Blood And Rent In The DC Universe: 2 The Miracle Serum

Vicki sat in her car outside Al's apartment, engine off, fingers drumming the wheel

She hadn't planned on coming.

She'd told herself that plenty of times on the drive over—even parked outside his apartment for ten full minutes before finally stepping out, not sure what she expected to find. The place looked exactly like she remembered—rundown, quiet, walls that probably held secrets of their own. The hallway smelled like old coffee and something vaguely electrical, like overheated wiring.

He used to smell like coffee too. Back when they worked together.

She knocked.

"Alvaro? You in there?"

Moments later, footsteps emerged. The door opened, and there he was. He looked... different.

Not older, exactly. Just sharper somehow. Like someone had taken the person she remembered and filed off the edges. His eyes caught hers for a second—blue, startlingly bright in the dim hallway light—before he leaned against the doorframe.

"Vicki."

"Al." She gave him a once-over. "You look like you just woke up."

"It's ten in the morning. That's basically the crack of dawn in Gotham."

She didn't smile. "We need to talk."

He didn't move. "It's been a while. What for?"

"About a story I'm chasing." She stepped forward, and he shifted aside—just barely—letting her in.

The apartment was exactly what she expected. Takeout containers, scattered notebooks, a TV flickering in the corner. But it was the details that caught her attention.

The faint glint of a diamond ring on the counter.

Her brow arched. "Didn't take you for the jewelry type, Al."

He followed her gaze, then shrugged. "You'd be surprised what I am these days."

"You proposing to someone, or pawning your way through rent?"

He snorted. "Neither. Just... keeping busy."

She picked up the ring, turning it over in her fingers. It was flawless. The kind of quality you didn't just find lying around.

"This is real," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Yep."

"Where'd you get it?"

"Made it."

She looked up, skeptical. "You made this?"

"Custom fabrication. Pays better than you'd think."

She set the ring back down, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're full of shit."

He shrugged. “Some things don’t change. What can I do for an old colleague? Haven’t seen you since… well, you know.”

"Old colleague?" she repeated, crossing her arms. "It's been a few months, not a decade."

"Feels longer."

She studied him for a moment, searching for something in his face. Whatever it was, she didn't find it.

"I need your help," she said finally. He raised an eyebrow. "Please don't tell me it's that?"

She followed the pointed finger towards the center of the cramped living room.

The TV murmured in the background, the kind of low droning that filled empty spaces without asking for attention. The news anchor's report on the “Miracle Drug”hadn't stopped.

"So you've heard about it." She asked turning back.

"Hard not to. It's all over the news."

"I've been trying to trace its source for months. Every lead dries up. Thought maybe you'd point me in the right direction."

"And you think I can help you because...?"

"Because you're good at this. You always were. And because I'm a journalist. It's my job to use every single connection I know of when going after a story"

She paused. "And because I trust you."

“I don’t know anything about it.” His voice stayed calm, “And even if I did, I’m out of that life.

"Are you?"

He didn't answer.

She let the silence sit for a moment, then sighed. "Look. I'm not asking you to come back to the Gazette. I'm just asking for help. One story. That's it."

"I don't know anything about it," he said flatly. "And again, I'm not interested."

Vicki studied him for a moment, searching for something in his face. Whatever it was, she didn’t find it.

"You always did hate helping people," she said lightly.

"Only when it gets me killed."

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from her. “Fine. Forget it. I’ll find another way.”

She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. Then she pulled out a business card and set it on the counter next to the ring.

"In case you change your mind."

He glanced at it.

"Thanks for the visit,"

She headed for the door, then paused. "You should come outside once in a while. People are starting to forget your name."

He didn't answer. Vicki sighed. "Same old Al."

Her hand hesitated on the doorknob — just a second, long enough to say something else. Then she didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The apartment went quiet again, except for the TV.

“—Commissioner Gordon has urged any informants to come forward regarding the source of the so-called Miracle Drug,” the anchor was saying. “Authorities suspect it may be connected to the recent gang wars in the East End—”

Al picked up the remote and turned the volume up slightly.

> “While no evidence currently links the substance to any known criminal organization, authorities are urging citizens to remain cautious and report any suspicious criminal activity—”

He stared at the screen for a while. Then, without a word, he switched it off.

___

"Well. That was fun."

He leaned back, watching the now empty screen. Failing to suppress a chuckle escaping his lips.

Vicki wanted help tracking down the person supplying the Miracle Serum.

Said supplier was sitting on a ratty couch in sweatpants, eating cold takeout for breakfast.

The irony was chef's kiss.

He glanced at the business card she'd left on the counter. Vicki Vale, Investigative Journalist, Gotham Gazette

Same number. Same email. Same Vicki. To think he'd have interaction with a major named DC supporting character before he even regained his memories. He picked it up, turned it over in his fingers, then tossed it in the drawer with the diamond ring.

He’d met her back when he was a broke graduate trying to convince himself that a degree in mechanical engineering meant anything in a city that ate its own.

The Gazette had been the only one hiring. “Temporary tech editor,” the listing had said.

Translation: coffee-fetcher who knows how to spell motherboard.

He’d stumbled into journalism the same way people stumbled into crime in Gotham—by running out of better options.

And then there was Vicki Vale.

