Chapter 2 ( Rewritten)

CHAPTER 2

NOVEMBER 13, 1998

3rd PERSON POV

CHAPTER 2

November 13, 1998

3rd Person POV

Brendan stepped out of the dim confines of Crime Alley, the weak morning light struggling to pierce the fog that clung to the city like a shroud. A chill breeze whispered through the labyrinth of narrow alleys behind him, carrying with it the stench of decay, damp asphalt, and desperation. This was Gotham—a city of shadows, where hope was as fleeting as the glimmers of sunlight that rarely reached its cracked streets.

His steps were sluggish, his body weighed down by fatigue and the sting of his injuries. Dressed in hand-me-down clothes that the clinic staff had kindly given him, Brendan looked like just another of Gotham's countless forgotten souls. His new clothes hung loose on his frame, the oversized jacket barely concealing his bandaged ribs. A worn backpack containing a few medications and bandages pressed against his back, its frayed strap digging into his shoulder.

As he emerged fully into the streets, the oppressive atmosphere of Crime Alley made itself known. The alleys seemed to stretch endlessly, twisting into shadows where even the dim light feared to reach. Shattered windows framed the skeletal remains of crumbling buildings, their exteriors covered in graffiti that screamed defiance, frustration, and warnings. Despite his determination to move forward, Brendan shuddered, the uneasy realization settling in that he was still very much in Gotham.

The fog swirled around him, creating ghostly shapes in the half-light and blurring the edges of reality. Brendan pressed on, his boots scuffing against the cracked pavement. The streets of Gotham were stirring now, though not fully awake. Figures moved in the mist—some too quickly, others too slowly. Their faces were etched with weariness, their expressions guarded, as though they were perpetually expecting trouble. Conversations were hushed, exchanged in hurried whispers as though the very city itself was eavesdropping.

Brendan's gaze darted across the people and places around him, each sight driving home the grim reality of his new existence. The city's scars were everywhere—buildings riddled with bullet holes, their facades marred by graffiti. The trash piled high in forgotten corners, and streetlights flickered feebly, casting sporadic patches of light that only emphasized the encroaching darkness.

He tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack and walked on, leaving the shadowy gloom of Crime Alley behind him. The transition from one neighbourhood to the next was almost imperceptible—Gotham's poverty and decay bled seamlessly across its borders. Yet, there was something distinct about each area. As Brendan entered Bowery, it became clear that the neighbourhood carried its peculiar blend of despair and resilience.

Bowery's streets were lined with historic buildings, remnants of a time when Gotham aspired to greatness. The ornate facades and intricate brickwork still clung to a sense of grandeur, though time had battered most into faded remnants of their former glory. Some buildings were meticulously maintained, standing as stubborn testaments to the neighbourhood's storied past. Others had surrendered to the weight of years, their cracked exteriors and boarded windows reflecting a quiet resignation.

Graffiti splashed across nearly every available surface, telling stories in vibrant colors of frustration, hope, and rebellion. "FIGHT BACK," one tag screamed in bold red letters, while another declared, "GOTHAM LIVES!" Despite the decay and crime that defined Bowery, there was an unmistakable vibrancy in its streets—a pulse of defiance that refused to fade.

Brendan couldn't help but feel a strange admiration for the people of Bowery. They lived amidst the chaos, surviving where others might have given up long ago. Each face he passed told a story—of struggle, endurance, and a stubborn refusal to let Gotham's darkness consume them.

His walk took him deeper into the city, through the bustling downtown where Gotham's contradictions were most evident. Skyscrapers adorned with neon signs towered overhead, their gleaming exteriors a stark contrast to the cracked sidewalks and litter-strewn streets below. Throngs of people hurried to work, their footsteps echoing against the cold concrete. Some moved with a purposeful stride, their eyes fixed straight ahead, while others shuffled with slumped shoulders, weighed down by the burdens of survival.

Street vendors set up makeshift stalls along the sidewalks, their faces weary but determined. Steam rose from carts offering cheap coffee and breakfast sandwiches, mingling with the cold morning air. Brendan lingered for a moment, the smell of food reminding him of his empty stomach, but he didn't stop. He couldn't afford to.

As the day wore on, Brendan crossed into a quieter part of the city. The cacophony of downtown faded behind him, replaced by the gentle murmur of the Sprang River. The air here was different, and cleaner, though still tinged with the metallic tang of the city's industry.

The Sprang Bridge loomed ahead, its iron arches stretching across the shimmering waters of the river. The structure was weathered but solid, its worn surface marked by decades of use. Brendan paused at the midpoint, resting his hands on the cold metal railing as he gazed out over the river.

