Blood And Rent In The DC Universe: 1 Rent, Rascals and Reincarnation

Morning in Gotham smelled like burnt coffee, exhaust fumes, and fear. Not the kind that makes you run—no, this was the kind you learned to sip with breakfast.

I sat at the edge of my creaky apartment window, watching smoke trail lazily from the Narrows. Somewhere down there, someone was probably getting mugged. Somewhere else, someone was probably doing the mugging. Balance.

The radio on my counter crackled to life, filling the silence with the usual dose of Gotham cheer.

"Breaking news—mass breakout at Arkham Asylum. Confirmed escapees include—"

Static.

"—the Joker, Two-Face, Scarecrow—"

I tuned it out.

"So Joker busted out, huh?" I muttered, taking a sip from a chipped mug. "Maybe he'll finally kill my landlord."

The worst part about living in Gotham wasn't the crime. It wasn't the clowns with chemical smiles, or even the eco-terrorist who was, admittedly, way too hot for someone who tried to turn people into mulch. No, the worst part was rent.

Rent was undefeated, and mine was due yesterday.

And by "due," I mean very due. Mr. Halpern downstairs had already slipped three polite reminders under my door, all of which I ignored in favor of pretending I'd died.

Not my fault, really. Being broke was an inherited condition in Gotham. My mom had it, my grandma had it, and now it ran in me like bad genes and worse luck.

Honestly, compared to the rest of the lot, Mr. Halpern was actually pretty nice for a landlord.

My last one had threatened to bring in "muscle" a day after the due date.

But given this was Gotham, that could mean anything from some guy named Vinny with brass knuckles to Killer Croc asking if I wanted to be a snack.

I blew on the coffee and muttered, "I really should've gotten laser eyes or super-strength."

Instead, I got… this.

I snapped my fingers. The spoon in my hand twisted, stretched, and melted before turning into a neat little ring with a flawless karat diamond encrusted on top.

You heard me right. A diamond.

"Still works though," I muttered.

It had been eight months since I woke up one morning with memories that weren't mine—or maybe were mine, from a life I couldn't fully recall. Fragments. Impressions. A world without capes and cowls, where Gotham was a fictional city and Superman was an animated character.

And with those memories came… this.

Object reconstruction, transmutation, matter manipulation—call it what you want.

If I touched something, I could change its form from whatever it was to whatever I desired... provided I followed the laws that state E=MC² alongside a few caveats. You get the idea.

A once-a-day miracle that could turn junk into gold—or close enough.

I spun it idly between my fingers, feeling the texture, the perfection of it. With price knowledge yet lack of ownership documentation, I could only sell this for half price in particularly shady locations—but I had no plans to do that now.

The last one nearly gave the pawnshop guy a heart attack. I couldn't risk him noticing the same cut pattern twice.

Instead, I stared at it until my stomach growled, and sighed. "Guess we're skipping breakfast again, partner."

My phone buzzed.

Mom.

I hesitated before picking up. "Hey, Ma."

"Don't you 'hey, Ma' me," came her voice, soft but sharp like a worn-out knife. "I just checked the bank again, son. You sent how much this time?"

"Uh…" I scratched my head, looking at the ceiling. "Enough?"

"Enough? Baby, this is too much! Where are you getting this money from, huh? You're not doing anything illegal, right? You know what kind of city this is—"

I groaned. "Mom, relax. I told you, I'm doing freelance engineering work. You remember the micro-lab project from school? Some of those contacts panned out."

That was technically true. I had done engineering. Just… not quite this type of engineering.

There was a pause. Then her sigh came through. "I just don't want you getting mixed up with bad people, Al. I saw on the news—Arkham, again. You know how close the Narrows is—"

"I know," I said, my voice softening "I know, Mom. I'll be fine."

"You always say that."

"Because I always am."

She chuckled weakly. "You sound just like your grandfather."

"Good. He lived to ninety-seven."

"He also had five heart attacks," she snapped, then sighed again. "Just… be careful, okay? Don't stay up too late."

