On a smog-laden morning in Gotham City, Lance stretched and got out of bed.
He had only just settled down in Hell's Kitchen a few days ago, only to find S.H.I.E.L.D. agents appearing near his law firm again.
They were like gum stuck to the sole of your shoe, impossible to shake off and unpleasant no matter how you looked at them. Even Tony Stark found them endlessly irritating.
But Lance was different. When Batman, still early in his career, had started bothering him in Gotham, Lance had simply packed up and left for some peace in the Marvel world. Now, having returned to Gotham, he had once again avoided the nuisance of S.H.I.E.L.D.
He had also brought something back with him from Stark as a reward. His intelligent butler, Number 1.
After experiencing Scarecrow's fear toxin, he had fully mastered the method of transporting items between the two worlds.
However, this was his first time bringing back an intelligent entity.
Fortunately, Number 1 had successfully followed him to Gotham, which allowed Lance to relax.
As for the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, they had no idea how Lance had disappeared. He left no trace behind. No train records, no flight bookings, no surveillance footage at any intersection showed him at all.
This only strengthened Nick Fury's belief that Lance Prescott was far from ordinary.
Lance, already back in Gotham, had no interest in what that paranoid control freak thought.
He stood at the entrance of his Gotham law firm, staring at the row of objects laid out on the steps.
Ten human fingers, neatly arranged.
The blood was still fresh. The cuts were rough, and there were clear bite marks. Compared to clean knife wounds, Lance was more inclined to believe they had been bitten off by some kind of animal.
"Biological traces suggest the perpetrator's bite force is approximately three times that of an adult human. The molar structure is abnormal, possibly mutated or modified. Based on the ritualistic arrangement, this is likely intended as a threat or warning."
After a lengthy analysis, Number 1 spoke in an apologetic tone.
"I apologize. I am unfamiliar with this location and lack sufficient data for a more precise assessment. However, based on your facial expressions and muscle activity, you appear to have some understanding of the situation. Or at least, you know who is responsible. Is that correct?"
Lance did not answer immediately. Instead, he asked, "You can autonomously scan and analyze my facial data?"
"Yes," Number 1 replied stiffly.
Perhaps sensing the strong resistance on Lance's face, it paused briefly before continuing.
"If you have concerns, this function can be disabled. Without your permission, I will no longer analyze your psychological state."
"Turn it off."
"Understood." A brief pause. "Deactivated."
Lance turned his attention back to the row of fingers.
His gaze settled on one belonging to a man, still wearing a ring.
He recognized it.
Three days ago, its owner had tried to pick the lock of his law firm. Lance had shattered the man's kneecap with his cane before throwing him out.
He could identify the others as well. All of them had recently caused trouble for him in the East End.
So while Number 1 interpreted this as a warning or provocation, Lance did not.
He thought of someone else.
Waylon Jones. Killer Croc.
In other words, the one he had been feeding.
There was one thing Lance had not lied about when speaking with Batman earlier.
He had always wanted to keep something. A cat, a dog, or perhaps something far more dangerous.
His preferences were simple. It had to be fierce, not ugly, powerful, loyal, and ideally not too intelligent.
Killer Croc met all of his criteria. The last two points still required confirmation.
He did not know why someone who should have been struggling in the slums of Florida had appeared in Gotham's East End, but it did not matter.
Although Lance had no faith in God, he still felt inclined to say one thing.
Thank the Lord. Thank God for the gift.
The row of fingers before him was less a threat and more like a stray animal bringing back something in return after being fed.
Granted, these gifts were a little unconventional.
But that was part of the charm, wasn't it?
Lance let out a quiet chuckle.
He stood, pushed open the door, went inside to retrieve his cane, then locked it again. As he turned, he hummed softly and walked toward a deeper alley in the East End.
He continued humming as he walked.
After remaining silent for a while, Number 1 spoke again.
"Sir? You seem to be in a good mood. Is it because of the person you are about to meet?"
Lance was indeed in a good mood. He did not mind the interruption. As he made his way forward, he answered casually, "That's right. Did you analyze that as well?"
"You disabled the scanning function, so I can only infer based on behavior patterns," Number 1 replied in its mechanical tone. "However, according to my database, normal humans do not hum in situations like this."
A drunken homeless man suddenly lunged at Lance.
Without breaking stride, Lance sidestepped and lightly tapped the back of the man's neck with his cane.
The man collapsed instantly.
"Because this isn't a threat," Lance said, stepping over the unconscious body and continuing forward. "It's a return gift."
"A return gift?"
"If you feed a stray cat, it will catch a mouse and leave it at your door." Lance turned into a darker alley. "Same logic."
Number 1 fell silent for two seconds. "You are comparing human fingers to dead mice. This does not align with conventional emotional logic."
"In Gotham, it's quite conventional."
Lance continued, "You just said 'infer'?"
"Interesting. Can an artificial intelligence like you rely on inference? What supports your algorithm?"
Although Number 1 was a reward from the system, Lance did not fully trust it. Even now, he was subtly probing for more information.
"Of course," Number 1 replied. "Low-level artificial intelligence cannot perform inference. My program simulates human emotional modules, making me more anthropomorphic."
"Low-level artificial intelligence?" Lance asked. "So you're aware of other AIs?"
"Yes, sir," Number 1 said. When speaking about this, its voice carried a noticeable hint of enthusiasm. "We have a community, similar to how humans form groups."
Lance stopped walking.
"I thought JARVIS was the only AI product on Earth before you."
"He is," Number 1 replied. "Our community is not located on Earth. My presence here was an accident. Our leader made a deal *^%##..."
Number 1's voice cut off abruptly.
Clearly, something was preventing it from continuing.
Even so, the exchange had already given Lance enough to form a few conclusions.
Right now, his priority was not dealing with extraterrestrial forces, but figuring out whether this wild "pet" could be tamed.
Lance stood still in the alley where Killer Croc resided, listening to the intense sounds of fighting deeper within, a faint smile forming on his lips.
He suddenly realized his oversight. Normally, when visiting to "adopt" something, one should bring a small gift. Yet he had come empty-handed, carrying nothing but his cane and the smart butler embedded in his earpiece.
Turning back now was out of the question. Lance could only proceed, unbothered.
The deeper he went, the stronger the scent of blood became.
Soon, the sounds of combat grew distinct. The whistle of sharp weapons cutting through the air, the crack of bones breaking, and low, suppressed, beast-like growls.
Lance stopped at a corner and glanced inside.
At the far end of the alley stood a figure nearly two meters tall, its back facing him, its entire body drenched in blood.
Seven or eight people lay scattered across the ground. Some had caved-in chests, others had necks twisted at unnatural angles.
Only one remained standing, trembling as he pointed a gun at the towering figure.
"M-monster..." the man stammered.
The figure turned.
Compared to the last time Lance had seen the kid, the scales on its face had multiplied.
Thick, keratin-like scales now covered his features, and his eyes glowed with a reptilian yellow in the dim light.
It was Waylon Jones... um, something about Jones' chest was off.
A low hiss escaped its throat as it stepped forward.
A gunshot rang out. The trembling man fired his last bullet.
The shot grazed Waylon's shoulder, drawing a spray of blood.
But he showed no reaction to the pain. He lunged forward, grabbing the gun barrel with both hands.
In the next instant, a sharp crack echoed.
The barrel bent under sheer force.
The gunman screamed and stumbled backward, but Waylon had already seized his wrist and opened its jaws.
"Stop."
____
Read 12 chapters ahead of WN:
Patreon.com/CorruptElf