Chen Mo crouched in the leaky attic, with a few yellowed old newspapers spread across the floor.
The attic was very bare: a sheet-metal roof, a battered couch, and scavenged junk piled in the corner. Plastic sheeting covered the leaks.
Wind poured through the vent, making the plastic swell and collapse like some half-dead thing breathing.
But none of this could spoil Chen Mo's lovely mood at that moment.
He was clutching a thick kraft-paper envelope.
He had retrieved it that morning from the Back Alley behind the abandoned laundromat in the East End.
Agent White had chosen the handoff point: the original artwork went into a crack in the wall, and the payment went back into the same crack, wrapped in a plastic bag and tucked beneath a loose red brick.
He had crouched in that alley full of moldy sheets and rusty washing-machine drums, checked both ways to make sure no one was around, pulled out the brick, felt for the envelope, and retraced his steps along the wall.
Back in the attic, he had blocked the vent completely with the loose wooden board before crouching beside the battered couch to open the envelope.
The whole process had been like a rendezvous between spies.
Maybe both parties were afraid of being bitten to death by a bat while walking at night.
Two thousand dollars lay neatly stacked inside the envelope.
His payment! His legal income!
It was what remained after taxes, handling fees, and protection money-all old bills in twenties and fifties, crumpled, their edges curled, carrying Gotham's distinctive smell of gunpowder and mildew.
Chen Mo dumped the bills onto the couch and counted them one by one. He counted them once, then again.
Two thousand, not a cent short.
This was for the serialized comic he had created under the pen name "Gotham's Seasoned Driver."
The payment for the first installment of "Fallen Hero: Gotham Phantom."
As for why he feared retaliation from the Bat, the comic's title offered a clue or two...
By his second day in this world, Chen Mo had recognized that finding a job in his current circumstances would definitely be difficult.
A minor, unregistered, with no identity, no papers, and nothing to prove that a person named "Chen Mo" legally existed in this world-and he wasn't white, either.
The only skill he could turn into money was his old profession from before he crossed over.
Right, he had been an art student. He had mentioned that, hadn't he?
Chen Mo had never ranked below first in his major courses. He never needed guidelines to draw human proportions, and his perspective, lighting, and sensitivity to color were maxed out.
Having already crossed over, he would be letting himself down if he didn't put these hands to use.
He would be letting himself down even more if he didn't plagiarize!
As for what to draw?
Marvel's Avengers and Spider-Man in DC?
No, no, no.
This was Gotham!
And what kind of superhero comic would sell best in Gotham?
A comic featuring a modded Batman, of course.
A fallen hero, an idol sunk into the mire.
He drew Batman as a tragic male lead whom villains ground into the mud on rainy nights, half his mask shattered to expose a young, pale face that practically said, "Why am I still in this city?"
Simply put, he made it as melodramatic as possible and drew him as debased as possible.
He even gave Batman an exquisitely tragic backstory: both parents dead, as was standard for a male lead, struggling alone in the darkness, misunderstood by all of Gotham, with only the Joker, Penguin, Killer Croc, Riddler, Scarecrow... occasionally offering him a little warmth.
Of course, Chen Mo hadn't drawn the alley. He was afraid Wayne Enterprises would come "check his water meter," even though he never paid a water bill.
Batman was Gotham City's guardian, the Holy Father, Son, and Spirit in one; the widow clad in black mourning clothes who had married Gotham and become a martyr for the city; the Sisyphus holding Gotham aloft so it would never fall; the Prometheus who brought people hope; Gotham's eternal Muse; the everlasting mark branded upon Gotham.
Oh, Bat, so many people loved you!
Who could resist putting him through a little bottom treatment?
Chen Mo had nearly moved himself to tears while drawing this part.
Unsurprisingly, the thing sold like crazy among Gotham's lower classes.
Every young person in the slums had a copy. Even Maroni's thugs had to flip through a couple of pages while taking a dump in convenience stores, marveling as they read.
So hot, so sexy... ahem, no.
Agent White said the first installment had sold out as soon as it hit the street newsstands, and everyone in the underground comics scene was asking when the second installment would come out.
As Chen Mo counted his money, he made a thoroughly insincere sign of the cross in his mind.
"Sorry, Bruce. I don't want to cash in on your reputation either. But who told you to be so famous? Besides, you really do have the potential to be utterly ruined like that."
Chen Mo rubbed the bills against his cheek. Ink, mildew, gunpowder-the smell of two thousand dollars.
"Totally worth it."
Chen Mo sincerely prayed Batman would never trace the distribution chain back to him.
After all, the current Bruce Wayne was only in his twenties. He hadn't yet evolved into that all-knowing Bat-monster sitting on the Mobius Chair.
Surely the young master couldn't have that much control over Gotham's print media yet?
Surely?
He couldn't even keep track of Falcone and Penguin right now. How would he have time to dig through the underground comics scene?
Probably.
Once he had the money, Chen Mo had only one thought: a suit!
He had had enough of those pajamas.
No one was allowed to call him Pajama Boy anymore!
Chen Mo pulled the hood of his old jacket low and rushed into an underground materials shop in the East End that very night.
The shop occupied the basement of an abandoned laundromat, its entrance hidden behind a dumpster in the back alley.
A mixture of motor oil and rust hung in the shop. The owner was a one-eyed man with an unlit cigar in his mouth, staring blankly at a television showing static.
Chen Mo darted between the shelves as deftly as someone scrambling for discounted eggs at a supermarket.
"Polymer fiber, two rolls. Lightweight titanium-alloy plates, one box. Bullet-resistant fabric-this one's the most expensive, but I need a roll. And the cheapest secondhand sewing machine you've got."
