The fake ID C made for me said I was born in Nebraska.
Not exactly where Arthur Morgan had been born in the games, but close enough I reckoned.
With papers in hand, I moved in to the studio apartment I had rente with the money C had given me for my good job as an extra; with exactly three possessions to my name: a duffel bag of charity clothing, the ten grand in the briefcase, and a phone I had bought with no SIM card yet.
The room itself was as bare as my old bunk at the shelter. But it was mine.
There was no furniture, unless you counted the upturned bucket I found in the stairwell, which I did. I sat on it, staring at the wall and listening to the city noise.
I’d had completed step one of… I don’t know, I honestly wasn’t sure what to do next.
My new body worked, mostly, though it was starting to feel more like a rental every day. I was still bleeding from two fingers on my left hand—clean slice, courtesy of some broken glass in the alley. But it didn’t hurt, at all, and that was just one of the many things I had noticed these past few days.
My fingernails hadn’t grown a millimeter. My hair was the same length it had been weeks ago. I hadn’t felt the bone-deep ache of exhaustion since I woke up in that alley. I felt by every sense of the word, the same.
As for the wound, well… The skin underneath was already knitting itself together, faster than I remembered my body ever healing before.
I spent my first night in the studio staring at the ceiling, counting cracks. Tried to remember my old life, but the memories were smudged, as if someone had deleted anything that was purely me. Instead, I listened to the sirens, the gunshots, and the thuds and shouts of domestic disputes, a melody of sounds that only faded after 3AM.
By morning, I was ready to leave.
I slipped down the fire escape, walked two blocks, and bought the cheapest coffee I could find in the corner store. My taste buds were off—everything tasted faintly of pennies—and the coffee did nothing for me. But I liked the way it burned my tongue.
When I got back, the landlord was lurking by the mailboxes, picking at a scratch ticket. He gave me a look. “You settling in okay?” he asked, like he actually cared.
“Yeah. Quiet neighbors.”
He laughed at my joke, then asked if I wanted to buy a TV. He was a man of many ventures.
I said I’d think about it. I wasn’t sure buying a TV right now was the best decision, even if I wanted to.
Back in the studio, I stared out the window for a long time.
No one was watching the building, not that I could see. Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that I was a rat in a maze, and someone, somewhere, was waiting for me to find the cheese.
It was mid-afternoon when the doorbell buzzed.
I froze, coffee halfway to my lips.
No one knew I lived here, not unless they’d followed me. The landlord? Possible. C? More likely. Police? Unlikely—police in this part of Gotham preferred to knock down doors, not buzz like civilized people.
I set the mug down and walked barefoot to the door. Peered through the peephole, expecting a gun barrel or maybe a fist with “FUKK” tattooed across the knuckles.
Instead, it was C, carrying a paper bag and a grin that made me feel like I was going to regret ever meeting him.
“Open up, alligator!” he called, wiggling his fingers at the peephole.
I did.
C pushed inside before I’d even stepped back. He was carrying a bottle of cheap champagne.
“You’re supposed to chill it first, but I figured we’re not picky,” he said, waggling the bottle.
“I don’t drink.”
That was a lie, but I wasn’t going to drink anything he gave me.
“Course you don’t. That’s what makes this funny.” He stepped over the threshold, looking around the studio like he was evaluating a new car. “Wow. You really do live like you’re in witness protection.”
I looked past him into the hallway. Empty.
“You alone?”
“Always,” he said, sounding wounded. “You want glasses, or should we drink from the bottle like animals?”
I shrugged.
C tore the foil, popped the cork, and took a long swig before handing it to me. “Let it never be said I don’t respect a man’s privacy,” he said, flopping down on the upturned bucket. “Nice place. Reminds me of my first apartment, only with more rats.”
I didn’t touch the bottle. “You want something?”
This didn’t feel like a social visit.
“Rude,” C looked around, tapping his foot. “What, no TV? No books? No porn? What do you do for fun?”
I shrugged again. “I got the apartment like… yesterday.”
He chuckled. “You’re a weird guy, Arthur. I mean that as a compliment.”
I felt my left eye twitch, a faint glow of purple behind the iris.
I tried not to think about it.
C took another drink, then smacked his lips. “All right. Down to business.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a manila envelope. “You’re wondering why I’m here. Simple: Motto Motto likes you, and by that I mean The Penguin likes you. And that my friend, almost never happens.”
The Penguin? Our entire exchange had lasted thirty seconds, most of it silence. I couldn’t remember saying anything that would leave an impression.
I took the envelope, feeling the weight of something solid inside. “He didn’t say much.”
“He doesn’t talk too much, unless you are the Bat,” said C. “Otherwise Penguin’s not a talker. He’s a ‘feed you to the alligators’ kind of guy, unless he really likes you.”
I opened the envelope. Inside was a slip of paper with an address on it, and a folded card that looked like an invitation. I flipped it over. “What’s this?”
I never agreed to work for him after the first delivery.
“Your next job. Don’t worry, it’s nothing weird.” He laughed, then leaned forward, his voice dropping. “You ever work for the criminally insane before?”
I shook my head.
“Well, you’re about to. Congratulations, kiddo.”
I closed the envelope, set it on the bucket between us. “We agreed it was one job, and one job only.”
C smiled wider. “Aww…. You think you have a choice. Everyone has a choice, sure, but sometimes you really don’t.”
So that’s the angle he’s working.
“Fine.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Besides I will be paying you handsomely for your services my friend.”
I made a promise to myself, right then, that C would regret this.
