Chapter 1: A Very Bad Day.

If you want to survive in Gotham, keep your head down and mind your own business.

That's a lesson people learn quick after some time in her streets, it often came with a pat on the back and a few dollars in your pocket, or a bullet through the skull in some nasty back alley because somebody was having a bad day.

John knew it because he lived it, he grew up in these very streets after all, knew all about those shady deals below gothic towers, the people in charge of the clubs and galleries and fortune five hundred companies and all those new and exciting opportunities that attracted fresh blood by the thousands every single day, all eager to live the life in one of the most crime infested, murderous places in the whole darn world.

Lovely.

But it didn't stop people from coming to this hellhole, how could they not? The highest concentration of wealthy individuals in the US of A, and all the advantages it presented; high paying corporate jobs, massive consumer base for luxury goods, so much money flowing from their deep pockets to the industrial complex, arts and movies scene, research and development, academia and architecture.

You name it, Gotham has it and she has it better than just about everyone else.

The best restaurants, best bars, best nightclubs, golf courses, best insane criminals and the best equally insane vigilante. Gotham has style, it has pizazz, all the glamour you could want and then some more.

Even the healthcare system was as good as it could get, and unlike Metropolis, going there wouldn't ruin your entire financial future for three generations, thanks Bruce Wayne for that one.

Now consider the insanely cheap rent, as long as you're willing to live in the more impoverished parts of town, you'll quickly figure out why everyone from the bright eyed would-be starlet to the gritty dock worker and just about everyone looking for a fresh start would flock around the city like vultures who have yet to realize they are the carcass.

Then again, John couldn't fault them, he was no better.

Born to one of the many nocturnal animals who dwelled in Gotham's high end clubs, looking for a fancy lay they could hopefully entertain long enough to experience that eight figures lifestyle and maybe sneak a cake into their oven if they're ambitious.

Since he didn't grow up living La Dolce Vita in some out of town mansion, and was often left to eat cereals for days on end while that hag was off trying to appear younger and kinder than she really was, it was safe to say that it didn't work so well for Mrs Harker.

No, her brand of predation was less baby-trapping millionaires and more like marrying a succession of reasonably wealthy, doubtlessly abusive, mentally unsound individuals.

Hiding bruises on a child's arms was easier than figuring out which blue blood fathered him, unless it was the bouncer, or the club owner, or his friends.

Her activity got them from Park Row to Gotham Village to Burnside and finally made him leave home to live with a touchy feely anaesthesiologist in the Metropolis suburbs.

Not the worst step-father he's had, by far.

Obviously, he ran away as soon as possible to the one place where three hundred bucks could get you a roof over your head for a good month, where nobody cares enough to ask about your age or demand to see your id as long as you pay up and don't make too much noise.

A place where anyone could get a decent wage breaking their backs in the docks, as long as they had the sense not to check what's inside those crates.

After all, to live in Gotham is to keep your head down and mind your own business.

That's the first rule of the game, follow it and you'll hopefully make it through the night.

Unless somebody was having a bad day and decided to make it your problem.

"Listen, I'm not looking for trouble." John said something that would get a pretty boy like him mugged, beat up and sexually assaulted any other night.

But since the two gentlemen in front of him had guns, and since there was a man with a hole in his skull taking a nap on the floor, that ship had already sailed.

"I've heard nothing, seen nothing, in fact I think I might not even be here." He said as sincerely as he could, hoping to at least get them talking "Works for ya?"

Now he knew there was no way they'll just let him go, but if one of them started monologuing instead of shooting, he could try and make a run for it.

It was worth a shot, it was late at night and the street lighting in East End wasn't the best. They were only one block away from Brideshead, and that place was a labyrinth of tightly packed buildings, he knew he could loose them there.

All he needed was an opening, and he could zigzag his way to safety.

"Thorne said no witness, old man." He heard a snarky voice say, though it could've been his imagination.

"Sorry kid, but it won't do." One of them approached, getting closer and closer to the one flickering lamppost lighting the alley, he could clearly see the shiny barrel of a huge revolver, the surprisingly nice suit and balding grey hair of the old man in front of him.

'Crap.'

He saw his face.

Now things got much more complicated, but there was still hope, maybe he could-

*Bang*

Before he knew it, he was lying on the floor, a burning pain digging through his chest until the adrenaline kicked in.

*Whistle*

"Darn Joe, nice shot!" He heard the other guy, a younger man say, he sounded amused, as if shooting some seventeen years old kid on his way home was normal.

Maybe it was normal, this kind of things happened everyday in Gotham, the Batman couldn't be everywhere, and the police was too busy being nowhere.

"Shut it Keith, I told you to make sure people wouldn't get close." Joe—the man who just shot him said, though he didn't sound all that pissed.

"Yeah, yeah, no need to make a fuss, it's just some nobody."

Huh, a nobody, was he? John wanted to get mad, to flip him off, curse at him, do something, anything! But he couldn't, he was just so tired, so cold.

Breathing was starting to be painful, the adrenaline was wearing off, and he was feeling sleepy.

"—Go make sure he's dead, and do it properly this time." The older man ordered in that tired voice of someone who dealt with too much bullshit to care, he'd almost feel sorry for the guy if he hadn't just shot him in the chest and was asking his little boyfriend to confirm the kill.

He heard two set of footsteps, one leaving and the other toward him.

'I am so dead.'

He was tired, he was hurting, but even with his vision getting all blurry he could clearly see the bored expression on the man's face. The carelessness, the contempt as he stepped on his bloodied chest, pressing on the wound just because he could.

'Just shoot me already, you sadistic fuck.' He thought, glaring at the bastard who only chuckled in response, then pressed even harder.