The one-eyed owner gave him a sidelong look, suspicion in his lone eye. "Kid, what are you buying all this stuff for? Planning to make yourself a coffin?"
Chen Mo flashed an exceptionally sunny, innocent smile. "I'm buying supplies for our school's crafts club. We're holding a superhero imitation contest. I'm the club president."
The one-eyed man snorted, plainly not believing a word.
But in Gotham, as long as you paid enough, even if you said you wanted an atomic bomb to blow up the moon, the owner would ask whether you needed free shipping.
Chen Mo paid cash and returned to the attic before curfew, carrying bags of every size.
He laid out the materials.
Ballistic nylon, five yards, sixty-six dollars. A sewing machine, the cheapest handheld model, thirty-five dollars. Titanium-alloy plates, only enough to protect his chest and shoulders, sixty dollars. Polymer fiber and other supplies took nearly another two hundred.
Three hundred and sixty dollars gone on materials alone.
Chen Mo counted what remained-over sixteen hundred-carefully rolled it up, and stuffed it into a gap in the couch.
Then he sat down in front of the sewing machine, which had passed through who knew how many owners, and got to work.
As everyone knew, every Spider-Man was a good tailor.
He didn't know how that rule had come about, but if Peter Parker could make his own suit from scratch, he should be able to as well.
The clatter of sewing filled the sealed attic all night long.
He sewed polymer fiber into the joints to improve mobility.
The titanium-alloy plates were cleverly concealed at his chest and back, enough to stop small-caliber handgun rounds at close range, at least. He remade the mask, adding a lining so it fit his face instead of looking like a red sock pulled over his head.
He completely took apart, cut, and reassembled the original baggy red-and-blue pajamas.
Three hours later, Chen Mo stood before the cracked full-length mirror.
The red-and-blue base had a matte finish in the dim light. The close-fitting cut outlined his figure perfectly, while the titanium-alloy plates formed minimalist geometric lines across his chest and shoulders.
Its overall quality had leaped straight from "nine ninety-nine with free shipping on a bargain app" to "proper custom-made convention outfit."
Chen Mo moved his arms, feeling the snug fabric. "It does look pretty cool, but the protection still won't stop large-caliber bullets."
He grumbled to himself, "But that's fine. As long as I dodge fast enough, armor is just for show."
After striking another classic pose in the mirror, Chen Mo leaned against the battered couch and stared at the figure in the red-and-blue suit reflected there.
The system was strengthening his body. His strength, speed, and reflexes were all increasing little by little.
He would strive to become Peter Hulk one day! His four tons of strength was only the starting point; he didn't know where the upper limit lay.
But no one said he couldn't become Peter Hulk and Peter Stark at the same time, right? Nanotech Suits were seriously cool, okay?
Thinking of the flowing metallic look of a Nanotech Suit, he glanced again at the sixteen hundred-odd dollars left in the couch.
Not enough. Nowhere near enough.
He would have to keep drawing.
Chen Mo sat down at the table and spread out his drawing paper.
He already had the next installment planned: three thousand secrets about Batman and Maroni that had to be told.
He wouldn't think too hard about the specific plot. Gotham's lower classes loved this stuff anyway.
"For the sake of my Nanotech Suit, Bruce, I'm sorry."
Chen Mo once again made a thoroughly insincere sign of the cross in his mind.
"Once I've saved enough, I'll stop. Probably."
At that very moment, beneath Wayne Manor on the outskirts of Gotham City.
The lighting in the Batcave was dim and oppressive, with only the enormous surveillance screens giving off a faint blue glow.
Bruce Wayne sat before the main screen, the lines of his sexy jaw as cold and hard as marble.
He had just returned from the docks and hadn't changed out of his suit. His cape hung behind the chair like a sheet of solidified black liquid.
Alfred was treating the wound on his back, a long but shallow cut from a steel reinforcing bar at the docks the previous night.
"Achoo!"
Bruce suddenly let out a loud sneeze, so forceful he nearly bounced out of his chair.
Alfred set down the medicine in his hand, looking perfectly composed.
"Master Bruce, it seems someone is enthusiastically discussing your dashing appearance behind your back. Or perhaps you spent too long in the cold rain last night and caught a chill. Shall I prepare some ginger soup?"
"I'm fine, Alfred." Bruce never took his eyes off the screen. "Falcone and Penguin have been too quiet lately. That's not normal. I need to keep a close eye on this lead."
"Aside from the mob, I think you ought to pay some attention to this as well."
Alfred picked up a garishly colored booklet from a nearby tray. "I bought this from a roadside newsstand today. Their top seller."
Bruce glanced at the cover.
It depicted a man in a black bodysuit, bound in thick chains and kneeling on one knee in the mud. Half his mask had shattered, exposing a young, pale face filled with pain.
Rain dripped from his chin, and the entire image possessed a strange, unsettling beauty. The title was emblazoned across it: "Fallen Hero: Gotham Phantom."
Bruce's temple throbbed twice. "Alfred, I told you not to bring this garbage into the Batcave."
"I merely thought this author had a very rich imagination."
Alfred calmly tucked the booklet into his apron pocket. "He has even devised an exquisitely tragic backstory for you. Honestly, it has considerably more depth than the playboy persona you usually put on at dinner parties. At least in this story, you have a soul."
The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched.
He wanted to argue, but found he had no idea where to begin.
As Gotham's guardian, he didn't care about these silly fan creations.
Seriously, he really didn't care.
In a place like Gotham, people made up rumors about him, drew caricatures of him, and wrote lurid fiction about him every day.
As long as those things didn't come parading right in front of him to assault his eyes.
Bruce turned back and continued studying the data on Falcone's dock activities on the screen.
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