Part 2: Chapter 2 - Demon of Gotham (Part 2)
The mansion sat perched on a hill overlooking Gotham's northern sprawl, surrounded by wrought-iron gates that stretched twelve feet high and cameras mounted at precise intervals along the perimeter. From the street, the property looked like a fortress disguised as wealth—old money, discreet security, the kind of place that whispered power without shouting it.
The mansion itself was Gothic Revival, all sharp angles and dark stone, ivy climbing the eastern wall in deliberate patterns. Three stories tall, with peaked roofs and arched windows that caught moonlight like watchful eyes. Gargoyles perched on the corners—not decorative, but original to the 1890s construction, their stone faces worn smooth by a century of Gotham rain.
Out front, parked in a semicircle on the cobblestone driveway, sat three vehicles that each cost more than most Gotham families earned in a year: a midnight-blue Bentley Continental GT, a silver Audi R8, and a black Mercedes-Maybach S-Class with tinted windows dark enough to hide royalty.
The house was dark.
Every window black, no lights visible, the kind of stillness that suggested everyone inside had been asleep for hours.
At the fence line, something moved.
A backpack arced through the air, tossed from outside, and landed on the manicured lawn with a muffled thud. The grass was freshly mowed, cut to an exact two inches, the smell of it still faintly green in the night air.
Then—a grunt. Quiet. Restrained.
A hand clamped onto the top of the fence, fingers digging into cold iron, and a figure pulled themselves up and over in one smooth motion. They landed on the other side with another soft thud, boots hitting grass, knees bending to absorb impact.
The figure was male—that much was clear from the build, the breadth of shoulders, the way he moved with efficient purpose. But his face stayed hidden in shadow, features obscured by darkness and the angle of his head.
He grabbed the backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and began moving toward the mansion.
Low. Deliberate. Practiced.
The cameras swept in predictable arcs—motion-activated, infrared-equipped, expensive but predictable. The figure used the parked cars as cover, timing his movements to the gaps in surveillance, sliding from shadow to shadow like water finding the path of least resistance.
Within thirty seconds, he'd crossed the lawn and reached the mansion's east wall.
A window sat partially open on the ground floor—barely an inch, the kind of gap you'd only notice if you were looking for it. The figure's hands found the frame, pushed upward gently, and the window rose without a sound.
He slipped inside.
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The kitchen was a monument to modern luxury wrapped in traditional aesthetics.
Marble countertops gleamed faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window—Carrara white, veined with gray, polished to a mirror finish. Custom cabinetry in dark cherry wood lined the walls, brass handles catching ambient light. A massive island dominated the center, topped with butcher block and surrounded by leather-upholstered barstools. Stainless steel appliances—double ovens, a commercial-grade refrigerator, a six-burner gas range—stood like sentinels against the far wall.
The air smelled faintly of yesterday's dinner and cleaning products, sterile and expensive.
The figure closed the window behind him, moved silently across tile floors, and reached for the refrigerator handle.
CLICK.
The overhead lights blazed to life.
The figure flinched, throwing one arm up to shield his face, caught mid-motion like a deer in headlights.
And in that harsh fluorescent wash, the shadows fell away.
A boy. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Light brown hair that fell just past his ears, slightly messy in a way that suggested he'd either just woken up or hadn't bothered with a comb in days. His face was lean, angular in a way that hinted at the man he'd become but hadn't quite arrived yet.
He wore a bulky white zip-up jacket with long sleeves that hung past his wrists, a bold green stripe running vertically down the left sleeve. On the back, in large green letters, was the number 10—blocky, impossible to miss.
His right hand—visible where the sleeve had ridden up—was wrapped in bandages. Not medical tape, but actual cloth bandages, wound carefully around each finger, leaving only the tips exposed.
Black jeans. White sneakers, scuffed at the toes.
And green eyes—bright, sharp, the kind that tracked movement instinctively, assessing threats before the conscious mind caught up.
The boy lowered his arm, squinting against the light. "What the hell? I thought everyone was asleep."
Standing in the kitchen doorway, hand still on the light switch, was a girl.
Fifteen years old, same as the boy, with fiery orange hair that cascaded past her shoulders in waves she'd clearly stopped bothering to tame for the night. Her eyes were the same green as his—family resemblance unmistakable—but where his carried wariness, hers burned with anger.
