(Edited with Grammarly on 3/12/2026)
"-nd before he knew it, I had reached behind him and lifted him by the back of his neck with one hand! Need I remind you he was well over three hundred pounds and a good seven feet tall!" Like usual, the world's recent obsession with vigilantes and all things clad in spandex had spawned a new career choice. To the point where now, even people dressed in bright red tights that clearly exposed the rather fit but still nothing too impressive body underneath, could be on live television surrounded by faux smiles and a crowd who wooed and awed at even the smallest things. Clapping like seals and breaking out in laughter at jokes not even the least bit funny, a symphony conducted by sleekly dressed individuals that just seem to ooze charisma in all ways.
"Crimson Man," One, a middle-aged woman dressed in a knee-length green dress with artificially tanned skin and heavy smile lines around her lips. "How is it possible for someone to do? What's your secret?"
"I'm glad you asked, Debbie!" Crimson Man, wearing a bright red cowl atop his face, smiled widely. Exposing rows of bright white teeth that everyone knew had been a pretty recent addition. Actually, a lot had changed since his sudden rise to fame. The flab that had been a primary tool to discredit him had significantly lessened in a rather shocking amount of time, to the point where the visible gut had been replaced by a row of rock-hard abs often seen in comic books or animated shows. Even his costume had gotten a much-needed improvement, going from that D.I.Y. look to something more sleek and professional. No longer possessing those visible seams or zippers, possessing dark crimson gloves and even a cape that always seems to flap in an unknown breeze. Reaching behind him on that bright white couch, he pulled out a rather thick book and presented it to the camera and crowd with far too much confidence. "From my time in Tibet, I learned a near archive of ancient techniques, and I've compiled them all into this book here. Inside, you will find many Ancient Tibetan Techniques that'll allow you to perform my feats and more! Actually, if all those in the audience look beneath their seats, you will all find a free copy-"
"Please hold for one moment." The host of the show, a large man forced into a size too small suit, smiled tightly as he pressed his finger onto a device in his ear. A long curly wire tumbled down and into a visible brick-like object pressed in tight to his chest. Seconds passed, and that jovial expression faded into something grimmer. And at a casual gesture to the nearby cameramen, all the screens behind him flicked from their previous state. Switching over to bold, bright red and yellow letters. Turning back to the crowd, he somberly pointed behind him. "We have a bit of an important announcement to make, folks. Gotham's number one journalist is on the ground. We will let her take center stage, please folks, listen."
And just as quickly, static cracked across the large screens and from all over Gotham, from every television screen, across every radio station, someone far, far too familiar had the city's complete attention.
"This is Vicki Vale reporting in." In comparison to her once prim and proper appearance, she now looked as if she'd just barely rolled out of bed before hoofing it on foot. That orange-ish red hair was frazzled and tied up into a lazy bun, clothes wrinkled, and her face only contained the barest hint of make-up. And with how close up to the camera she was, even the crusty sleep in her eyes hadn't been rubbed away quite yet. "Late last night, police officers came to investigate a noise complaint, the sound of bullets firing, and only found two men on the scene. Who would've known that such a routine check-up would unravel something this dark? There two men, under their own free will, who confessed to being behind the kidnapping of a young girl by the name of Jacqueline Hyde. If that name sounds familiar, she was the very same student kidnapped off school grounds while under the watch of Downtown Gotham Elementary School's, now ex, principal, Johnathan Bricker. Yes, the very same man who covered up her disappearance nearly half a year ago."
"Under thorough investigation, the two suspects knew details not yet released to the public….Well, one of them did, a Mateo Hughes, as his partner in crime, Elliot Steward, is still currently under medical custody due to injuries. Hughes admitted to staking out the elementary school, admitted to watching Steward snatch up the young Hyde, and acted as their getaway...If that wasn't bad enough, already being accessory to kidnapping, granting him the same time Steward is bound to receive. For those who don't know, by federal law, this particular crime, due to Hyde EIGHT at the time of her kidnapping, has a minimum of twenty years to life. And sometimes, in some states, would even justify the death penalty. But that wasn't the end of it, Hughes, through underworld connections SOLD Hyde. Sold a little girl, not even double digits in age, to a criminal organization that is now formally known as the Gray Gardens."