The water sparkled in the morning light, a mosaic of ripples that seemed almost serene compared to the chaos of the city surrounding it. Brendan took a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. For the first time since waking up in Gotham, he felt a flicker of peace—a fleeting reminder that beauty could still exist, even here.

On the far side of the bridge, nestled along the riverbank, was his destination: a modest house that overlooked the Sprang River. The home was small, its exterior plain and unremarkable, but to Brendan, it was a sanctuary.

He found the key stashed inside the potted plant and opened the door to what would be his new home.

As he stepped through the door, Brendan set his backpack down and took in the quiet stillness of the space. The house was simple but comforting—a stark contrast to the chaos outside. He moved to the window, gazing out at the river as its surface rippled in the breeze.

Despite the overwhelming weight of his situation, Brendan felt a small sense of solace here. The house was far from perfect, and the city was anything but forgiving, but for now, it was enough.

BRENDAN'S POV

As I stepped wearily through the creaking doorway of my dilapidated home, the weight of exhaustion crashed over me like a tidal wave. The house felt as though it was groaning under the same pressure I carried, the old wooden floors creaking with every step, echoing the weariness in my bones. It was more than just physical exhaustion; it was the crushing burden of the past—memories that weren't mine lingering like ghosts in every corner of this forgotten place.

The faded wallpaper, peeling at the edges, seemed to whisper stories of love and loss, of a family that once filled these rooms with life. The worn furniture bore the imprint of lives that had fought to hold on amidst Gotham's unrelenting despair. I pressed a hand to my temple as the ache in my head flared again. The memories—his memories—swirled in a confusing haze, unraveling pieces of the life that had come before me.

This house, this family... they weren't mine, but I couldn't shake the fragments of warmth and grief that clung to them. The original Brendan's mother, a kind but fragile woman, had been the heart of this home until she passed away after from cancer just like I did in my last life. Her sickness devoured not just her life but the family's savings, draining every resource in a desperate attempt to save her.

The boy's father, a crane operator at Port Adams, had fought tooth and nail to keep their world afloat. He borrowed money from the Carmine crime family—a fatal misstep in Gotham's unforgiving underworld. It was all for nothing. When Brendan was 14, Brendan's mother passed away, her death leaving a gaping void. And then, 2 years ago, the boy's father met his tragic end—caught in the crossfire of a shootout between Maroni thugs and the cops or so they said.

Old me knew something was fishy about his father's death as his dad worked at Port Adams but was found dead in old Gotham and too at night when was already supposed to be at home, moreover few days before his death he was looking quite stressed and worried. So Brendan started asking around the port and from his dad's co-workers which led him to Dominic Marconi a Hitman for the Maroni Family where his father was last spotted getting into a car.

After that things went south for old me even more, he stupidly attacked Marconi in broad daylight in a fit of rage after in Maroni territory and got beaten to a pulp by Marconi and sent to juvie after the Maroni's pulled a few strings for their employee.

Now, here I stood, burdened with a legacy that was as crushing as it was inescapable. A $200,000 debt hung over me like a guillotine, the noose tightening with each passing day. The only things left to my name were the fading remnants of this home, a pitiful $800 hidden beneath one of the stairs, and the bruises on my body—reminders of the original Brendan's last moments.

Old me had tried to live his life the honest way and forget about getting any sort of closure about his father's death but since he essentially dropped out of high school and had a juvie record he didn't even bother going back to school, he took a grueling job at Port Adams through one of his father's old friends. But even the backbreaking labor wasn't enough to chip away at the mountain of debt. And Gotham doesn't let failure go unpunished.

 Every month the interest was increasing. A few thugs—enforcers from the Falcone family, no doubt—cornered him one night as he trudged home. They beat him to within an inch of his life, stealing what little he had on him. It wasn't just robbery. It was a message: pay up, or worse will follow.

Except Brendan didn't survive that night. I did.

Or, at least, some version of me.

The details of how I ended up here were still a chaotic mess in my head, fragments that refused to fit together. I could only remember collapsing in the street, the world spinning into darkness. And then... something impossible. Part of the Shocker—the Shocker from Marvel comics, of all things—merged with me. His soul? His essence? I don't even know. Somehow, it was enough to keep me alive. But the bigger question remained: how in the hell did his soul travel across universes to this one? How did MY SOUL travel across universes to this one?

I sank into a worn armchair, its tattered fabric sagging beneath me, and let out a shaky breath. The dull ache in my ribs throbbed in time with my heartbeat. My mind churned, unable to rest, torn between two conflicting realities—the life I'd left behind and the one I now inhabited.

