My name is Chuck Brown.
I'm an aerodynamicist.
Of course, I use that title mainly because it makes people think I'm doing well. That I've got my life together. That I'm a professional with a career and prospects and all the things respectable people are supposed to have.
But in fact, I have many other names.
I keep them in my heart and never tell others.
Alcoholic. Failed father. Unqualified husband. Loser with a broken marriage. Poor wretch who has accomplished nothing. Accomplice of a madman. Weirdo who likes to play with kites.
I picked up the shot glass in front of me and poured these unspeakable names into my stomach.
The burn felt good. Felt right. Felt like punishment and relief all at once.
Alcohol. This thing is really one of the greatest inventions of mankind, isn't it?
It can make people forget their worries, their sorrows, their pain. Make them forget their past, present, and future. Make them forget who they are and what they've done and all the ways they've failed the people who counted on them.
Sadly, it only lasts for one night.
I often think that if there was a kind of alcohol that could make people forget everything about themselves forever, I would definitely spend everything to get it. Even my pitiful fortune. Every last dollar.
It would be a great deal for me.
The best deal I'd ever make.
"No, no."
Chuck Brown, lying on the bar with his head on his arms, muttered to himself. His voice sounded distant, dreamlike, like he was talking to someone who wasn't there.
"I have to remember the kite. And my son."
The kite. His son.
The only two things worth remembering.
Everything else could burn.
"Um, boss, do you have any non-alcoholic drinks?"
A voice suddenly sounded from beside Chuck, cutting through the fog of his thoughts.
The strange question made the drunk man look to his left. Bleary eyes, unfocused vision, everything swimming slightly.
The speaker was wearing an ordinary short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Looked handsome in that generic way some people did. But also fierce somehow. Sharp edges to his face. Eyes that suggested he'd seen things.
Didn't seem like a good person.
Chuck glanced at the stranger, but didn't pay much attention. He was very drunk at the moment. It was already difficult to see the other person's appearance clearly. He had no mental energy left to think about anything else.
The owner behind the bar stared at the newcomer after hearing the request.
Come to a bar. And don't drink?
He seriously suspected this guy was here to cause trouble.
Lyle couldn't help but glance down at the shotgun hidden under the counter.
Finally, after a long moment of consideration, he resisted the urge to reach for the weapon.
This was partly because the stranger did look like a tough guy. The kind who might take offense to having a shotgun pointed at him. And partly because pointing guns at customers was bad for business unless they were actively robbing you.
"Boy," Lyle said slowly, his voice carrying the particular edge of someone who'd broken up too many bar fights to have patience for nonsense, "this is a bar. If you want to drink milk—"
"No, no, no, just water." The man smiled, the expression slightly awkward. Sheepish. "My landlady, Mrs. Lyle, told me to drink at her husband's bar more often. She even gave me a discount card. So I came here."
The tension in Lyle's shoulders released immediately.
Oh. A tenant.
One of his wife's people. That explained the weird request and the lack of street sense about how bars worked.
After hearing the explanation, Lyle's expression finally relaxed. He knocked on the bar twice with his knuckles—the sound loud in the relative quiet near the counter.
"This is a bar," he repeated, but his tone was gentler now. Educational rather than threatening. "We don't have non-alcoholic drinks. It's not that kind of establishment. But if you're allergic to alcohol or just don't drink, you can have ice water."
"Ice water will be fine, thank you." The man paused, looking hopeful. "Oh, is there anything to eat? I haven't had dinner yet."
Jude pulled some bills from his pocket and put them on the counter.
He looked around the bar while he waited.
It was his first time in a place like this.
After all, back in his original life he'd been an ordinary writer and shut-in. Hadn't had much money. Even in Japan, he'd never been to a bar. He'd gone to video game arcades sometimes. Internet cafes occasionally. Those had been fun.
But bars? Different world entirely.
This one had simple wooden floors and walls that might have been nice once, decades ago, before Gotham had gotten its claws into them. Now they were scarred and stained and decorated with the accumulated debris of years.
Photos hung at the entrance. Posters advertising bands that had probably broken up. Flyers nailed haphazardly to doorframes. Graffiti and words spray-painted on walls in colors that ranged from artistic to aggressive.
In the corner were some machines that Jude couldn't immediately identify.
From the moment you walked in, the noisy voices in the bar mixed with HOUSE music—a style Jude recognized from movies but had never really listened to. Electronic beats, repetitive bass lines, the kind of thing designed to fill space rather than be actively heard.
Fortunately, the owner had turned down the music's volume when the TV news started broadcasting. Otherwise, nobody in the bar would have been able to hear anything except pounding bass.
