The sky above Gotham was the color of rusted steel, clouds heavy with the threat of rain. Nolan sat cross-legged beside a rusted barrel fire, surrounded by a few of the same men and women he'd lived beside for the past week. The underpass buzzed with life — the soft clatter of old cans, a radio coughing jazz through static, low laughter wrapped in the scratch of too-long beards and cigarette smoke.
For once, Nolan felt maybe he should listen to the voices in his head to escape this mess.
He hadn't spoken much in the past few days. He didn't need to. The others had taken to him, sensing he wasn't a cop, wasn't there to judge. They called him "Quiet," or sometimes "Kid." He helped haul supplies, shared his stash of canned beans, and didn't complain when his sleeping bag grew moldy at the edges.
But inside, Nolan was growing restless.
That night, he sat with his back against a cracked support beam beneath the highway, staring at the concrete. He whispered under his breath. "Kieran. Quentin. Talk to me."
Kieran answered first, his voice light, almost amused. "Finally. You ready to stop hiding, love?"
Then Quentin followed, cool and direct. "We've had time to think. We've got a plan."
Nolan closed his eyes. "Let's hear it."
"This city has eyes there stupid cameras," Quentin said as if cameras were the worst invention ever made. "But so do we. You're surrounded by a network no one pays attention to. The homeless — they see everything. They know which alleys are safe, which rooftops Batman never patrols, where the patrols are thin, where the heat dies down."
Kieran cut in with a grin audible in his voice. "We don't need to rule the streets. We just need to know where to hide. And maybe… help others do the same."
"A relocation service," Quentin said. "Criminals. Runaways. People who need to vanish."
Nolan sat in silence, digesting it. Then, after a moment, he nodded. "Okay. Let's do it."
The next day, Kieran took over.
He slipped through Gotham like a breeze, pocketing wallets with a dancer's grace. From bus stops, busy sidewalks, and crowded cafes, he plucked enough cash to get started. When he had just over a thousand dollars, he made his way to a casino on the Narrows — a greasy, low-end den of sin and desperation.
He played low-stakes poker, nursing a whiskey for hours, bluffing weak hands, folding strong ones when the table got too hot. He didn't get greedy. Just enough. By midnight, he had tripled his money.
The next morning, Kieran walked into a hole-in-the-wall electronics shop and left with a backpack full of burner phones, prepaid and untraceable. He returned to the underpass, set the pack down by the fire, and called everyone in the camp over.
"Alright," he said, flashing that trademark smirk. "I've got a proposition."
A few groaned. Others looked up with curious eyes.
"I've been thinking," Kieran said. "You lot know every corner of this city. You know where people can vanish, really vanish. What if we used that?"
An old man named Stanley squinted. "Used it for what? Ain't no one paying us for directions." Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on NovᴇlFire(.)nᴇt
Kieran chuckled. "They will. Criminals on the run. People looking to disappear. We find them places to hide, places no cop or cape thinks to check. And in return, we ask for one thing."
He opened the pack and pulled out burner phones, one by one, laying them on the cracked asphalt like relics.
Someone scoffed. "We don't need your phones. What are we gonna do with money, anyway? We sleep on concrete."
Kieran knelt, looked the man in the eye. "Maybe you don't need money. But maybe your sister in Blüdhaven does. Maybe someone needs meds. Or hot food. Or clean water. What about boots that fit? Blankets that don't smell like piss? What about more smokes than the leftovers from a busted vending machine?"
There was silence. Then a few thoughtful nods.
"I can give you supply drops," Kieran said. "In return, you pass along tips. Cops clearing out a warehouse? Batman sniffing around near the east docks? We log that. Keep track. And when someone comes to us needing a way out — we give it to them. Safely. Efficiently."
"Sounds illegal," someone muttered.
"Sounds profitable," Kieran corrected. "But more than that… sounds like power. For once, it won't just be the people up there running the show. We'll know more than them. We'll see more."
Slowly, the murmurs began to turn in his favor.
He handed out phones. "Start small. Call this number if you see anything worth logging. We'll build from there."
That night, as the city lights flickered above, Kieran stared out at Gotham's skyline with a rare look of satisfaction.
The next day Nolan didn't go back to the homeless encampment instead he walked to the mall. The looks he received were not pleasant at all, but he had received similar looks most of his life.
'Sure you don't want me to take over?' Kieran asked no more like pleaded
Nolan scoffed, 'I can buy a suit on my own.'
Finally Nolan stumbled upon a rather quaint store, it wasn't busy nor empty and it certainly carried cheap suits.
Entering the store he walked un interrupted through the aisles the stench of a homeless man sure cleared a path.
Nolan found his way to the dress clothes section and began to flip through the suit options. Finally he found a nice black suit, nothing too fancy obviously made from cheap materials.
'Perfect it's in my size.' He thought while plucking it from the hanger
'Booo! Your going to look so cheap!' Kieran screamed in disgust
As Nolan got in line for the checkout his burner rang. A shot of adrenaline coursed through Nolan's body as he quickly picked up the phone, "Speaking." He said while placing his suit on the counter along with the exact amount of money it should cost plus tax
"Think we might've found some people in need of your insane idea. Some idiots robbed a bank and they got in a shoot out with the police. One of them is shot and they are limping through the alleys. We don't want to approach them though could threaten us yknow."
'Put me on the phone' Quintin said as Nolan walked out of the store
Nolan sighed dreading the switch he feared this was now his normal life.
The horrible feeling of watching your body move and you not piloting it.
Quintin laughed, "Alright here's whatcha going to do slip one of the robbers a phone and send me the number. I'll call them and sort it out."
"Are you sure? Listen kid what your thinking might be too risky."
"What's a little risk in Gotham?"
A/n: again trust he is building something even if he doesn't know it. You might think they agreed a little too easy but I'm cooking sum here trust.
Also where da comments at :(