Taking a shaky breath, the woman rubbed at her reddening eyes but continued. The entire city was waiting on her words with bated breath. Even in that talk show, not a single comment or whisper could be heard. Whether through some live-television magic or just their shock, no one dared to break the spell.
"If you noticed my use of formerly, then you must also know what I'm hinting at. After receiving this news, GCPD knew they needed to act fast, before the organization could hear of their colleagues' arrest. But finding a single organization like this in a city as massive as Gotham was a daunting task, but through some good means, they received information that led them directly to the headquarters of this gang of monsters. After receiving the necessary warrant, GCPD deployed all available SWAT members under the command of Captain Koch and stormed the organization before they had a chance to destroy evidence or get away."
"What they found there…" Vale let out a shaky breath, microphone visibly quavering. "Was, was worse than expected. There, they uncovered a human trafficking ring. Not just that, they found a massive surplus of illicit drugs and firearms ready to be distributed here. Finding many customers and members, and even a few victims that are currently receiving medical treatment, that still wasn't the end."
"They found them, found a total of thirty-eight children. Almost forty children, ranging from as young as five years all the way up to thirteen. All just packed into a tiny enclosure, stuffed shoulder to shoulder, covered in bruises, and showing clear signs of malnourishment. These children accounted for more than twenty recent missing person cases over the past four months." Tears began to roll down her cheek just then, just a few before quickly rubbing them away with the back of her hand. After taking some time to get herself together, she continued. "Here, we have the head detective involved in this case. Mr. Bullock, Gotham is listening."
From the side, a rather portly, scraggly, and overall pretty unwell-looking man appeared on screen. Awkward with cameras in his face, mic shoved up close to his scowling mouth. Wearing a ragged, tanned trench coat with a heavily wrinkled button shirt. With a head of graying brown hair, he looked every bit the overworked and exhausted cop. The mean sort.
"People of Gotham," Bullock's voice was like that of sandpaper sheets rubbing against each other, as if he'd just gotten down smoking an entire pack before being foisted into this. "I'm just going to be honest with you, no fancy speeches or bull-crap political maneuver-I know, I know, I got it! This was a dark day, no matter how much good was done by our brave officers, this evil still had years to work under our radar. There's no excuse for that. The kids are safe, rattled, but safe. Parents and loved ones have already been contacted before any of this news broke, and soon, a lot of broken families will be allowed to start healing once more."
"Who led this organization?" Vicki ceremoniously ignored the bespectacled official standing not too far away, a stick-like man trying his damnedest to glare a hole into the detective. Focusing her attention on the much easier target, an outspoken detective with not even a hint of serious media training.
"That cannot be revealed at this time."
Not willing to be ignored and almost desperately, the official quickly stepped in before the mastermind's name could be leaked. Completely blocking him from the crimson viper stalking around them.
"The culprit will be announced along with their trial date." The detective was, for once, not looking ready to go against this form of authority. "This will be done by the books, and they will face the full might of our legal system."
And not by the actions of vigilantes or street justice.
Those words were left unsaid, but most people could fill in the blanks. Whoever this mastermind was, they didn't want the risk of being targeted by a mob of bloodthirsty parents wanting to enact vengeance on what they did to their children. Plus, they probably couldn't afford to have a suspect this huge be found dead in their custody.
"But, this shows us that it's not people in capes or in masks that can bring about true justice, it's everyday citizens like you or me. Just keep your eyes peeled, and if you find anything strange or suspicious, don't hesitate to call. It takes nothing to report something." If the detective cared about the unwilling look on Vale's face, he sure as hell didn't show it. "That is all I have to say."
And with that, the man unceremoniously walked off screen. Completely uncaring of the multitude of flashing cameras that alighted his face as more news vans pulled onto the scene.
