Journalism

Late at night in Gotham's East End, the air always carried a whiff of rotten oranges mixed with expired gunpowder.

Chen Mo crouched atop a water tower across from an electronics store, his body curled into an arc that looked hard on the lower back.

He pulled off his red-and-blue mask and casually stuffed it into the inner compartment at the chest of his suit, revealing a teenage face stiffened by the night wind.

Yesterday's fight at the docks had been quite a brawl. A day later, he still ached all over.

But at that moment, only one thing remained in Chen Mo's head: sleep.

It was the kind of out-of-body exhaustion where his cerebral cortex was dancing for its life, trying to break through his skull and meet the Sandman for dinner.

What could he do?

He was already this exhausted. Could he really expect Batman, an ordinary human, to handle his work too while out on patrol?

If Bruce could even stand up and walk today, that would be a testament to his willpower.

He would just have to muddle through the patrol.

Chen Mo stared at the dozen or so televisions in the display window.

Some of the old CRT sets still flickered with static, while others had colors so distorted they looked like they were showing horror movies, but all of them were now playing Gotham Channel 4's late-night news.

The female anchor's blonde hair was fixed in place with so much hairspray it resembled a helmet, and she delivered the news in a somber tone that suggested she had just held a funeral at home.

"At one a.m. last night, a large-scale armed gang conflict broke out in the dock district, causing structural damage to multiple warehouses. Today, police released details of the conflict and a list of those involved."

The picture switched to aerial footage.

Chen Mo narrowed his eyes.

In a scorched alley, a row of shipping containers lay toppled in neat succession, like enormous dominoes.

On-screen, a grim-faced Commissioner Gordon directed forensic personnel behind the cordon. Shell casings littered the ground so thickly that a scrap collector could have struck it rich on the spot.

Chen Mo rubbed his wrist, which still had webbing stuck to it, and muttered, "Who's footing the cleanup bill?"

The camera cut to the GCPD media spokesperson outside the police station. Microphones of every length were shoved so close to the guy's face that he could barely breathe.

"Does this conflict mean public safety in Gotham has spiraled completely out of control?" a reporter shouted, craning his neck. "Has Batman once again overstepped his authority? And what is the police department's position on that new red-and-blue vigilante?"

The spokesperson wiped sweat from his forehead and faced the camera with righteous severity. "The GCPD does not encourage citizens to interfere with law enforcement through any illegal means. Some responsibility for the casualties and property damage in the dock district must be borne by those masked individuals who refused to cooperate and acted on their own."

Crouching on the water tower, Chen Mo could not help bursting into laughter.

That logic was very Gotham. So after wrapping submachine-gun-wielding thugs into cocoons yesterday, he was also supposed to pay for repainting the smashed containers?

"In your fucking dreams," he muttered at the television screen. A pigeon perched beside him on the water tower tilted its head at him and cooed.

Chen Mo pointed at the screen and told the pigeon, "See? This is the city you live in. Do you agree with them?" The pigeon flew away.

The news returned to the studio.

A commentator in black-rimmed glasses, with a face that made people want to punch it, sat opposite the anchor. The caption scrolling across the bottom of the screen was highly provocative: Guardian or threat?

"Let's be clear about one thing." The commentator tapped the desk, spittle flying. "What gives a man wearing a skintight suit and dressing up as a bat the right to use violence in our city without any legal authorization? The safety of Gotham's citizens cannot depend on a masked thug who likewise skirts the boundaries of the law."

The television displayed a side-profile photograph of Batman crouching on a gargoyle, so blurry that he looked like a gigantic black moth.

"You know, that photo's actually pretty atmospheric," he told the empty spot the pigeon had left behind. "The angle's not great, though. They should've shot upward from below. Makes the legs look longer."

But then the picture changed again.

A still from a convenience store's security footage appeared on the big screen. Chen Mo was hanging upside down from a streetlamp, holding a submachine gun he had just snatched from a robber.

The resolution was so awful it might as well have been pixelated, but that red-and-blue suit certainly stood out.

"As for this Spider-Man who calls himself a 'friendly neighbor.'" The commentator sneered. "Whether bat or spider, wearing a mask is itself a statement of distrust in the law. We remind all citizens that if you encounter anyone dressed like this at night who is not a law enforcement officer, keep your distance, call the police immediately, and do not interact with them."

Chen Mo stared at the freeze-frame of himself "posing with a gun," his eyelid twitching.

"I confiscated it! Confiscated! If I didn't hold it, was I supposed to let it fall, go off, and blow my toes off? What kind of unlawful enforcer ties up robbers for a convenience store and hangs them from the sign for the police to collect?"

Indignant, he bit into an energy bar hard enough to make his teeth ache.

People in this place really had no conscience.

The news continued, cutting to a Blackgate Penitentiary intake photograph.

Waylon Jones, known as "Killer Croc," was showing the camera a mouthful of teeth capable of biting straight through steel rebar.

Except the bottom-right corner of the mugshot helpfully included a photograph of his arrest: Killer Croc wrapped in webbing into an enormous white cocoon, with only a length of tail sticking out and twitching feebly.

