Damage Control.

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

I know, I know, it's been waaaay too long since the last update, but what can I say? Things got hectic over here.

I didn't stop writing though, we've officially got that 10 chapters headstart, a safety net against your mighty cheeked author burning out and dropping! Isn't it awesome?

I've also made that discord so you can actively know what's going on with the story, give suggestions and give me your opinions more easily. I'll make an announcement there before each update, and you'll usually know when I'm posting ahead of time.

Discord here: discord.gg/U88u4S3j 

I hope you'll come :)

Again, since I took some time to update, this chapter is much longer than usual.

A cozy 3300 words long, not including the Author Note obviously.

Big, huh, like my...heart.

Make a comment, a review and drop a couple stones if you wanna support this author, my praise-kink demands no less!

I hope you'll enjoy, have a wonderful day and drink plenty of water.

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Vampire Rule N°14: If you're tempted to sparkle, stake your own heart. Seriously, you're better than that.

… … … … … … …

The basement of the old community center was barely lit, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead providing a low, constant buzz. It was a relic from another era, a place that had once been a beacon of hope, but now bore the weight of neglect.

The result of years spent cutting costs, trying and failing to stay afloat.

The walls, yellowed with age, held memories of a time when the center had been alive with activity, back when Thomas and Martha Wayne had funded it as part of their vision for a better Gotham.

That was decades ago, though, and without stable donors or anyone to champion its cause, the building had fallen into disrepair.

'A darn shame.' The vampire thought, looking at an old bronze plate hanged in their honor.

John stepped inside, his shoes echoing faintly on the cracked linoleum floor. He took a moment to survey the room. There were the usual faces, people who had become fixtures at these meetings, each of them carrying a different burden, yet all bound by the same desperate need for escape.

He saw the folks he lured in, counted them and gave them a nod acknowledging their presence and promising to fulfil his part of their little arrangement.

Some kindness and lots of presence could a whole lot of good.

Though John had a nagging feeling that the powers that be wouldn't appreciate his ways, either because they desire it or find in immoral.

It did, however, work much better than anything they came up with to fight this war on drugs.

He moved toward the circle of folding chairs, nodding in greeting to the few who noticed him. Carl was already there, his gaunt frame slumped in a chair near the back, hands trembling slightly as he fiddled with a crumpled pack of gum. Next to him was Deb, a middle-aged woman who had once been vibrant and full of life, but now seemed like a shadow of her former self. Her hair, once fiery red, was now streaked with gray, a testament to the years she'd lost to her addiction.

It was crazy how the needle would age people, a few years of injections and they would all look twenty years older than they really were.

"Evening, folks," John said, settling into a chair with an easy smile. His voice was smooth, disarming, the kind that made people want to trust him. It was a skill he had honed over the years, and it served him well.

A few muttered responses greeted him. Most of these people were too deep in their own thoughts to offer more than a nod or a grunt, but that was okay. John wasn't here to draw attention to himself—not too much, anyway. He was here to listen, to offer support, and to slowly, subtly, position himself as someone they could rely on.

They knew him as the guy who brought in Bubbles and got him to leave the streets for a bed in a rehab center, then just continued showing up with food and clothes to be donated.

A bit of presence here and there taught them how to appreciate his diligence instead of questioning it.

"Good to see you again, Johnny," Carl said quietly, offering a shaky smile. The man was a wreck, his life having spiralled out of control years ago after a back injury introduced him to painkillers. Now, he was just another casualty of the opioid crisis, hanging on by a thread.

The man was once on ace in construction and home renovation, able to turn some concrete and bricks into a dream house, or so he said after a few drinks.

Then he got hurt, and went to see a doctor who smiled and gave him the prescription that ended it all.

John returned the smile, giving Carl a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Good to see you too, Carl. How're you holding up?"

"Some days are better than others, y'know? I'm trying, but it's hard." Carl shrugged, the motion almost imperceptible.

"I know it is," John replied, his tone sympathetic. "But you're here, and that counts for a lot."