***
"…"
Albert could do nothing but watch silently, fingers stooped as the large man across from him flipped through a small portfolio. A bedraggled man who had a slightly worrying gleam to his gaze, grunting with more visible wrinkles atop his forehead, grew more prominent. But no matter how unkempt the man was, at least he didn't smell as heavily of alcohol and body odor. Actually, scratch that. The smell was covered up by a massive amount of body spray, the cheap kind. The kind that turned all heads in a room for all the bad reasons.
The teen tried to listen to the radio playing in the background, tried to allow that to draw his attention from this tense situation, but the unease and anxiety in his gut would not just leave or settle down. In fact, with every passing moment of silence, it bubbled further up to the surface. Ever since that night, he knew this confrontation was going to happen. Knew that he would have to be the bearer of bad news, but with the event being plastered across every screen in Gotham, not speaking up now would probably only dig himself in deeper than he already was.
"So let me get this straight." Russel, almost too calmly, slid the portfolio back across the desk as he began. The feeling of his guts tightening in a knot filled the detective just then. And all he wanted to do just then was to duck his head into the sands and never bring it back up for as long as this storm loomed above him. "You found out that sack of shit did cover up my daughter's kidnapping, tracked down the actual mother fuckers, and got the org they sold her to. Got the police involved, only for my Jackie to not be found….Am I wrong?"
"No." Albert, in that moment, could feel more words fumbling out of his mouth, a defensive response to having his failures so blatantly. A spiel to defend his actions, to cover up his failure. But he swallowed it down with much effort. For what this man had lost, no amount of explanations or excuses would make up for it. "You're not wrong."
"…" The father didn't explode into anger, nor did he leap across the table to beat the failure black and blue, but instead, he just closed his eyes. Breathing heavily through his nose, as though restraining himself from actually enacting the fantasies most likely circling his mind just then. "You know, you should be congratulated. You should be given a pat on the back for a job well done. You found a lot of kids and reunited a lot of them with their parents. Looked into things those useless cops were unwilling to do...If this were a movie, this whole case would be the closing scene, and you would get a girl on your arm and walk off into the sunset or some shit…But, this ain't no goddamn movie! Not for me at least."
"I-I," Russell sank further back in his seat, the chair squeaking audibly under his weight. Head hanging low, exposing a few more patches of gray that weren't there previously. Stress, a lack of sleep, and probably being overworked all came together to add another two years to the man's appearance. Or maybe it's heavy alcohol finally taking its due. "I should feel happy, I should connect with those parents who were frantically looking for their little bit of sunshine just as I was. Should feel something from them finally being relieved of this moment in their life. But, I really, really can't feel anything other than...jealousy. What was it about us that won't let us have that same happy ending? I could-I could understand if all this was punishment from God, I've done things in the past I'm not too proud of and-and I haven't been going to church lately. But, Jackie, she's innocent here. What had she done to deserve this?"
"To be frank with you, I had an incessant part of my brain tell me the worst. Months ago. Told me that she wasn't out there anymore, told me that I had lost my sunshine a long time ago, and I was just slowly killing myself. Just hoping that a car would come and finish me off." His eyes, yellowed rimmed and flashing with something energetic for but a moment before they too died. "But when Malcolm pointed me your way, I began to feel hope again. Cleaned our apartment, threw out my old clothes, went cold turkey on beer, stopped blowing so much cash on delivery, and tried to look presentable for when I could finally welcome my little girl home again. I-I didn't want her to see the sorry fucking loser wallowing uselessly…But here we are. I-I should hate you, hate you giving me a shot of hope before snatching it away. Hate you for making me believe, hate you for finding my little girl. Should be hopping up and down, pipping mad, be smashing your head through that fucking wall over there...But I really, really can't muster the energy for that. I'm tired, Albert. I'm so goddamn tired."
With that, the larger man stood to his feet. Despite that impressive height, he seemed smaller. Diminished in a way that food alone wouldn't fix. Slumping nearly in half, he stared down at the desk. That melancholic aura thick as syrup and sticking to him like glue, clinging on with no intention of ever letting go.
