Get a job as quickly as possible

You wake to the sound of Gotham: a low, constant hum of traffic, distant sirens, and the occasional shout slicing through the thin walls of your motel room. The bed creaks as you sit up, springs groaning under your weight like they’re ready to give up. The room’s a wreck: peeling wallpaper curling at the edges, a carpet that crunches with every step, and a window so grimy it turns the morning light into a dull gray smear. It’s nothing like Metropolis’s shiny towers, all glass and order, but that’s why it fits. This city’s broken, jagged, just like you.

You swing your legs over the bed’s edge, feet hitting the floor with a thud that echoes in the quiet. The Father-Box hums faintly in your chest, a steady pulse of power you can’t ignore. You stretch, feeling the room’s energy: kinetic vibrations from the walls shaking with the city’s pulse, thermal waves drifting from a weak heater wheezing in the corner. It’s all there, buzzing under your skin, waiting for you to grab it. You rummage through your duffel, pulling out a shirt that’s clean enough, the fabric rough as you drag it over your head. Your mind’s already moving, piecing together the day. You need a job, something to keep your hands busy and your head clear. Mechanics makes sense; cars are everywhere, even in this dump, and you’re good with your hands. Cash-in-hand, no questions, that’s the play. But that’s just the surface. The real game’s deeper: Gotham’s hiding secrets, and you’re here to rip them out of the shadows.

You step into the hallway, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and the sour tang of mildew. The motel’s a hole, but it’s cheap and keeps you off the grid, exactly what you need. You hit the street, and Gotham slams into you like a fist. The city’s alive, chaotic, a rhythm that matches the storm in your chest. Narrow streets stretch out, shadowed even now, lined with brick buildings worn down by time and neglect.

You pass a newsstand, headlines yelling about some mob hit, and spot a flyer for a garage pinned to a pole. It’s a lead. You rip it off, stuffing the address into your pocket, but you’re not rushing. First, you need to feel this place out, find its pulse, its weak spots, where the energy runs thickest. You weave through the morning crowd: workers in stained coats, a guy hawking papers, a kid kicking a can down the sidewalk. The air’s heavy, smog mixing with the sharp bite of wet asphalt, and it’s got a metallic edge that could be rust or blood. You don’t care which. It’s fuel.

The day stretches out as you wander, the city peeling back its layers. Gritty streets twist into hidden courtyards, brick walls tagged with faded graffiti, glimpses of something older and darker lurking beneath. You find the garage from the flyer tucked off a side street, its sign barely legible (Mikey's Auto) but the tools inside sharp and ready. The owner’s a grizzled guy with a limp, face like leather, sitting behind a counter reading some magazine, and he sizes you up quick."Didn't hear you pull up, so I'm guessin' you ain't here for a tune up?" He says, squinting up at you. "No sir." You say, standing before the counter. “You fix cars?” he grunts. You nod. “Cash, no paperwork,” he says, and that’s it. Honestly, you expected it to be harder, but you're not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re in. He leads you into the garage behind him and puts you to work immediately. It’s perfect: money to live, a place to tinker, and time to dig into Gotham’s underbelly.

You spend hours there, hands deep in an engine, grease smearing your knuckles. The work’s steady, keeps your mind from spinning too fast. You feel the kinetic hum of the tools, the thermal kick of a running motor, and it’s a small taste of control. The owner, Mike, doesn’t talk much, just limps around barking at the other guy in the shop. A wiry kid named James who in-between working on cars and ferrying tools and parts around the shop studiously pores over a small stack of books he has placed on one of the tool benches.

The sun’s dipping low when you clock out, a new $100 bill stuffed in your pocket, hands still smelling of oil. You’re beat, but restless, the Father-Box humming louder now, whispering about power, about taking more. You shove it down and head out, the city shifting into night. Streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows, and the air cools, sharp with the promise of rain. You pass a diner spilling grease smells, a bar with neon buzzing, a corner where a guy’s muttering about the end of days. Gotham’s alive in the dark, energy pulsing thicker now. A buzz on the edges of your senses and you can faintly feel the emotional energy from the tension hanging like fog.