She wore blue pajamas patterned with tiny stars, the kind of sleepwear that suggested comfort over style, and her arms were crossed in the universal posture of someone about to deliver a lecture.
Gwen Tennyson.
"Ben," she said, voice tight with restrained fury, "you told me you were going to the library to study."
Ben pulled open the refrigerator, grabbed a carton of orange juice, and walked past her without breaking stride. "I was studying," he said, popping the cap with his thumb. "Just not at the library."
He tipped the carton back and drank directly from it—long, deliberate gulps that would've horrified anyone concerned with basic hygiene.
Gwen's jaw clenched. She crossed to the living room entrance, reached around the corner, and flicked another switch.
The television mounted above the fireplace came to life, tuned to Gotham's 24-hour news cycle.
"—footage captured earlier tonight shows what authorities are calling a 'large animal' evading police in a high-speed chase through downtown Gotham. Six patrol vehicles were involved in the pursuit, which ended when the creature—witnesses describe it as dog-like but significantly larger—disappeared into Robinson Park. No officers were injured, but questions remain about—"
The screen showed grainy dashcam footage: something orange and massive bounding across an intersection, clearing a police cruiser in a single leap, vanishing into darkness.
Ben glanced at the screen with one eye, still chugging juice.
Then looked away. Unconcerned.
Gwen's hands balled into fists. "You promised you'd keep a low profile."
Ben lowered the carton, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I did."
"This—" Gwen jabbed a finger at the TV, "—is not a low profile!"
"I was careful."
"You were on six police dashcams!"
"They didn't see my face..... literally."
"Ben—"
"I need to figure out what I can do, Gwen." Ben's voice was flat, emotionless. "Training in abandoned warehouses isn't cutting it."
Gwen took a breath, forced herself to speak calmly. "We have a protocol. You train in isolated areas. You avoid cameras. You don't engage law enforcement. That's how we prevent Batman—or worse—from finding you."
Ben set the juice carton on the counter with more force than necessary. "And how's that protocol working out? We've had to change hideouts three times in two months because someone notices construction equipment moving or hears noise or sees lights where there shouldn't be any, or do you need me to remind you how many we have changed in those 2 years since we began ? ."
"That's the point, We stay mobile. We stay hidden."
"We stay slow." Ben's voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding through. "I have ten forms, Gwen. Ten. And I've only trained enough to be competent with four of them. The rest? I can barely control them without breaking something or hurting someone."
"Then maybe you shouldn't be using them at all!"
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and jagged.
Ben stared at her, expression unreadable. "I need to be ready."
"Ready for what?" Gwen's voice cracked, anger giving way to something rawer. "You're not invincible, Ben. You're a kid. And just because that thing is strapped to your wrist doesn't make you a god!"
Silence.
Then, quietly—almost too quiet to hear—Ben asked:
"Have you forgotten?"
Gwen froze. "What?"
Ben's eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, the mask of indifference slipped.
"Five years ago," he said, voice steady but hollow, "Darkseid brought war to Earth. And all I could do was run. Hide in a tent with thousands of other people who couldn't fight back. I watched the sky turn into hell. I listened to people scream. I stood in front of my burning house and felt... nothing. Because I was powerless. Useless."
His bandaged hand clenched. "I don't ever want to feel that way again."
Gwen's anger drained away, replaced by something heavier.
"Ben..."
"Next time something like that happens—and it will happen, Gwen, you know it will—I'm not hiding. I'm not running." His jaw set, stubborn and final. "I'm going to be ready. And so should you."
He turned and walked toward the stairs, footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet.
Gwen stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the spot where he'd been, and slowly brought her right hand up to clutch her left arm.
She wanted to call after him. Wanted to say something—anything—that would make this easier.
But the words wouldn't come.
So she stood there, listening to his footsteps fade up the stairs, and exhaled a long, shaky breath.
"Damn it, Ben," she whispered to the empty room.
The TV continued its report in the background, talking about the creature, the chase, the unanswered questions.
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Author's Note:
For those wondering, I've removed the Omnitrix's info-dump feature from the original series. The constant Ben knowing how to use each alien instantly always felt stupid to me. In this version, Ben has to figure things out through trial, error, and consequences.
Thanks for reading.