"You tried your best." That hurt more than any blow, striking deeply at something within Albert just then. But if Russel saw or cared, he didn't really show it. "You put yourself in a lot of danger for some failure, and I appreciate that. Keep the deposit, j-just forget about all this. I got to get a drink."
[Case Failed: A Father's Woe!]
The private investigator couldn't do anything as he watched the lump of soul deep sadness lumber out of his office, those footsteps loud and echoing as they descended the stairs and stumbled out of the building. Spinning in his chair, he peered down at the figure shambling down the street, shoulders slumped, and head bowed. Swaying from side to side like it was a pendulum.
A soft knocking echoed through the room before the sound of the office door opening filled his ears.
"Hey, Albert?" It was a familiar voice, and he didn't even need to turn around to know exactly who it was. After all, he was the one who called for them as backup just in case things went south. He honestly wished it had. Anything was better than what he just saw. "I got to go, I know it's sudden, but I got to make sure Russel doesn't do anything stupid...and I really don't think it's a good idea for him to be alone right now."
"You're fine, Malcolm." He waved behind him, far, far too ashamed to show anyone his face just then. The boxer in training was right; he knew the man far longer, and if he dragged this case before the teen, then they must've been at least friends.
"Thanks." Despite receiving the go-ahead, his presence didn't leave the room, and it was far too easy to imagine his face going through a wide range of emotions. Guilt and sadness probably taking center stage, mixing with uncertainty to create a near-paralyzing concoction of emotions. "Hey, keep your head up. Failure...failure is a part of the process. It's how you learn. It's a constant in life; no one can go through it without failing sometimes. It happens, and I know you don't want to hear this, but you did a lot of good here. Don't let this blind you to that."
"…"
As much as Albert wanted to give some form of thanks, all he could release from his strangled throat was a grunt. Not to agree but to acknowledge those words. And only after a few seconds of silence did the door finally close, and before long, he could also see a giant of a man quickly sprinting down the street in the father's wake.
There he sat, watching as the high sun dropped below the horizon. Legs growing numb, and pins and needles running along the inside of his arm. Only after neon lights kicked on did he finally close the blinds and turn in his chair once more, flicking on a nearby lamp to illuminate the portfolio lying before him.
Shoulders slumped and back hunched, he cautiously picked it up and began to flip through for what felt like the millionth time. While being present at the raid had been an impossible ask, getting his grubby mitts on a copy of what used to be the Gray Gardens transaction logs hadn't been too much of an ask. This organization apparently only sold off 'product' once they reached sixty total, which usually took them anywhere between two and four months, before sending out a notice for an auction to some of the seedier individuals in Gotham. Where they would auction off these kids in batches with adults to the highest bidders, each of those customer names written down before him.
Pseudonyms, of course, as much as he hated to admit it, these people weren't idiots. No matter how desperately he wanted them to be. And from the dates before him, Jacqueline had only been in there for a week before she was auctioned off along with four others to a gang called 'The Frothing Hound Gang'. A lead to be sure…if not for a single hiccup.
The multiple obituaries.
Every last member of said gang had, over the course of half a year, systematically and conveniently faced a series of traffic accidents. In fact, the last member died in a spontaneous brake failure, not even a month before he appeared in this new life.
Leaving him with nothing but a dead trail. No one to investigate, no one to look into, and with no path to follow. A failure on all accounts. He failed to find her in time. Failed to reunite this family. Should he have gone about this differently?
Why should he have been so careful at the beginning of all this? He should've just broken into Bricker's home and shaken him down, should've been far more aggressive with those kidnappers...At least punching them would make him feel better.
But most importantly of them all, he wished that he'd been dropped into this world even just a month prior. At least then, he could speak to the last member of The Frothing Hound Gang. At least then, he would've had something to go off of.
But now? He was stuck. Trapped in this limbo of secrecy and whether to twist the knife deeper in his side, the system seemed to agree with him. A screen popping up unprompted in his mind's eye.
