of their hands. "Robbery in progress," I transmitted to Artemis, pointing.
She nodded, already nocking an arrow. "I'll take the one with the knife. You take care of the other two."
I went down first—grappling hook thrown to the opposite building, cable pulling me down in a controlled arc. I landed behind them, the impact silent thanks to the suit's shock-absorbing soles. The first assailant—a skinny guy in a hood—turned at the subtle sound. I gave him no chance: shield in front, a quick punch to the stomach—elemental thrusting, air leaving his lungs in a hoarse gasp. He doubled over, and I finished him off with a shield slam to the back of the neck—not lethal, but enough to knock him out.
The second one—more robust, with an iron bar in his hand—attacked: the bar descending like a hammer. I redirected—angled shield, repulsor pulsing for a second, reflecting the force back. The bar ricocheted off his arm, breaking the bone with a wet crack. He screamed, dropping the weapon, and I tripped him—leg swept, body falling, punch to the chin to knock out the lights.
The third man, with the knife, was turning toward the woman—but Artemis had already acted. A net arrow—my creation—flew from the roof, entangling him like a spider's web. He stumbled, falling face-first onto the asphalt, the knife slipping from his hand. Artemis descended in an elegant leap, landing beside him and delivering a precise kick to his temple—which was knocked out.
The woman, trembling, eyes wide, picked up the bag from the floor. "T-thank you... who are you?"
"Heroes," Artemis replied, her voice firm but gentle. "Go home. Stay safe."
She nodded, running out onto the main street. We climbed back up to the rooftops, our hearts still racing. "Easy," I said, feeling the elemental calm down.
"Too much," she agreed. "But Gotham never stops."
And it didn't stop. The night unfolded in a series of interventions—three more, to be exact. The second was in an underground parking garage: two guys trying to steal a car, an elderly woman trapped in the driver's seat. Artemis fired a flash arrow from the roof—blinding light exploding, disorienting them. I went down the grappling hook, shield hitting the first one, breaking the arm holding the iron bar. The second tried to run—I caught him with the grappling hook on his leg, pulling him back and finishing him off with a punch to the stomach. The woman escaped unharmed, murmuring thanks as she called the police.
The third: a late-night convenience store robbery. Four armed bandits, a terrified cashier. We went in synchronized—Artemis through the back door, me through the front. She took down two with expanding foam arrows—the foam hardening, immobilizing them. I took care of the others: shield deflecting a pistol shot, then a projectile that ricocheted off one's arm, disarming him, and returning to me. The last one tried to escape—I took him down with a leg sweep and a sedative dart to the neck.
The fourth and final one: a group of three robbers cornering a couple in a dark alley. Artemis aimed from above—a net arrow hitting two at once. The third came at me—knife in hand. I redirected the blow with my shield, breaking his wrist, and finished him off with a knee to the stomach. The couple fled, thanking me in whispers.
It was normal in Gotham—a typical night, full of gratuitous violence and opportunities to intervene. But for us, it was routine now: patrols that strengthened us, brought us closer. Artemis and I became a recurring duo—she with her lethal precision, I with my unwavering defense and controlled fire. We complemented each other, and each night seemed to shorten the distance between us.
At the end of the patrol, we stopped atop a tall building overlooking Gotham's polluted river, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars. "Good night," I said, pulling my helmet back into my collar. "See you tomorrow?"
She nodded, but didn't move immediately. "Yes. But... hey, Forge. Thanks for the partnership. It's good to have someone who doesn't treat me like I'm fragile."
I laughed. "Fragile? You? Not in a million years."
I started changing right there—shamelessly, like the last few times. I took off my heavy jacket, then my base shirt, leaving me in just my underwear for a moment. My naked body under the moonlight: defined muscles, faint scars from past flames, my chest rising and falling with the heavy night breath. Artemis didn't look away—her eyes traveled over my torso, lingering a second longer on my abs and shoulders, a subtle blush rising to her cheeks. She bit her lower lip, but disguised it with a sarcastic smile. "Quick as always. Aren't you going to catch a cold?"
"Not with the fire I carry," I replied, putting on the civilian clothes from my bag. "Good night, Artemis."
"Good evening, Erick."
I jumped onto the neighboring roof, leaving her there, but feeling her gaze on my back.
Arriving home, the silence greeted me like an old friend. The facade was clean—again. My mother and father had removed the graffiti during the day, washing away the red paint with a hose and brush, as if they could erase not only the words, but the hatred behind them. But I could see the marks: faded bricks where the paint had seeped in, the living room window still cracked, waiting to be repaired. This bothered me deeply—a dull rage bubbling in my chest, mixing with the elemental. They didn't deserve this. I was the guilty one—the "meta-assassin" who had killed Zsasz in self-defense, but to many, I was the monster. The jury's verdict had acquitted me, but the city hadn't. Constant attacks: graffiti, stones, anonymous threats. My family lived in constant fear, and this had to end.
I descended to the basement, the steel door opening with the scan. The lights came on, revealing my sanctuary: crowded workbench, transmutation circle on the floor, capsule in the corner. "Report," I said, collapsing into the chair.
The screens lit up. Doc appeared first. "Body recovering: moderate muscle fatigue, no new injuries. Elemental at 72% efficiency."
Natasha appeared beside them. "Successful patrol: four interventions, zero civilian casualties. Artemis analysis: protocol in progress — mutual attraction at 65%, trust at 82%."
I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. "It's time to launch Project Gold."
The screens flickered—a flash of confirmation, protocols activating. Project Gold: family relocation, safe house, advanced protection. Now, with the League's resources and my arsenal, it was feasible. The main screen displayed simulations: potential locations outside Gotham, customized security systems.
I stood up, stepping into the capsule. The cylinder closed, injecting nutrients. The helmet activated—the virtual dojo materializing. Sensei waited. "Ready for more?"
"Always." The day was ending, but the plan... the plan was only just beginning.
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