"This afternoon, the Riddler's iconic symbol appeared in Gotham Square."
Jude glanced at the television mounted above the bar. Same news he'd already heard.
He turned his attention back to his food when it arrived and continued examining other corners of the bar while he ate.
A dartboard hung on the far wall with a few darts stuck in it. The board was old enough that the numbers had faded. Next to it was a small table where several strong men played poker, chips stacked in messy piles.
Gambling. Obviously gambling.
Several women wearing relatively minimal clothing and some men with tattoos and strange hairstyles gathered around the gambling table. Watching. Betting. Smoking. They all looked like the kind of people you didn't make eye contact with unless you wanted a problem.
As for the rest of the bar's clientele: those who looked disoriented, whether from alcohol or drugs; those who couldn't help but huddle in dark corners like they were hiding from something.
This diverse crowd was the main theme of the bar.
In Jude's judgment, most bars in the East District probably had exactly this tone. Desperation mixed with defiance. People trying to forget, trying to escape, trying to feel something other than Gotham crushing them slowly.
It was depressing.
But also somehow honest.
In a place like this, the man next to him seemed oddly out of place.
Jude watched him for a moment. The man was drunk. Very drunk. Slumped over the bar like his spine had given up on supporting him.
Jude reached out and patted his shoulder.
"You don't seem to like drinking very much," he said conversationally. "So you should drink less. Mr. Lyle, give him a glass of ice water too."
Lyle shrugged and poured another glass, setting it on the bar with a soft clink.
Jude pushed the glass toward the drunk man's hand.
Nobody noticed when a few drops of milk appeared out of thin air under his palm. They dripped into the glass and quickly dissolved in the water as the glass swayed slightly.
"It's your treat, sir," Jude said, pushing the water closer.
"Oh, thank you." The man in the blue suit mumbled his thanks, barely conscious enough to register what was happening. He didn't look at the glass. Didn't question it. Just picked it up and poured the contents into his mouth.
Ice water. Nothing suspicious. Just hydration.
After a few seconds, he slowly sat up.
His eyes cleared slightly. The fog lifted just enough for him to have a semi-coherent thought. Although he still looked drunk, he was now able to have something resembling a normal conversation.
Then he spoke his first words as a functional human being.
"Lyle, another tequila."
Jude sighed internally.
Well. That was a waste of milk.
"Hey, man." The drunk—slightly less drunk, but still working on it—took a few sips of his fresh tequila and then turned to Jude. His eyes were glassy but curious. "You like kites?"
The question came out of nowhere.
Jude paused mid-bite of his burger.
"I like them very much," the man continued, his words slurring slightly but comprehensible. "I am an aer—hiccup—dynamicist. I am good at making kites."
Kites.
Aerodynamicist.
Jude's mental gears clicked into place immediately.
He pulled up his system panel with a thought, scanning through recent notifications until he found it.
[SPECIAL MISSION: Kite Man's Friendship]
Client: Charles "Chuck" Brown
Status: In Progress
This was him. Had to be.
How many aerodynamicists who like kites could there possibly be in Gotham? It wasn't exactly a crowded field.
"Making kites?" Jude kept his tone casual, interested but not too interested. "Shouldn't an aerodynamicist be doing something like designing airplanes or racing cars? You know, something that actually uses all that education. Why use the knowledge you learned to make kites?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he'd hit a nerve.
The expression on Chuck Brown's face darkened. Not angry. Just... sad. The particular sadness of someone who'd been asked a question they'd asked themselves a thousand times and never found a good answer to.
"If it weren't for my love for kites," Chuck said quietly, staring into his glass like it held answers, "I wouldn't have studied aerodynamics in the first place."
The statement hung in the air.
A life choice. A passion. A dream that had led to specialized education and probably student loans and years of study, all in service of... flying kites.
"So, your job now is to design kites?" Jude asked, trying to follow the thread.
Chuck was unable to answer for a moment.
The question seemed to embarrass him. His jaw worked. His hands tightened around the glass. His eyes looked anywhere except at Jude.
No job designing kites, then.
Which meant all that education, all that passion, and he was doing... what? Something else. Something that paid the bills but killed the soul.
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
"Well, sorry, let's change the subject." Jude waved to Lyle, making a decision. "Give me another—"
"Chuck Brown," the man interrupted, offering his name like a peace offering. "You can call me Chuck."
Very good.
That's the name. Confirmed
"My name is Jude." He smiled. "Jude Sharp. Nice to meet you, Chuck."
He turned back to Lyle.
"Pour another glass of tequila for Mr. Chuck. It's my treat."