Already established, confident, and too clever to be working for what the Gazette paid. She’d taken pity on him—or maybe just liked having someone who could fix her recorder when it jammed. Either way, they’d made a decent team for a while. Chasing stories, inspiring stories, having late night stakeouts, and performing numerous questionable acts that would have surely gotten them in jail a couple times.

Of course, majority of the credit went to Vicki, building up her reputation as the esteemed Photojournalist of the Gotham Gazette. All in all, it was ... Fun. But just as he previously stated, all good things in Gotham come with expiry dates.

The accident—if you could call it that—happened on a Tuesday. Vicki had been chasing a lead on a Falcone-owned shipping company laundering money through the docks.

He was the photographer.

His job was simple: stay in the car, take pictures from a distance, don't get noticed. Vicki, being Vicki, decided "don't get noticed" was more of a suggestion than a rule. Even an idiot could guess what happened next. By the time he woke up, he was in the hospital with three broken ribs, more broken bones, a lot of bruises and a mind full of memories.

By the time he was discharged, he made his decision.

Fuck journalism.

He was going to use this power to get his family out of Gotham. And he was never setting foot in the Gazette again. That was also the last time he saw Vicky.

Al lingered on the couch for a moment longer, memories playing in his head, staring at the blank TV like it owed him rent. Eventually, with a groan that sounded far too dramatic for ten in the morning, he pushed himself up.

“Alright,” he rubbed his face. “Time to play mad scientist.”

He grabbed the half-empty coffee mug from the table and shuffled toward the basement door. It creaked open with the same sound it had made every single morning—a kind of damp, protesting groan that fit right in with the rest of his life.

The steps were steep, uneven, and smelled faintly like mold. But the basement… that was where the magic happened.

Literally.

Rows of bottles lined the shelves—old soda cans, reused medicine vials, cracked beakers scavenged from Gotham University’s dumpster. Every container was filled with a murky green liquid that glowed faintly under the weak bulb hanging from the ceiling. Slaughter Swamp water.

The miracle ingredient.

He’d first stumbled across it while trying not to die—long story, one involving an angry metahuman, an unfortunate fall, an experiment to give himself superpowers gone wrong, and a near run in with Solomon Grundy.

No doubt his family would’ve been mourning him by now without that swamp water. Sometimes he couldn’t tell if surviving in Gotham counted as luck or punishment.

“Let’s see what the market gods demand today,” he said under his breath, crouching beside a crate marked Don’t Drink This (Again).

He picked up a small sterile vial, the kind hospitals used for injectable meds, and filled it halfway with the swamp’s essence. The stuff writhed faintly, like it was alive.

Then he reached for a different bottle—one labeled GCPD Evidence, Do Not Open—and poured a dash of clear liquid into the mix.

“Steroids,” he said conversationally. “Because if it’s good enough for Bane, it’s good enough for me.”

He held the vial up to eye level. “Alright, Reconstruction. Let’s make some magic.”

His eyes glowed a deep blue as he activated his power. A faint shimmer crawled over his hands. The greenish fluid began to pulse—first softly, then brighter, the light shifting hues as if the swamp itself were trying on new outfits. He focused, muttering the command more to anchor his intent than anything else.

“High efficacy, full-body regeneration. Minimal side effects. Try not to explode this time.”

Meanwhile, hiding unseen by the clothing covering him, deep broad markings appeared all over his physique.

Like tattoos drawn pitch black, they appeared on his arms, shoulders, torso and converged to form a large number 195 on his back. Then, that number changed from 195 to 194 before receding into the flesh it came from.

The liquid snapped into clarity, turning from grimy green to a deep, gleaming crimson. The vial in his hand was suddenly spotless—glass so clean it looked forged, the label gleaming like something straight out of a LexCorp medical lab.

He exhaled. “And there we go. One miracle in a bottle. FDA-approved by the voices in my head.”

He turned the vial in his hand, admiring it for a moment. “You know, I should give you a name. Something catchy. Something that looks good on a tabloid headline.”

He considered for a moment.

“Project Lazarus? Nah, too obvious. Phoenix Formula? Too dramatic. Gotham Gold? …actually, that sounds like a burger.”

He placed the vial gently in a foam-lined case with several others. Each one gleamed a different color—red, blue, green—depending on its efficacy level. Most of them were low-tier. Safe. Marketable.

They could recover cuts in mere minutes, heal minor ailments, remove acne, and wipe out almost all infections.

The stronger ones could heal deep scarrings, broken bones would regenerate in half a minute, late stage cancer would be flushed out in an hour and the cells woipd be renewed, practically making its user younger by a margin.

This one, though?

If Grundy was anything to go by, this one could probably bring someone back from the edge of death.

And tonight, he was about to sell it to a man who practically pitched a tent on that edge.

He closed the case, sealing it with a piece of duct tape.

“Another day, another biochemical felony,” he muttered, heading back upstairs.

The TV was still off, but he could almost hear Vicki’s voice in his head. You should come outside once in a while. People are starting to forget your name.

“Good.”

He smirked faintly. It would be preferable if no one knew it to begin with, but who could tell what would happen in this wretched city?

“Well, let's see how tonight goes,” He swept his blue eyes around the place. “Hopefully tonight's client isn't a Psycho.

He paused at the door. Great. Now he'd definitely jinxed it.

___