The flight from Cleveland to Gotham was a blur of wind and unspoken tension. After the meeting with Ralph, Jake and Lao Shi didn't waste a second. They stopped briefly at a roadside diner on the outskirts of Cleveland, shoveling down greasy burgers and fries—fuel for the long night ahead—before taking to the skies. According to the map, Gotham was roughly 500 miles away. For a Dragon and his mentor, this should have been a straightforward one-hour flight.
"Keep your wings tight, Jake!" Lao Shi shouted over the whistling wind as they soared through the clouds. "We need to maintain a steady velocity if we want to stay on schedule!"
"I'm trying!" Jake yelled back, his scales shimmering under the moonlight. "But the air currents over the Rust Belt are all over the place!"
Unfortunately, due to some unconventional reasons—namely a localized magical storm front and a brief, confusing encounter with a flock of migrating harpies—they reached the city in one hour and twenty-three minutes. It wasn't disastrously late, just enough to put Lao Shi in a sour mood.
They landed carefully in a narrow, trash-strewn alleyway on the edge of the Diamond District. The air in Gotham was different; it felt heavy, thick with the scent of smog, old brick, and something metallic that Jake couldn't quite name. They quickly shifted into their human forms, swapped their travel-worn gear for nondescript civilian clothes, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Jake had always hated Gotham City. To him, it felt like a place where the sun had given up. The crime rate was legendary, the weather was perpetually damp and grey, and the architecture looked like it had been designed by someone having a nightmare about the 1930s. But worse than the gloom were the villains.
"Seriously, G," Jake muttered, stepping over a puddle of questionable liquid. "Every villain here is an absolute psycho. Clowns, penguins, ventriloquist dummies… why hasn't the government just nuked this place and started over?"
"Because, Jake, even in the darkest corners, there are people worth saving," Lao Shi replied, though his eyes drifted toward a flickering neon sign with a wary expression. "But tonight, we are not here to save. We are here to retrieve."
They checked into the Sleep-Well Inn, a cheap hotel that was anything but well-maintained. The wallpaper was peeling, and the carpet had stains that looked like they dated back to the Prohibition era. Once the door was locked, Jake collapsed onto the lumpy mattress and pulled out his phone.
He called his mother first, keeping his voice light as he assured her they were safe and also explained that Fu Dog was alright and they would arrive home tomorrow.
After hanging up, Jake took a quick, lukewarm shower to wash off the grime of the flight. By the time he emerged, Lao Shi had finished a series of hushed phone calls.
"The supplies are coming," Lao Shi announced.
A few hours later, the room's window creaked open. Two tiny, iridescent pixies fluttered in, lugging glass vials filled with shimmering, viscous liquids. They were followed shortly by a heavy thud at the door. Jake opened it to find Stan, the sewer Cyclops, filling the entire doorway. Stan was carrying two massive, lumpy burlap bags over his shoulders.
"Stan! Good to see you, man!" Jake said, stepping forward for a hug. The moment he made contact, he immediately gagged. The smell was like a combination of rotting fish, old gym socks, and swamp gas. "Whew! Stan… buddy… that is a strong choice of cologne."
Stan looked down sheepishly, his single large eye blinking. "Sorry, Jake. The sewers are extra ripe this time of year. Also, I wanted to say… I'm real sorry about what happened with Fu Dog. I should've been there for him."
"Don't sweat it, Stan," Jake said, recovering his breath. "We're just glad you're here."
Stan grunted and swung the bags onto the floor. "Lao Shi said you needed these. Delivered as requested."
As the bags slumped open, Jake's eyes went wide. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over the coffee table. Inside the bags were two men—unconscious, but breathing.
"Whoa, whoa! Grandpa! Are those… people?" Jake hissed.
"Indeed," Lao Shi said calmly, kneeling beside the bags. "We are going to concoct two shapeshifting potions. To do that, we need biological templates. These two were carefully selected."
Stan also produced a reinforced, lead-lined magical container. "For the Orb of Malphorus," the Cyclops rumbled. "Guaranteed to keep the radiation and magical feedback contained so it doesn't blow up the block if things get… hairy."
Lao Shi thanked the pixies, paying them with a small handful of gold coins, and they vanished back into the night. Then, using Fu Dog's old potion book for reference, the real work began.
"Why these two specifically?" Jake asked, watching Lao Shi carefully pluck a hair from one of the unconscious men.
"They are Morty Sanders and Joyce Rickleton," Lao Shi explained, his hands steady as he mixed the pixie dust into a base of murky swamp water provided by Stan. "They are official waiters for the Gotham Grand Royal Hotel's elite auction event tonight. They have the clearance, the uniforms, and the invisibility that comes with being service staff."
The brewing process was stomach-churning. Jake watched in horrified fascination as Lao Shi added samples of hair, a drop of blood, and a bit of saliva from the two victims into the bubbling concoction.
"Is the spit really necessary?" Jake groaned.
"Magic requires a complete essence, Jake," Lao Shi chided. "Drink. Quickly."
The potion smelled like a wet dog that had rolled in garbage. Jake squeezed his eyes shut and downed it in one go. To his surprise, it didn't taste as bad as it smelled—it was oddly sweet, like overripe melon.
Then, the change hit. It felt like his bones were turning into warm wax. He grew several inches, his jawline shifted, and his hair turned a sandy blonde. Ten minutes later, Jake looked into the mirror and saw a tall, slightly gangly man with a forgettable face.
"Meet Morty Sanders," Jake whispered, his voice now an octave higher.
Lao Shi had transformed as well. Gone was the elderly Chinese master; in his place stood a stout, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a permanent scowl.
"And I am Joyce Rickleton," Lao Shi said, adjusting a pair of spectacles. "We have our roles. Now, we have a job to do."
They left the hotel and headed toward the Diamond District. The Gotham Grand Royal Hotel loomed over the street like a gilded fortress. It was a masterpiece of Art Deco design, dripping with wealth and guarded by men in suits who looked like they enjoyed breaking bones.
They spent an hour surveying the exterior. They identified the service entrance, the security camera blind spots, and the back alley where Stan would be waiting with the getaway vehicle.
"Everything is in place," Lao Shi whispered as they approached the employee entrance, smoothing down their borrowed waiter uniforms. "Stay calm, stay invisible, and remember: we are here for the Orb. Nothing else."
Jake nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Got it. Morty Sanders is on the clock."
With a deep breath, the duo stepped through the doors and into the lion's den.