The report mentioned a brief disturbance inside the prison yesterday. Prison authorities denied any connection to the gang conflict, stating that "the situation has been brought under control."

Looking at the arrest photograph, Chen Mo felt a little better.

At least he had personally designed this guy's prison-entry look, full of postmodern disheveled beauty.

"This one's better than that last photo." Chen Mo nodded at the pigeon, which had just returned and landed on the edge of the water tower. "Don't you think? The lighting and composition are both better than that streetlamp shot."

The pigeon offered no opinion.

Just as he was about to stand, the news suddenly cut to a report from Metropolis.

The footage was shaky, as though a passerby had filmed it on a phone.

On a sunlit Metropolis street, an out-of-control school bus hurtled toward a crowd like something possessed. Then a figure in a blue bodysuit and red cape descended from the sky. No webbing, no Batarangs. He simply extended both hands and lifted the several-ton school bus as casually as catching a ball.

Sunlight shone on the enormous "S" emblem on his chest, dazzling enough to hurt Chen Mo's eyes.

"Superman..."

Chen Mo stared at the screen, looked down at the crooked bandages wrapped around his own wrists, then looked back at the man lifting a school bus with his bare hands. He fell silent for a moment.

That guy had cheat-enabled autopilot. At his absolute best, Chen Mo was only a manual, and even his maximum pulling force of four tons required help from his webs. The guy lifting the school bus probably did not even need to warm up.

System, I'm talking to you, System. Give me a buff.

The face of a Metropolis police spokesperson appeared in a corner of the screen, his voice still carrying a bewildered, shell-shocked quality. "We are assessing the danger posed by this vigilante. For now, we do not encourage citizens to approach him on their own."

After hearing that, Chen Mo raised his eyebrows. "Hear that?"

He started talking to the pigeon again. "Other cities discourage interaction too. Guess it's not a Gotham specialty." The pigeon tilted its head.

Chen Mo nodded. "You're right. At least he doesn't have to worry about getting sued."

The final news item concerned Wayne Enterprises. Bruce Wayne had partnered with Gotham Public Hospital to establish a dedicated medical fund providing free medical assistance to civilians injured in the conflict. The hospital stated that seven civilians had already undergone successful surgery.

Chen Mo tapped the water tower's iron railing.

The images of fighting alongside Batman at the docks yesterday were still in his head. Watching this report now, he felt his understanding of Bruce Wayne had been refreshed once again.

He could still feel the Batmobile's passenger seat digging into his spine.

Chen Mo grabbed the crossbar, put his mask back on, and flipped down as lightly as a cat.

Only one street remained on his nightly patrol.

Five minutes later, Chen Mo emerged from a dark alley.

He had already taken off the conspicuous suit and changed into a hoodie washed almost white and a pair of heavily creased jeans.

His mask and suit were stuffed into a battered canvas bag, making him look like an unemployed drifter who had just spent all night at an internet café.

He felt in his pocket, where a crumpled five-dollar bill and a few cold coins lay.

Poverty. That word pressed like a mountain against his spine, even though he had crossed over from another world.

A twenty-four-hour convenience store stood at the mouth of the alley, its fluorescent tubes buzzing with electricity.

Chen Mo went inside. A young Black man sat behind the register with earbuds in, bobbing his head to the beat.

With practiced familiarity, he walked to the refrigerated case, picked out a ham-and-cheese sandwich in the plainest packaging, and set it on the counter before taking out the crumpled five-dollar bill. "Heat it up."

The young Black man lifted his eyelids to glance at him, his gaze lingering on Chen Mo's face for an extra two seconds.

Only then did Chen Mo remember that he had forgotten to pull up his hood. He quickly looked away, pretending to study the ingredient lists on the row of gum beside the register.

The guy said nothing. He took the sandwich, tore an opening in the wrapper, and tossed it into the microwave.

The microwave's whirring sounded especially loud in the dead of night.

Chen Mo leaned against the counter, staring at the dimly lit rotating glass plate as his mind started doing the math.

The dog food was almost gone. Bruce, the puppy he had taken in, was small but had an absurdly good appetite.

A part in the sewing machine had broken the last time he repaired his suit. He needed to hunt down a replacement at the flea market, or keep an eye out on patrol and see whether he could pick up something suitable.

Worst of all, he still had not turned in the artwork for the next installment. No pages meant no payment, and no payment meant going hungry.

What a life...

Who the hell was getting the poverty assistance in this dump?

"Ding." The microwave sounded. The guy pushed the steaming sandwich toward him. Chen Mo took it, feeling that long-missed warmth against his palm.

He left the convenience store and stood on the steps outside, tearing open the wrapper and taking a bite.

The cheese had melted. Although it tasted strongly of cheap plastic, on a Gotham street in these predawn hours, it was a delicacy.

He chewed as he gazed at the dark silhouettes of buildings in the distance.

Chen Mo crumpled the wrapper into a ball and sent it through a perfect arc, landing it precisely in a roadside trash can.

I'd better get back and draw those pages, or tomorrow I won't even get to eat a plastic-tasting sandwich like this.

He adjusted the canvas bag on his back, looked down at his jeans covered in traces of flour and machine oil, and disappeared into the overlapping shadows.