An Eventful Withdrawal

You’re stuck in line at First National Bank in Metropolis, waiting to cash your janitor check. The place is all polish and shine—marble floors reflecting the fluorescent lights, high ceilings with fancy chandeliers that look like they cost more than you’ll ever see legit. The air’s cool from the AC, but it’s got that stuffy edge, like the whole building’s trying too hard to be something it ain’t. The line’s dragging—ten, maybe twelve people ahead of you: suits tapping on phones, a mom wrangling a fidgety kid, an old guy with a cane who keeps muttering about the wait. The tellers behind the counter move like they’re half-asleep, counting bills slower than molasses. You’re over it, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, glancing at the clock on the wall. Its tick is loud, cutting through the low hum of chatter and the occasional cough. You just want your money and out.

Then it happens—a bang like thunder rips through the air, loud enough to make your ears ring. The front doors explode inward, glass spraying across the marble like jagged rain. People scream, ducking low, but you freeze for a split second, instincts kicking in. It ain’t one of those portals from back home—no swirling void, no cosmic bullshit—just good old explosives, the kind punks use when they think they’re tough. Five thugs charge in, and you clock them instantly: Intergang, juiced up with alien tech. You’ve seen that crap before, felt it in your bones—Apokoliptian toys, straight from the hellhole you crawled out of. They’re decked in black armor, red lines glowing like veins across their chests and arms, helmets with dark visors hiding their faces. Their rifles hum with energy, a low buzz that sets your teeth on edge. The leader’s bald, a nasty scar slicing down his face from brow to jaw—Scarface, you figure, because it fits. He’s barking orders, voice rough as gravel. “Everybody down! Now!” he yells, swinging his rifle toward the tellers. The room erupts—screams, sobs, the kid crying for his mom—but you? You don’t move.

The air’s alive now, buzzing with energy you can feel under your skin. There’s kinetic **** still rippling from the blast, sharp and jagged, maybe a couple thousand joules bouncing around. Heat rolls off their guns, thermal waves you can practically taste, bitter and electric. And then there’s something uglier, deeper—a sick, twisting vibe that drags you back to that **** pit on Apokolips, where they broke you and remade you. Your chest tightens, the cube buried there—the Father-Box—hissing in your head like a snake. Take it. Use it. A grin tugs at your lips. These fools have no idea who they’re dealing with.

Scarface spots you standing there, hands still in your pockets, and his scarred face twists. “You deaf, punk?” he snarls, leveling his rifle at your chest. The tellers flinch, one of them—a skinny guy with glasses—lets out a whimper. The mom pulls her kid closer, whispering for him to hush. Someone behind you mutters, “Is he crazy?” under their breath. You lock eyes with Scarface, unflinching. “Yo, I just want my cash,” you say, voice steady, cold as the marble under your feet. He growls, low and mean, and swings the rifle at your head like a bat. You feel it coming—the kinetic energy in his swing, maybe 500 joules, a quick burst of ****. It’s nothing to you. You reach out with your mind, siphon it mid-air, pulling it into you like a drag off a cigarette. His arm slows, the rifle tapping your shoulder like a kid’s toy, and his eyes go wide, confusion flashing behind that visor. You don’t wait—crank that energy up, amplify it to 10,000 joules in your fist, and swing back. It’s like a cannon shot. Scarface flies, crashing through a marble pillar with a crack that echoes like a gunshot. Dust plumes, the pillar shatters into chunks, and he hits the ground hard, body crumpling, blood trickling from his busted lip. Out cold.

The other four snap out of it, rifles swinging your way. Red energy bolts scream through the air, each one packing enough heat to fry a man—100 kJ, maybe more, thermal and electromagnetic pulses ripping toward you. The civilians scream again, ducking lower, the kid’s cries turning to hiccups. You don’t flinch. You feel the bolts’ heat, their electric kick, and you pull it all in, siphoning the energy like water down a drain. The shots slow mid-flight, fizzling into harmless sparks that wink out before they reach you. It’s sharp on your tongue, metallic, like biting a live wire. The Father-Box cackles in your head, urging you to finish them, and you’re already moving. You yank kinetic energy from the air—molecules vibrating, heat waves shimmering off the broken pillar, a million joules or more. You shape it, pack it tight, and let it loose in a shockwave. The **** rolls out like a tidal wave, slamming the thugs into the walls. Their armor cracks—sharp snaps like breaking ice—and they hit the ground groaning, blood seeping from splits in their suits, visors shattered.

One of them’s got more fight—or maybe just less brains. He staggers up, dragging a cannon from his back, bigger than the rifles, glowing with an energy that twists your gut. It’s that same hellish power from back then, the stuff that burned through you when they strapped you down and tore you apart. You don’t know its name—don’t need to—just know it’s chaos, wild and wrong, like a storm trapped in a bottle. He fires, and the beam tears through the air, a shrieking wall of light that could’ve smoked the whole bank. You react fast, siphoning it as it comes, feeling it sear your mind like a hot blade. It’s too much, too raw, but you grit your teeth, wrestling it under control. You fling it upward, redirecting the blast, and it punches through the roof with a deafening roar. The ceiling explodes outward, debris raining down—concrete slabs, twisted rebar, clouds of dust—but you throw up a kinetic shield, catching it all. The energy hums around you, a shimmering dome vibrating through your bones, keeping the normies below safe. They’re staring now, huddled on the floor, eyes wide like you’re some kind of savior. You ain’t. You don’t care enough to be.