[Open Cases
Major Cases:
N/A
Minor Cases:
A Father's Woe (F+), Reward: N/A, Status: Cold.]
And no matter how hard he tried to interact with the screen, with the information on full display, the system, like always, remained unflappable. Other than opening and closing the screen, nothing on the page could be altered or edited.
It would forever remain as a constant reminder of his own failure, even years down the line; he didn't believe it would suddenly disappear. Nor did the system seem kind enough to do even that much for him.
But honesty...maybe this was his just punishment. Just like Russel would forever have to shoulder that loss, he too would be forced to carry this failure as well. This screen acting as a monument to his ineptitude.
'I'm sorry, Jacqueline…'
***
In a dark room, surrounded by cement bricks and steel bars, a single figure lay on a thin cot. Dressed in generic pale blue clothing, with a series of numbers and letters etched across his right breast pocket. His head perked up at every minuscule sound that echoed down the hall, looking ready to jump up at any given moment.
The middle-aged man, appearing to be in his mid-to-late forties with a head of thinning black hair that had a touch of gray to a few loose strands, settled back in as he resisted the urge to perk up like a...well, ironically, like a child eagerly waiting for their parent to come home.
Closing his eyes, he tried to get some sleep, tried to ignore his rapidly beating heart. Tried to ignore the molten core of anxiety boiling away in his guts. Scenes of the previous night flashed behind his closed lids.
Everything had happened too far. In one moment, he was looking over a shipment of some new product from Romania, and in the next, his door had been kicked open with enough force to cause the product to begin screaming as an entire group of navy-suited SWAT members stormed in and tackled him to the floor. With his head still spinning, he'd only come to in the back of a police vehicle, missing a few front teeth and feeling as if his right cheek had swollen to the size of a beach ball.
But the sight he saw forced a spike of dread deep within his spirit, as his organization that he'd spent literal years building up was dismantled in a single night. He could only watch in mute horror as wealthy board members were carried off in handcuffs, produce being sought after by paramedics, and guards being roughly shoved into massive vans.
Despite how bad everything looked, he actually believed that it wouldn't be so bad. Sure, his organization had been uprooted, but he still had plenty of colleagues and third parties that could post his bail and would be out of jail by the end of the month. No matter how much change this new upstart of a commissioner brought, green was still a universal language. But all that hope went up in smoke when a line of his nearly ripened produce was being escorted out of the building while clinging to an entire sixteen-man squad of SWAT members.
He knew then that it was over. Well...not entirely. He still had a single trump card up his sleeve after all.
Suddenly, someone coughed in front of his cell. Snapping his eyes wide open, he looked up frantically to see a simple and bland-looking guard just gazing blankly at him. Before he had a chance to speak up, a simple flip phone and a cigarette were forced through the bars.
Instead of taking them out right, he eyed the guard up warily.
"Mr. Cobblepot wants to talk."
After that reassuring answer, the man took both. Popping the stick in his mouth as the guard flicked a lighter to life. And in a near-desperate scramble, he quickly leaned closer and lit the end. Pulling in a lungful of comforting nicotine that instantly calmed his fraying nerves, like a muscle being released after hours of remaining taught, his body nearly sagged in relief.
Strangely, the guard watched him take a few more puffs before turning his back on the cell. And before he could question the rather odd behavior, the phone in his hands began to vibrate violently.
Hope surging in his chest, he held the cigarette between his lips and put the phone up to his ears.
"Hello?"
"Good evening, Mr. Fields." A familiar voice sounded off from the other end, sounding high-pitched and scratchy, but even through the phone, it was impossible for Fields not to imagine that far too calm and unnerving smile. "From what I can see, it seems you got yourself into some trouble?"
"Yes, Mr. Cobblepot." His tone was respectful as he knew this nearly comical-looking man, built round in shape with a long hooked nose, was not someone to be dealt with lightly. "I am sorry about that."