C stood, dusted off his hands, and gave the bottle a little bow. “See you at the address. Wear something you can run in.”
He left without saying goodbye, the door swinging shut behind him.
I sat on the bucket, staring at the manila envelope. Outside, the city sounded exactly the same as before, but the apartment felt smaller, the walls closer.
I waited for the purple tingling in my eyes to fade.
Eventually, it did.
The address in the envelope led to a strip mall in East End. One of those nowhere places, sandwiched between a payday loan and a vape shop.
I’d dressed as instructed in comfortable yet stylish clothe that if needed would allow me to run. C was already there, at the corner table, sipping tea from a paper cup and reading the funnies.
He saw me coming and grinned, folding the paper with a snap. “There he is! Gotham’s own Lazarus.” He waved me over, not caring who might be watching.
I slid into the opposite chair. He poured some of his tea into a second cup, pushed it at me. “Take a load off, cowboy. You look like you’re expecting a firing squad.”
“My apologies if I don’t look happy with this indentured servitude,” I said. “You want to get to the point?”
He looked hurt, but only for a second. “Fine, fine. You want the carrot, or the stick first?”
“Get to the point.”
“See, that’s why I like you. No preamble.” He leaned in, voice low but bright. “Oswald’s a man of appetites. Usually, messengers don’t survive their first gig with him. But not only you did, but you managed to get the man himself to ask for you to be his personal courier with all my services.”
“I simply did as I was told, nothing else,”
He shrugged. “Point is, he liked you. Said you were ‘useful.’”
I nodded, processing. “Now I finally get it, you sent me in there to see if I’d get out alive?”
“I mean… if you want to put it in the least fun possible way, yes.” C laced his fingers together, watching my reaction. “But you did. And you impressed him. And me.”
I sipped the tea. “You have a strange hiring process.”
He shrugged again. “You ever recruit for my line of work? Most people fold after the first death threat. You, though? You didn’t even flinch. That’s rare.”
“Maybe it was the desperation for my papers.”
He waggled a finger. “No, no. Plenty of desperate people in Gotham, but most of them are scared of dying. You’re not. That’s what makes you different.”
Everyone is afraid of death. But since I woke up here, the fear felt distant. Muted. Like watching a character in a video game take damage. I knew the consequences were real, but some fundamental part of me refused to believe they would stick.
“You said you wanted to work for you,” I said. “What’s the pitch?”
C grinned again. “Simple. I run logistics for a lot of moving parts. Smuggling, moving cash, sometimes people. And sometimes, those clients are… eccentric.”
“Supervillains.”
He shuddered with theatrical distaste. “Let’s not use that word. Let’s say ‘costumed investors.’ People with needs. Like the Kardashians but less evil,” He splayed his hands, palms up. “Most runners can’t deal with the dramatic super diva types. You can.”
“And I can’t say no, right?”
He smiled. “Exactly~ You already cashed the first check. You got the new name. You’re on the books, Arthur. Saying no now is like bailing out of an airplane at cruising altitude.”
I looked away. That was a threat if I ever heard one.
“What happens if I screw up?” I asked. “The Penguin might have been a lucky shot, you know?”
He shrugged. “Worst case? You don’t make it to the second job. Best case, you retire with a pension.”
“I don’t believe in pensions,” I said, especially not in this line of work.
He laughed. “Good. That means you’ll work harder.” He leaned forward again. “Look, you’re not a villain, Arthur, I get that. You’re a survivor. And that’s exactly what I need.”
I finished the tea. “You got a job right now?”
He nodded. “Tomorrow night. Meet me here.”
Next night, C met me outside the strip mall. This time, he had a car—a nondescript sedan that looked like it came off a police auction lot, which it probably did.
He tossed me the keys.
“You’re driving,” he said. “I prefer to be chauffeured.”
Rolling my eyes, I adjusted the mirror and caught him watching me, hands steepled.
“So,” I said. “What’s the real story? Why not just use your usual crew?”
He leaned back. “You ever deliver a cake to a kid’s birthday party, Arthur?”
I snorted. “No.”
“Imagine the cake is made of dynamite, and the kid is armed.” He grinned. “That’s what running jobs for the high hats is like. Ninety percent of what I do is logistics—moving stuff from point A to point B. But when the client is, say, Oswald, or Mr. Dent, things get interesting.”
“Because they’re lunatics.”
“Because they’re divas.” C held up a finger. “See, with regular crime, everyone has a price. You can negotiate, you can bluff. But the costume crowd?” He shook his head. “They want to make a statement. They want drama. They want you to remember their name even after they kill you.”
“And you think I’m good with drama,” I said.
C snapped his fingers, delighted. “Bingo.” He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a folder, and set it on my lap. “Here’s your second gig. Courier run. In and out.”
I flipped through it. Photos, a street map, a coded address. Two Faces, Harvey Dent, he’s my next gig.
“And if the recipient doesn’t like the package?”
C smiled, all teeth. “They ordered it, so they better like it.”
I closed the folder. “Fine, but no Joker... I refuse to deal with that guy.”
He winced, like the word itself gave him a migraine. “You think I want to deal with the Joker? Nobody does. Everyone steers clear of the clown.”
I started the car, listening to the engine rattle itself awake.
“You’re going to be great at this, Arthur. Just keep your head on, and don’t let them smell the fear.”
I shot him a look. “I thought you hired me because I don’t feel fear.”
He grinned. “You do, but your poker face is terrifying. Which reminds me, remember me to take you out to play poker, we might make more on that than this with that blank face of yours.”
We drove in silence for a few blocks.