The room slowly filled with more people, each one carrying their own story of pain, of battles fought and lost. Mike, the ex-marine, entered with his usual heavy steps, taking a seat on the edge of the circle. The man was a hulking figure, his face hard and lined with the memories of a past he rarely spoke about. John had heard snippets, though—whispers of things Mike had done during his tours in Latin America, things that haunted him even now.

John caught Mike's eye and offered a nod. Mike returned it, his expression grim.

The group leader, an older woman named Helen, cleared her throat, signalling the start of the meeting. She wasn't much for speeches, preferring to keep things informal. There were no grand introductions, no prayers or rituals—just people talking, sharing their struggles in the hope that someone else might understand and maybe, just maybe help them get better.

"So, who wants to start?" Helen asked, her voice raspy from years of smoking.

Deb was the first to speak up, her voice wavering as she recounted the past week. "I've been clean for three weeks now," she said, her eyes flicking nervously around the room. "But it's been hell. Every day, it's like this… this weight pressing down on me. I miss my kids so much, and I know it's my fault they're gone. Sometimes, I just want to give up."

'Oh, cry me a river, I once had to dig up a bullet out of my own asscheeks with a butter knife.' Was what John wanted to say, and he could continue trauma-dumping for a good while, the costs of moving up in the world...worlds in this case.

But he didn't, this was work after all.

John leaned forward, his gaze steady on her. "Three weeks is no small feat, Deb. You're doing something a lot of people couldn't. But you can't beat yourself up for what's happened. You've got to keep looking forward, keep pushing through. Your kids need you to be strong."

"I know, I know… it's just hard." Deb nodded, though her eyes were still wet with unshed tears.

"It always is," John agreed, his voice low and comforting. "But you're not alone. You've got all of us here, and we're going to help you through it."

There were murmurs of agreement around the circle, a quiet solidarity forming among them. John noticed the way people looked at him, the trust they were beginning to place in him. It was exactly what he wanted.

Taking over Brideshead, one junkie's heart at a time.

He turned his attention to Mike next, sensing the tension radiating off the man. "How about you, Mike? How've you been?"

Mike shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Been better," he muttered. "Been worse, too. Sometimes… sometimes I think about the things I did, and I wonder if I'm ever gonna be free of it."

John didn't offer platitudes or patriotic nonsense. He wasn't interested in pretending that Mike's service had been some noble endeavor. He knew better than that.

Lots folks were still riding the juice from the cold war, and that meant telling a man than butchering civilians in the name of relative democracy and free market was rather common.

Even when they were propping up dictators.

The meeting continued with more stories, more confessions.

There was Lydia, a young woman who had lost her scholarship and dropped out of college after her cocaine habit took over her life, the poor girl had just stopped tricking to get her vials and was now worried about catching the bug.

There was Greg, an ageing musician who'd seen his bandmates die one by one from overdoses, and now struggled to stay clean long enough to finish a song.

John listened to each of them, offering words of encouragement, never pushing too hard. He knew how to walk the line, how to make people feel like he was on their side without giving too much of himself away.

When the meeting finally wrapped up, people lingered, talking in small groups or offering each other quiet support. John stayed behind, moving from person to person, making sure they knew he was there for them.

'I should really hire someone to do this for me,' He thought while patting Mike on the back, brand marketing wasn't really that fun, 'Oh well, the woes of a small business owner.'

He approached Helen as she gathered the coffee cups, her hands shaking slightly from arthritis.

"You're doing good work here," he said, his voice warm. "But I can see the place could use some help."

Helen sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Yeah, it's been tough. We used to get some funding, but that dried up years ago. Now we're just scraping by."

"I've come into some money recently. Maybe I could help out, make a donation to keep things going." John nodded thoughtfully.

Helen looked up at him, surprise and gratitude in her eyes. "You'd do that? That would mean the world to us, Johnny."

He smiled, the gesture sincere...he just remembered the video of man trying to shower in the beach while some sneaky prankster kept putting more and more shampoo over his head.

"Of course. I'll talk to some people, see what I can do. This place is important. People need it." He said.