"No need to apologize," Cobblepot responded coolly, almost flippantly. "I just want to know how you're doing. I know those coppers can get a bit rough."
"I'm fine, just a bit banged up, but I should be up and about here soon...Say, I know this is a huge ask, considering our relationship, how long will I have to stay here before you can get me out?"
"…." Silence filled the call; only his own puffing could be heard as he sucked away as if his life depended on it. "Well, let's do the math. Your organization trafficked around, what? One, two thousand people? That's about twenty years per count, so I would say…. your skeleton probably won't even be allowed to leave the prison. That's not even accounting for all the children; the law doesn't look very kindly on people like you."
"But, but you can still get me out, right?"
That surging hope, keeping him afloat, was suddenly and viciously torn away from him just then.
"I can get you out." His shoulders slumped in relief, and just as he was prepared to thank the man profusely, he was quickly cut off. "But, if I do, what can you give me?"
"...Mr. Cobblepot?"
"Just think of it from my point of view. This is how it was always going to go; people really don't like human trafficking. Especially when children are involved. If they catch you doing it, Uncle Sam will hit you over the head with the book. Bog you down with so many fines and prison sentences that getting out in the next couple of lifetimes is impossible. And let me tell you this, they won't throw you in Blackgate. No, that's too kind. They'll throw you in the middle of the desert in Nevada, have you in a ten-by-ten cell in one hundred-plus degree weather. Eating nothing but stale crackers and flat water. It's going to be a very miserable life."
"….But I gave you money," Fields could feel himself begin to flush, dread turning to hot anger as the man mocked him over the phone. "You told me you would protect me, called it rent!"
"You did." He admitted easily enough. "And don't you remember what you promised in return all those years ago? When you were nothing more than a poor bastard working at a local shitty bar? What were your words?"
"…"
"You don't need to say them, I'll do it for you." Cobblepot coughed once before his voice deepened and took on a more whining quality. "Mr. Cobblepot! Please, just give me a chance! I just need a small loan, and I'll more than make back your investment! I'll give you forty percent for the next ten years! And if I'm late on a single payment, as God as my witness, my life is forfeit!"
"…" Impotent anger surged from deep within. Gnashing teeth, biting clean through the cigarette. "I'm not late yet! I still have days before it's due!"
"What are you going to pay with? Your associates? Your automatic billing? Your assets are frozen, and last I checked, prisoners are only paid a buck an hour, and even if you worked all day, every day, it still wouldn't be enough."
"...You fucking bastard!" Indignant, Fields barely resisted the urge to shatter the phone into tiny pieces. "If you don't get me the fuck out of here, I'll tell them everything! Tell them that you're involved, and I know for sure, damn sure they'll take some time off my sentence if I can drag you down with me!"
"Fields, Fields, Fields." Cobblepot clicked his tongue loudly, like he was lecturing an unruly child. "I don't think you understand your situation here. I'm not calling you to argue; this is a farewell. You were an...adequate business partner, but your use has officially dried up."
"Is your fucking butt buddy here going to kill me?!" His eyes snapped up to see the still back of the guard, as if expecting him to be holding a shiv or a deftly tied prison uniform to hang him in the rafters.
"Goodness no, I would never give my ex-business partners that indignity! What kind of brute do you take me for? For providing as much benefit as you did, I decided to give you a painless end. Goodbye, Fields."
"What the fu-"
Just as he was prepared to curse at the man, a heavy sense of dizziness overtook him just then. Blinking once, he found himself lying on the ground. Looking up at the looming shadow crouching down to snatch the phone away. Vision darkening around the edges as his lungs tried to struggle for breath, but to no avail. Heartbeat slowing and suddenly, it felt as if the cement floor was warming to the touch.
He tried, oh so hard he tried, to keep his eyes open. Tried resist the sudden flood of fatigue that wracked his body. But no matter how hard he resisted, the pull was far too strong. And just as the world was fading into that comforting darkness, a single phrase burbled out through his foam-covered mouth.
"F-fuck-fuck you, Penguin…"