You duck into another alley, narrower this time, the walls slick with damp. A scuffle up ahead catches your ear: low voices, a thud, the clink of metal. You creep closer, sticking to the shadows, and see two guys shaking down a third, a skinny dude in a coat too big for him. One’s got a bat, the other a knife, and they’re laughing, low and mean. The skinny guy’s begging, voice cracking, and you feel the fear rolling off the man in waves. You could walk away, let it play out, but the Father-Box hisses, and your blood’s up. You step out, boots loud on the wet pavement, and they turn fast. “Beat it,” the bat guy snarls, swinging it like he means it. You siphon the swing’s energy mid-air, slowing it to a tap, and he stumbles, thrown off. The knife guy lunges, blade flashing, but you pull his heat and momentum too, leaving him sluggish. You don’t amplify this time, just redirect: a quick shove with their own stolen **** sends them sprawling into the wall. They hit hard, groaning, and the skinny guy bolts without a word. You don’t chase. The punks scramble up, cursing, and limp off into the dark. You stand there, breathing slow, feeling the leftover buzz in your veins. It’s a taste of what you can do, but it’s sloppy, unrefined. Already that things insistent voice is badgering you in your thoughts. "Too slow. Need to draw the kinetic energy the moment you feel the movement start if you're actually going to be of any use." Its tone is sharp, like a jab to your ribs. “Shut up,” you mutter under your breath, eyes narrowing as you glare at nothing. “I handled it, didn’t I? Got the job done.” But deep down, you know it’s right. You felt the bat guy’s swing a split second late, and the knife guy’s lunge caught you off guard before you pulled his energy. Sloppy. You agree with the damn thing, but you’ll be damned if you let it lecture you like some know-it-all. You shake your head, shoving the voice down as you step back into the street, the city’s pulse thrumming under your boots. Gotham’s a beast, and you’re still learning its rhythm.

The next two weeks settle into a grind, your days split between Mikey’s Auto and the streets. The garage is your anchor, a place to keep your hands busy and your mind from spinning too wild. Mike, the owner, is all gruff barks and squinting eyes, his limp more pronounced when the air’s damp. He doesn’t ask questions, just tosses you tools and points to engines that need fixing. You like that about him. No small talk, no digging into your past. You’re just the new guy who knows his way around a carburetor, and that’s enough. You spend mornings elbow-deep in grease, wrenching bolts. It’s familiar, grounding, like the old days in Harlem before everything went to hell. But every vibration, every spark, is a chance to practice, to pull energy in small doses, testing your control without blowing out the shop’s lights.

James, the wiry kid who works alongside you, is another story. He’s all restless energy, bouncing between cars, fetching parts, and jabbering about anything that pops into his head. He’s maybe 19, scrawny with a mop of dark curls and glasses that slide down his nose. He’s got this stack of books on a tool bench, dog-eared paperbacks he flips through when Mike’s not looking. You catch titles like Quantum Mechanics for Dummies and some beat-up sci-fi novel, but he’s quick to shove them away when you pass by. He talks about Gotham like it’s his personal playground: the best food trucks, the worst cops, and endless stories about the Bat. “He’s real, man,” James insists one morning, leaning against a busted Chevy while you swap out spark plugs. “Saw him once, up on a gargoyle, just watching. Freaked me out.” You grunt, not looking up. "Yeah, I already know he's real. In my world he was a goddamn general against an invasion from aliens" You're tempted to say, but you keep that to yourself. James doesn’t push, just keeps rattling on about street races or some club in the Narrows.

You don’t talk much, but James doesn’t seem to mind. He’s chatty enough for both of you, and over the days, you start to loosen up. By the end of the first week, you’re swapping insults over lunch—greasy burgers from a cart outside the garage. “Man, you call that a torque job?” he teases, pointing at a bolt you left loose. You smirk, flicking a rag at him. “Better than your oil change, genius. You left a puddle bigger than the bay.” Mike overhears, snorting from his stool by the counter, and for a second, it feels normal, like you’re just a guy with a job, not a freak with an abomination living in your soul.

The Father-Box stays quiet most days, but when it pipes up, it’s always at the worst times. One afternoon, you’re under a hood, wrestling a stubborn manifold, when it starts again. "Inefficient. You waste energy on manual labor when you could siphon the machine’s vibrations to loosen it". You grit your teeth, muttering, “Shut up, you damn box. I’m working here.” But you can’t ignore it completely—it’s got a point. You focus, feeling the drill’s kinetic buzz nearby, and pull just enough to nudge the bolt loose. It works, but the wrench slips, clattering loud enough to make James glance over. “You good, Obi?” he calls. You nod, covering fast. “Yeah, just clumsy.” The cube hums, satisfied, and you curse it silently. You hate how it’s right sometimes, hate how it’s starting to feel like a partner instead of a parasite.

Your nights are for hunting. After the garage, you hit the streets, chasing whispers of Gotham’s hidden corners. You find a dive bar in the Narrows where the air’s thick with cigarette smoke and secrets. A guy with a scar over his eye mutters about a bookshop in Coventry that sells “weird stuff,” and you file it away. Another night, you slip into an abandoned warehouse by the docks, practicing with the energy around you—kinetic from creaking beams, thermal from the trapped heat of the day. You shape it into small pulses, cracking crates or bending metal, each try a little sharper. The Father-Box critiques every move. "Focus the output. You’re scattering energy like a child." You snap, “Shut up, I’m learning,” but you adjust, tightening the pulse until it snaps a board clean in half. It’s progress, and you grudgingly nod to the cube’s advice. It’s pushing you to be better, and you need that if you’re gonna face Darkseid one day.