Helen patted his arm, her eyes misting over. "Thank you. Really, thank you."

John just nodded, watching as she walked away. He knew what he was doing. By positioning himself as a benefactor, he was solidifying his influence here, making sure these people saw him as their lifeline. It was all part of the plan, but he couldn't deny that it felt a tiny little bit good to be helping, even if his reasons weren't entirely pure.

Someone somewhere was likely cursing him for disliking drugs and doing something about it, even if it was good for him, the benefits it brought to the greater world around him might be too great for some people's tastes.

He should only maim, kill, steal and otherwise slaughter everyone and everything with no regard for his own quality of life, personal tastes and opinions.

People would then flock around him and serve him based on his good looks, winning smile and Je-ne-sais-quoi of lustful stupidity that drive most people with a system.

Unfortunately, neither life nor unlife worked like this.

As he left the center, John couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction. He was playing a long game, one that required patience and careful manoeuvring. But he was getting what he wanted—a foothold in Brideshead, and the loyalty of people who one day would do anything for him.

And if, along the way, he made their lives a little better… well, that was just the icing on the cake.

The meeting might've ended, but the night was still young and he was still very busy.

People were more likely to follow someone who offered them something tangible, even if it came with a hidden price tag. His plan to clean up the streets was twofold: eliminate the troublesome fellows and bring the addicts under his control. It was a delicate balance between appearing as a savior and remaining the secretive force that lurked in the shadows, reappearing to break the bones of dealers who got a bit too brave.

It's been some time since his biggest stick-up, but he was satisfied with the progress.

He started with something simple, but powerful—a small daily bribe for those who showed a desire to get clean, or at least the appearance of it.

Every addict who came to him for clean needles and went to the local Narcotics Anonymous meetings would get ten dollars, no strings attached. It wasn't much, but in a place like Brideshead, the price of a vial was the price of loyalty.

John walked through the alleyways, his dark coat flaring slightly with each step. His presence was commanding, even without the supernatural influence he could wield. He preferred to save that for special occasions, letting his natural charisma do the work. As he approached a small gathering of addicts huddled near a burned-out building, he could hear the soft murmurs of desperation and hope—a toxic mix that he knew how to exploit.

"Hey, Johnny!" A lanky man with sunken eyes and a twitch in his neck called out. His voice was shaky, but there was a glimmer of something akin to respect in his eyes…that or he was high, maybe both, "You got any more of those clean needles?"

John nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small bag filled with fresh syringes. He handed them over to the man, who took them with trembling hands.

"Thanks, man. You don't know how much this helps," the addict said, his voice almost reverent.

The bug was everywhere these days, and needles were becoming a rare commodity forcing the lowliest of fiends to share their stuff with people they'd rather not.

"I know exactly how much it helps," John replied with a small, almost predatory smile. "And you know what to do to keep it coming, right?"

It was a comical sight, he stood there all threatening while trying to help the man turn his life around.

The man nodded eagerly. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be at the meeting tonight. Promise."

"Good," John said, handing him a ten-dollar bill. "Remember, I'm not doing this for free. You keep going to those meetings, and I'll keep helping you out."

As the addict shuffled off, John turned his attention to a small group of women nearby.

They were younger, with the same desperate look in their eyes but still clinging to some semblance of dignity. He approached them, his voice softening as he spoke.

"Evening, ladies," he greeted them with a nod. "How're you holding up?"

One of them, a woman in her mid-twenties with frayed hair and a weary expression, looked up at him. "We're getting by," she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "But it ain't easy."

John reached into his pocket again, pulling out another bag of clean needles and some more cash. "Here, this might help. And if you need more, you know where to find me."

The women took the supplies gratefully, exchanging quick glances with each other before one of them spoke up. "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"

John chuckled, the sound low and almost comforting. "Let's just say I like seeing people turn their lives around. Besides, it's good to have friends in low places."