Images of the Shocker flickered through my thoughts. The character had been a favorite of mine but not for good reasons, I mean who doesn't remember Spiderman shouting shockers name at the top of his lungs, he had a few things going for him though, his gauntlets of raw, destructive power standing out in a world of caped crusaders and billionaire playboys. But now, the parallels between his story and mine felt unnervingly close. He'd been a small-time criminal, always outmatched and underestimated, trying to scrape by in a world stacked against him. And here I was, staring down a $200,000 debt, caught in the crosshairs of one of Gotham's deadliest crime families and on the bad side of another one.

The Falcone name carried weight in this city—weight that could crush me if I wasn't careful. Their reputation for violence, for making examples of those who crossed them, loomed over me like a dark cloud. How could I possibly repay that kind of money? My pulse quickened at the thought, fear clawing at the edges of my resolve.

But then, beneath the fear, something else stirred—a flicker of defiance.

Gotham was a city of predators and prey. A city where survival was an act of rebellion in itself. And I refused to be prey. Not anymore.

My mind turned to the one advantage I had: knowledge. This was the DC universe, a world I'd spent years obsessing over through comics, movies, and games. I knew this city, its players, its secrets. I knew the strengths and weaknesses of people who would never suspect I was more than just another broken man in a broken home.

Hell, I knew plenty about the DC universe as a whole.

What if I could leverage that knowledge? What if I could navigate Gotham's treacherous underbelly, not as a victim but as someone capable of playing the game? I might not have the power or resources of a Bruce Wayne or the sheer chaos of a Joker, but I had something neither of them could claim—perspective.

If the Shocker's intellect and knowledge were now mine, I had a chance. I could build something—tools, weapons, a way to stand on equal footing with Gotham's predators. And maybe, just maybe, I could use this insane second chance to find a way back home.

I leaned back in the chair, my gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling. The daunting weight of my circumstances hadn't lessened, but for the first time since I woke up in this nightmare, I felt a spark of hope.

This wasn't just about survival. I wasn't about to roll over and some petty thugs crush me.

20th NOVEMBER, 1998

BRENDAN'S POV

Seven days. That's how long it's been since I returned to this broken, decaying house, this relic of a life that no longer feels like my own. Seven days since I stumbled in, clutching my battered ribs and bleeding head, convinced I wouldn't survive the night. Yet, to my surprise—and confusion—the wound on my head fully healed just three days after I arrived, and as of yesterday, my ribs have stopped aching entirely.

Standing in front of the mirror I can see that this new body of mine is quite different from the last. I was 5'6 in my last life but now I am a comfortable 6'3, with sharp brown eyes, also this body heals fast. Faster than any normal human should. I don't know why, and frankly, I'm not questioning it. I'll take any small victory I can, especially with five days left to scrape together another $5,000 for the Falcone mob. If I don't pay, I'll get another beating—if I'm lucky. If not, well… there won't be another miracle to pluck some poor soul from a parallel universe and shove them into this body to keep it alive.

The weight of my situation is suffocating, but my mind is restless. I've been keeping tabs on the broader world—or rather, this universe. Gotham is still mostly whispers and shadows, but rumors of a bat-themed figure haunting the city's criminal underbelly have started circulating. No official mention of Batman yet, not even in the papers, but the streets are buzzing. Meanwhile, Superman is making waves in Metropolis, a red blur is fighting crime in Central City, and a certain Green Lantern has been spotted in Coast City. The world is starting to awaken to the age of superhumans.

Brendan's memories—those fractured, intrusive shards in my mind—tell me that this world has a long history of heroes. The Justice Society of America, for instance, turned the tide of wars and stopped disasters in their time. Superhumans aren't new here; they're just becoming more prominent.

With everything I've seen and remembered, the idea of leaving Gotham crossed my mind more than once. This city is chaos personified, a breeding ground for monsters, maniacs, and mayhem. Staying here is a gamble, especially with Falcone breathing down my neck. But as a wise man once said, chaos is a ladder. And in a city like Gotham, where chaos reigns supreme, information becomes the greatest weapon of all. I know—of this world, its people, and its secrets. If I play my cards right, I can use this city to build something. A base. Power. Enough to survive, and maybe, one day, return home.

But first, I have to survive the Falcones.