The last thug drops his cannon, hands shaking, and bolts for the door, tripping over glass on his way out. You let him go—small fry ain’t worth the sweat. The bank’s a warzone: shattered windows, cracked walls, **** punks sprawled like broken dolls. You stroll to the counter, stepping over Scarface’s limp form, and snatch your cash from the teller’s trembling hands. Then you spot their duffel bags—black canvas, stuffed with bills. You sling one over your shoulder. Finder’s fee, you tell yourself. That cannon energy lingers in your veins, a sick buzz that won’t shake loose, dragging up memories of Darkseid’s stink, his shadow over everything you’ve lost. You shove it down and slip out the back, blending into the chaos as cop sirens wail closer, lights flashing red and blue through the haze. Metropolis is too clean, too full of capes who’d sniff you out eventually. You ain’t a hero, and you don’t vibe with tights. Time to bounce.

That night, you’re holed up in your Metropolis dump—a one-room apartment with walls so thin you can hear the neighbors arguing, peeling wallpaper curling like dead skin, and a mattress on the floor that smells faintly of mildew. Roaches skitter across the linoleum, bold as hell, like they own the place. You pack your duffel: a couple shirts, some jeans, the cash from the bank—yours and the extra you lifted—and a library book on physics you swiped a month back. It’s dense, full of equations you don’t get, but it’s got stuff about energy, motion, maybe something to help you figure out what you can do. You glance around the room, the dim light from a flickering bulb casting shadows on the cracked ceiling. Metropolis don’t fit you—too bright, too orderly, all glass towers and nosy do-gooders. You need shadows, a place to disappear, to get a grip on the power humming in your chest without every cape and cop clocking your moves. Gotham’s calling—dirty, wild, a city full of energy to grab and secrets to dig up. You’ve heard the talk: crime, corruption, a vigilante in a bat suit running the night.

You sling the duffel over your shoulder and lock the door behind you, not that it matters—ain’t nothing worth stealing in there. The streets outside are alive, even at night: neon signs buzzing, clean sidewalks reflecting headlights, people walking like the world’s safe. You pull your hoodie up, head down, and weave through the crowd to the bus station. The ticket to Gotham’s cheap, a few bucks for a one-way ride, and the bus is a rusted heap waiting at the curb. Inside, it’s half-empty—worn seats patched with duct tape, a faint smell of diesel and sweat hanging in the air. A few passengers slump in their spots: a guy in a trench coat staring out the window, a woman with a duffel like yours, eyes darting like she’s running from something. You drop into a seat near the back, by the window, and the bus lurches forward, pulling away from the station. Metropolis’s lights fade behind you, towers shrinking into the dark, replaced by the open road stretching out like a black ribbon. The engine’s rumble vibrates through the seat, the windows rattling with every bump, and it’s the first time all day you feel like you can breathe.

You stare out at the passing trees, the occasional gas station sign glowing in the distance, and let your mind drift. Gotham’s a gamble, but it’s your kind of game. You’ve heard the stories—streets thick with energy, kinetic from the constant grind, thermal from fires and factories, emotional from the fear and rage bubbling under it all. It’s a city that’s alive, raw, and you can use that. The Father-Box mutters in your head, a low hum about power, about crushing Darkseid’s world. For once, you’re on the same page. You’ll figure this energy game out—Speed ****, Crisis, whatever the cube calls it—and bend it your way. When you’re ready, you’ll storm that hellhole and make Darkseid bleed for what he took from you. But first, Gotham. It’s step one, a proving ground where you can test your limits, away from the prying eyes of Metropolis’s heroes.

The bus rolls into Gotham as dawn breaks, a gray smear across the sky. The skyline hits you first—jagged and dark, buildings rising like broken teeth against the clouds. The air’s thick when you step off, heavy with smog and the sharp tang of rain-soaked asphalt, a metallic edge that might be rust or blood. The streets are narrow, shadowed even now, lined with brick and concrete scarred by time and neglect. You feel the city’s pulse under your boots, energy thrumming—kinetic, thermal, alive. It’s ripe for the taking, and your grin widens. You shoulder your duffel and start walking, blending into the early morning foot traffic: workers in stained coats, a guy hawking papers with headlines about some mob hit, a stray dog nosing through trash. The bus station fades behind you, and you find a motel near the docks—a squat, ugly building with a neon sign missing half its letters. The clerk barely looks up from his magazine as you slide cash across the counter, muttering for a key. The room’s a dive: stained carpet crunching underfoot, a bed that groans when you sit, a window so grimy it barely lets light through. You drop your bag and pull out the physics book, flipping through pages that might as well be gibberish. You ain’t a scholar, but you’re stubborn—something in there’s gotta click eventually.

You need a plan. First, a job—something to keep your hands busy, your mind sharp. Mechanics, maybe; there’s always cars to fix, even in a dump like this. You’ll find a garage, work cash-in-hand, no paper trail. But that’s just survival. The real work’s in the shadows—Gotham’s got whispers of hidden libraries, occult dives, places where you can dig up the kind of knowledge the Father-Box keeps hinting at. You need to understand what’s in you, how to control it, push it further. You’ll hit the streets, find the underbelly where the weirdos lurk, and piece it together. And Batman? You’ve seen the headlines—guy in a bat suit, stalking the night, breaking jaws with gadgets and grit. You respect the hustle, but he’s human. No powers, no cosmic edge. If he crosses you, you’ll drop him. You ain’t here to play nice—just to get what you need and get ready. Gotham’s your training ground, and when you’re done, Darkseid’s next. You lean back on the creaking bed, the city’s hum seeping through the walls, and feel the cube’s approval buzz in your chest. You’re Obadiah Jackson, and this world’s gonna feel you.

Author's Note

And with that build-up done, the story can finally begin properly and narratively open up. Thanks for reading so far, I know this story will be a little slow going until the smut starts up, but I happen to think the wait makes it a bit sweeter.