He could see the scepticism in their eyes, but they didn't push further. Instead, they accepted the help, tucking the money into their pockets and murmuring their thanks. As they walked away, John watched them with a calculating gaze. Every person he helped was another thread in the web he was weaving—a web that would eventually ensnare them all.

For the Greater Good.

His greater good, to be precise.

As John continued his rounds, he noticed a car pull up to one of the still-active drug corners. The car was a bit too nice for this part of town, standing out like a sore thumb. He paused, observing with mild curiosity as a young woman stepped out, her friends lingering in the vehicle. She had a sharp look about her—smart, but desperate. He recognized the signs all too well.

The corner dealer, a wiry man with greasy hair, sauntered over to her, a sly grin on his face. John could hear their conversation from where he stood, his enhanced senses picking up every word.

"You're lookin' for something special tonight?" the dealer asked, his tone oozing with false charm.

The woman handed him a wad of cash, her expression cold and focused. "Just the usual. No extras."

The dealer chuckled, leaning in a little too close. "Come on, sweetheart. How about a little something for me, and I'll throw in a bonus?"

She recoiled slightly, her eyes narrowing. "I said no extras. Just give me the stuff."

The dealer's grin faltered, but he handed over the small baggie, muttering under his breath. The woman took it and quickly turned on her heel, heading back to the car without another word. As she drove away, John couldn't help but smirk. She had fire, but he knew it wouldn't last. In a few weeks, maybe less, she'd be back, and her resolve would have crumbled.

That was a shame, she would have been a mighty fine meal if she wasn't so intent on wasting her life, money and blood lusting after that blast.

Still, the corner boy had been a bit too pushy for his tastes...

"Got a tough one there," John remarked as he approached the dealer, who flinched at the unexpected presence.

"Johnny," the dealer greeted nervously, his earlier bravado gone. "Didn't see you there. Just, uh, taking care of business, you know?"

When someone went around helping out the fiends, he was bound to piss off a couple hoppers, what followed was a right beating that taught people that sweet Johnny Blue Eyes wasn't all that sweet after all.

John nodded, his expression unreadable. "I see that. Be careful with that one. She might not break as easily as the others."

The dealer swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. John clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture both reassuring and ominous. "Just a friendly warning. You don't want to push too hard, too fast."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the dealer stammered. "I'll be careful."

John gave him a final nod before turning away, continuing his rounds with a satisfied air. He had no real concern for the woman or the dealer, but it amused him to see the dynamics at play. The delicate dance of power, desperation, and control was something he excelled at, and he enjoyed watching it unfold.

As the night wore on, John found himself reflecting on the strange satisfaction he felt from helping these people. It was a twisted kind of pleasure, knowing that he was doing good deeds for all the wrong reasons. But he didn't let himself dwell on it for too long.

He had a plan to execute, and sentimentality had no place in it.

Each addict he helped, each connection he made, brought him closer to his goal...and that's all that matters when all is said and gone.

He was just playing damage control, trying to remove the demand for drugs instead of just beating up the offer.

Still, helping people instead of just eating them did feel pretty good.

And if a certain dealer got beaten to an inch of his life then lightened from the burden of his ill-gotten money, no one would complain.

..........

Author Note:

Hello! Hamtaro's Back! Back Again! 

The chapter was a bit slow, since it's a consolidation of the whole dope arc and about what John's doing outside of bashing folks heads and taking all their money.

I've also tried to give a rational for his distaste of the drug trade in particular, since the whole thing started because I learned too much stuff while figuring out how folks like Rupert Thorn, Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone and other old school mobs made their money, how it was different from The Penguin and Blackmask or the Great White Shark, and where the smaller gangs played into this.

I ended up consuming a lot of drug--drug content! content about drugs! And this whole Arc was born. 

It was also a convenient target for John when he takes a walk, and something I could use to escalate stuff and bring some interesting plotlines around.

For those asking about DC character, we've already gotten to two minor ones in my reserve chapters, and things will only get faster and bigger from there.

I hope you had a good time, and will join me in discord right here: discord.gg/U88u4S3j

Leave a comment, drop yer stones and have a pleasent day!