Say what you will about Shocker, but the man was a genius. Not a Tony Stark kind of genius, but a scrappy, desperate one. The guy built a fully functional suit and gauntlets out of scrap metal in a prison workshop. He was a career criminal but I also realized why he was this way, His mom left him with his alcoholic father when he was just 5, and his father beat him up daily and tortured him until he passed away when he was 15, add to the fact that Hermann had Dyslexia, ADHD and a whole host of other neurological disorders it's a surprise and testament to his brilliance that he was able to invent any equipment after all the dude was self-taught. I hope with none of his impediments I will be able to use his knowledge more wisely.

Ever since I woke up in this body, aside from the physical changes I've noticed changes—an unexpected surge of intelligence and clarity, as if my brain has been rewired. Concepts that would've baffled me in my old life now seem almost… intuitive. To test it, I went to the local library and dove into books on electrical engineering. To my shock (no pun intended), the information clicked instantly. Diagrams and equations that once looked like gibberish now made perfect sense. Better yet, I started seeing ways to improve on the ideas I was reading about. It was exhilarating—and terrifying.

For three days, I buried myself in books on electronics, engineering, vibrations, and sound. The knowledge felt natural, almost like muscle memory, as if I had unlocked a part of my brain I never knew existed. It wasn't just the thrill of learning—it was survival. With only two days left to pay $5,000, I needed a plan. And I needed to act fast.

So what were my options right now,

I could go to Bruce Wayne and ask him for some money but it'll be more likely I won't be able to meet him and more importantly I want to stay away from any superhero/villain bullshit until I get the complete hang of my situation.

I could go to casinos and count cards and try to win money there, Shocker knew how to do it but usually, casinos catch on quickly about these things, and the ones in Gotham are more likely to break more than just a couple of kneecaps of mine.

I don't have enough time to scrounge up any sort of tech to sell to any companies and without any sort of patent or contracts they will for sure try to screw me over.

The last option, do a little bit of heist and get the money to get the Falcones off my back for at least a month and then plan about how to do things.

Maybe it's the instincts I got from Shocker but I am tempted to take up the last option, I will only do it once and stay away from any sort of crime-related activity until I decide what I want to do in this world.

Time for a little bit of legwork.

After scoping the city, I found my mark: the Cobalts.

A bottom-feeder gang operating out of the Bowery, the Cobalts are nothing more than lackeys for the Irish mob. They extort struggling business owners, push drugs, and specialize in armed robbery. Their signature cobalt-blue hooded jackets make them stand out, but beyond the fashion statement, they're as low-level as Gotham's criminals come. Their safe house at the edge of the Bowery is poorly guarded, a fact I confirmed during my nightly reconnaissance. They fit my criteria perfectly: a gang of scumbags who wouldn't be missed if I robbed them blind.

I wasn't going in unarmed. Drawing inspiration from Shocker's earliest designs, I set out to create my own version of his vibro-gloves. Limited resources meant limited options, but I'm used to making do.

I started by raiding a local electronics shop for old video game controllers—WayneTech models, no less. The vibration motors inside would serve as the gloves' core components. For a power source, I settled on high-capacity lithium-ion batteries, the kind used in portable electronics. Compact, reliable, and powerful enough to drive the motors.

The resonators were the next challenge. I needed metal plates capable of focusing and amplifying the vibrations on impact. After some hunting, I found a sheet metal shop and bought small plates made from durable alloys.

Finally, I needed a control mechanism—a way to adjust the intensity of the vibrations. Using scraps from an old microwave, I rigged together a simple circuit board with a dial for manual adjustments. A safety mechanism was also necessary to prevent overheating; the last thing I needed was for my gloves to blow up mid-fight.

Assembly took the better part of two days. I wired the motors, battery, and control mechanism into a pair of rugged gloves, testing each connection meticulously. The result was crude but functional. They weren't Shocker's gauntlets, but they'd do the job.

The real test came in the alley behind my house. I stacked a few cinderblocks on top of each other, slipped on the gloves, and took a deep breath. My finger hovered over the button on my palm, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

"Here goes nothing," I muttered, pressing the button.

A deafening boom erupted as the gloves activated, sending me flying backward and landing hard on my ass. My arm ached from the recoil, but I didn't care. I scrambled to my feet, my eyes locking onto the pile of cinderblocks—or rather, what was left of it.

The blocks had been obliterated. Shards of concrete littered the ground, and one of the blocks had been completely crushed. A smile spread across my face, followed by a laugh—a loud, triumphant laugh that echoed through the alley.

It worked.

It worked.

The batteries would die out in a few vibro-shocks but that would have to do right now.

For the first time in days, I felt something other than fear or desperation. I felt hope.

The gloves were ready, and so was I. The Cobalts wouldn't know what hit them.