John didn't groan or whimper, he wouldn't give him that pleasure.

The pressure soon left, but the pain was still there.

"He's dead." He could faintly hear that criminal fuck-up say amidst the sound of his footsteps, those loud footsteps, everything about these two was loud and obnoxious and lousy, as if they had nothing to fear.

It was always like this when the bat was busy somewhere, the rats would get out and party as if to convince themselves that they ruled this city and no amount of beatings from a freak in costume would change it.

"Good, now get rid of our communist friend over here, I have places to be."

"Screw you."

He started thinking about his life, what little he'd accomplished so far, his non-existent legacy. The outcome was most displeasing, shit all nothing.

He barely lived, all those years were spent trying to survive.

There were no goals guiding his actions, no higher purpose.

And now it was ending, in some nasty alley, killed by some random mooks for the crime of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

He could only close his eyes and wait for death. He was sure what to didn't know what to expect, but he was pretty sure that a wall of red text wasn't part of the equation.

[Warning: Host dying before scheduled time.]

[Brute force awakening?]

'What the heck?"

He was tempted to just gawk at it for a while, wondering whether he was hallucinating or if hell was a computer science course. However, he was dying, and if the magical text wall of death could help out then he was all for it.

'Yes.' He thought, and regretted immediately.

[Integration started, brace yourself.]

The mother of all headaches befell his poor self, a pain so strong his actual wound was all but forgotten. Then came the memories, memories that were decidedly not his...and yet so familiar, natural.

A whole other lifetime, in another decidedly more boring world. One without masks and capes, where flying super powered aliens and caped crusaders where nothing but fantasy.

A world where Gotham and Metropolis did not exist, beyond the realm of entertainment.

A world where everyone knew thrill-seeking billionaire Bruce Wayne moonlighted as the Batman, Clark Kent was Superman and where an apocalyptic event happened every other day ever since the Justice League became a thing.

'Crap.'

In the span of a few seconds, John had lived and died, the shock was great and the pain extreme. But now he knew.

He knew it was worth it.

He knew the past, the secrets of this world.

He knew the curse he received as a boon, his path to survival.

He was still John Harker, that literal son of a bitch from Crime Alley, but he was more, so much more.

[Memory Transfer Complete, you will now receive the Dark Gift.]

The wall of text appeared for what he now knew to be the final time, his past victories where not nearly enough to warrant a system.

He braced myself, call it a hunch, but something told that there was no way in hell changing his whole nature would be a painless process.

He was wrong.

It was so much worse.

No amount of pain could compare to the cold, the awful cold.He could feel it in his veins, deep in his bones, in his very soul, twisting and corrupting.

Doing away with his humanity, his feelings and emotions numbed or roused to suit darker purposes. Old desires fading to make way for new alien appetites, vicious instincts.

His eyes burned, and soon he seeing in the dark became natural.

His heart stopped beating, his blood stopped flowing, it didn't need to.

And so did his body go pale, stone cold, like a corpse or an uncanny sculpted statue. He could go completely still if he so wished, even his breathing was mere habit and served no real purpose.

Yet he felt strong, stronger than ever.

The bullet wound in his chest was healing already, knitting itself back to normal in a display that would make any normal person vomit or faint in horror.

But he didn't, his body was no longer capable of such reaction. No, he just watched in fasination, enraptured by the sight of the bullet being pushed out of his body.

It was inhuman, He was inhuman.

[Vampire System Activated.]

A small part of him mourned that which was lost, another was excited by the power that would soon be his to wield, but both were meaningless in front of the sheer ravenous hunger he was feeling.

[Warning: Blood reserves dangerously low, Frenzy imminent!]

'What the hell?' Was his immediate reaction to his stomach actively trying to cripple him, he could barely think straight, 'I..need….'

And it all went dark.

. . .

Keith Gunman was having a very good day.

He had 3 grams of the purest coke money could buy in his pocket, two escorts waiting in his hotel room and he got to put a bullet in that stupid vodka-drinking dumbass.

Working for Rupert Thorn was awesome!

Sure, there were a good dozen levels of insulation between him and the big boss, and he was only ever sent to whack people when the less important outsiders wanted them gone, but the ladies didn't need to know that, do they?

He whistled a nice tune while throwing his Soviet friend in a nearby dumpster, he was making Uncle Sam proud.

*Crack*

He dropped the Brosky and reached for his gun, turning around to find the terrifying sight of...nothing.

There was nothing.

The dead kid wasn't there.

Just a puddle of blood.

"Damn," He said, trying to stop himself from shivering, criminals were a superstitious bunch, and he was no different,"We shot a damn spook, Joe will never believe me…"

"No, he won't."

"What?!" Keith screamed, frantically looking around.

This wasn't good, he had to get out of there.

The one lampost lighting the street flickered, and he saw it, a pair of bright red eyes in the dark, stalking him.

"Don't—Don't come close!" He meant to command it, as he always did, he had a gun, he was a gangster, he was part of one of Gotham's greatest criminal organizations, he was powerful damnnit and some ghost wasn't going to scare him!

*Bang* *Bang* *Bang*

Keith closed his eyes and emptied his gun, when he opened them up, that thing was gone.

And a clawed hand ripped his throat open, blood flowing like a fountain.

He watched in horror as the kid they killed—no, the monster he failed to put down, he watched as it feasted on his blood, on his life.

With his final thoughts, he cursed this beast, he cursed that old bastard Joe for accepting the hit then leaving him here, and he cursed himself for not minding his own business.

'Thorne said no witnesses, what a joke...I've never seen the man!'

Keith Gunman died in some nasty back alley, all because somebody was having a bad day.