By the second week, you and James are tight enough that he starts lingering when you’re cleaning up. One day, you’re sitting on a crate during a break, flipping through that physics primer you swiped from Metropolis. It’s dense, full of equations that make your head swim, but you’re stubborn, underlining bits about energy transfer that might explain what you do. Next to it, you’ve got Theosophy: A Study on the Subtle Body, a weird book you grabbed from a pawn shop after hearing it mentioned in that dive bar. It’s all mystical talk about energies and planes, stuff that sounds like the Father-Box’s ramblings. You’re not sure it’s useful, but it’s something to chew on.

James notices, wiping his hands on a rag as he leans over. “Yo, Obi, what’s with the heavy reading? Physics and this?” He picks up the theosophy book, squinting at the cover like it’s written in another language. His glasses slip, and he pushes them up, curious but smirking. “You going for a PhD or just bored?”

You tense, closing the physics book fast. “Just curious, man. Found ‘em cheap, figured I’d learn something.” It’s a weak lie, and you know it. Your voice is too sharp, your shoulders too stiff, and James raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “Curious, huh? Physics I get, maybe, but this?” He taps the theosophy book. “This ain’t exactly shop talk. You into, like, spiritual stuff?”

You **** a laugh, leaning back to play it cool. “Nah, just messing around. Guy at a bar said it was wild, so I grabbed it.” Your eyes flick away, and you know it’s obvious you’re dodging. James doesn’t push, though, just shrugs and sets the book down. “Fair enough. But if you’re trying to crack that physics stuff, I could help. I’m not Einstein, but I’ve read worse.” He grins, tapping his own stack of books on the bench.

You hesitate. Letting someone in’s risky, but James seems straight, and you’re drowning in those equations. “Yeah, maybe,” you say, noncommittal. “If you got time.” He does. That evening, after Mike locks up, James sticks around, pulling up a stool and breaking down vectors and energy conservation like it’s a car engine. He’s patient, sketching diagrams on a scrap of paper, and you start to get it—how energy flows, how it can be redirected. It clicks with what you feel when you siphon, and for the first time, you see a piece of what the Father-Box keeps yammering about. "See? Knowledge sharpens control", it hums, and you mutter, “Shut up, but yeah, I get it.” James glances up, confused. “What?” You cover quick. “Nothing, just thinking out loud.”

Over the next few days, James becomes your unofficial tutor. He’s got a knack for making the complex simple, and you’re soaking it up, even if you don’t admit it. You keep the theosophy book hidden, but he catches you with it again one morning, flipping through it while a car’s up on the lift. “Still on that weird stuff?” he asks, half-teasing. You shrug, tossing out another lie. “Just seeing if it’s got anything useful. Mostly nonsense.” He laughs, but there’s a glint in his eye, like he’s curious but knows better than to dig. You’re glad—he’s cool, but you ain’t ready to spill about the cube or the hell you’ve been through.

Your nights keep you busy. You chase more leads, hitting a bookshop in Coventry that’s more than it seems. The owner, an old woman with eyes like knives, sells you a dusty tome on “esoteric energies” for too much cash, but it’s got ideas that line up with the cube’s whispers. You train harder, finding empty lots or rooftops to push your limits, siphoning energy from storms or speeding cars, shaping it into shields or blasts. The Father-Box is relentless, critiquing every slip. "Your focus wavers. You must be precise." You snap, “Shut your trap, I’m trying,” but you tighten your grip, feeling the energy sharpen. It’s right, and you hate it, but you’re getting better—faster, stronger, ready for what’s coming.

One afternoon, a month into your Gotham grind, Mike calls it early. “Generator’s acting up,” he grumbles, kicking a toolbox. “Close up, get out.” You don’t argue; a short day’s a gift. You grab your duffel, the physics primer and theosophy book tucked inside, and head out, the air crisp with the threat of rain. Coventry’s just a few blocks away, a middle-class district where the streets are cleaner, the buildings less scarred. It’s not Metropolis’s polish, but it’s got a steady hum: families, shops, a slice of normal you don’t quite fit into. You find a cafe on the corner, a cozy spot called The Daily Grind, with fogged windows and the warm smell of coffee and fresh bread spilling out. The bell jangles as you step in, and the barista, a woman with a bored smile, takes your order. “Latte,” you say, sliding over a crumpled bill. She hands you the cup, steam curling up, and you take it to a table by the window, the glass streaked with raindrops starting to fall.

You sit, the latte’s heat warming your hands, and watch Coventry hum outside: people hurrying under umbrellas, cars splashing through puddles, the city’s pulse steady but softer here. The Father-Box is quiet for once, just a faint hum, and you let yourself relax, sipping slow. Gotham’s shaping you, piece by piece—Mike’s garage, James’s lessons, the streets’ secrets. You’re not ready for Darkseid yet, but you’re closer, building toward the day you’ll burn his world down. For now, you’re just Obi, a guy with a coffee, a plan, and a power you’re learning to own.

In that moment outside the cafe you spot it.