"I won't."

"Your grandmother wants to know if you're eating properly."

"Tell Nonna I had a vegetable yesterday. I'm practically a health guru."

".... She says instant ramen doesn't count."

"It has seaweed in it. That's a vegetable."

".. Alvaro .."

"Yeah, I know. Love you too, Ma."

"Love you more."

She hung up. The silence that followed was heavy.

"Ah .." I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and stared at the ceiling fan wobbling dangerously above me.

The Narrows was no place for family.

To avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself, I'd been planning for months now, quietly funneling what I earned back to them in small chunks so they didn't think I'd gotten involved with criminals. Fixing up their place, paying off debts and paying off my student loans.

Grandma got her medication. Mom stopped juggling double shifts. It was progress—but not enough.

Not enough to move them out. Not enough to make sure they'd never have to flinch at every police siren. And certainly not enough to make sure Nonna didn't have to quadruple-lock the door each night while keeping a shotgun on standby.

That took money. Real money. The kind you didn't make flipping refurbished tech on Craigslist.

Sure, I'd earned several hundred grand during this period, but playing it safe while turning trash into treasure wasn't going to cut it unless I wanted a knock on my door from people in suits asking questions I really didn't want to answer.

I grabbed a battered notebook off my desk—half scribbles, half dreams—and flipped to a page near the back.

Exit Strategies.

A list of legitimate career paths I could pivot to once I got my family out of the Narrows. Once they were safe, I could afford to walk away from the gray market and do something that didn't involve selling to people who solved problems with explosives.

Option 1: Open a legitimate repair shop.

Boring, but stable. Problem: startup costs. Also, explaining why a twenty-three-year-old with no business history suddenly has capital.

Option 2: Patent something small and useful.

Safer than going big. Problem: patents mean scrutiny, and scrutiny means questions I can't answer.

Option 3: Freelance consulting for tech firms.

Plausible cover story. Problem: requires a portfolio I don't have and references I can't fake.

I tapped the pen against the page.

All of these assumed I'd make it out of Gotham's underworld in one piece. Which, given the city's track record, was optimistic at best.

I flipped back a few pages to my active projects list.

Current Inventory Check:

Refurbished laptops (3) – ready to flip

Modified security system (1) – buyer lined up

Diamond rings (2) – sitting in drawer, waiting for Sal to stop asking questions

Slaughter Swamp water (47 liters) – stored in basement

I circled the last one.

"Alright, let's see... water from Slaughter Swamp."

The stuff was disgusting—murky, faintly phosphorescent, and smelled like death.

But it had properties. Organic compounds I didn't fully understand, residual energies from whatever supernatural nonsense lurked in that hellhole.

Perfect base material.

Reconstruct it right, and you could turn it into something that made people pay six figures without blinking.

I'd been doing exactly that for the past five months.

Gotham's underworld ran on three things: drugs, guns, and desperation. I'd carved out a niche in the first category, though not the kind that got you a visit from Narcotics.

And as luck would have it, Batman had been absent for most of it, which meant I'd operated under the radar while the Bat-family focused on keeping Gotham from eating itself alive.

But all good things in Gotham came with expiration dates.

Before I could dwell on that, the TV I'd left on in the background cut to a new segment.

"—and in other news, Batman returned to Gotham last night after a prolonged absence, successfully dismantling a major drug operation in the East End—"

I glanced up, mildly interested.

The screen showed shaky helicopter footage of darkened warehouses, GCPD cruisers swarming the area, and body bags being loaded into ambulances.

"—authorities seized several kilograms of various narcotics, but most notably, they recovered multiple vials of what experts are calling a 'miracle drug'—a regenerative serum capable of healing injuries and treating diseases at an unprecedented rate."

My coffee mug froze halfway to my lips.

The screen cut to a talking head—some medical expert with too many degrees listed under his name.

"This serum first appeared on Gotham's black market roughly five months ago," the expert said, adjusting his glasses. "Initial reports were dismissed as exaggeration, but verified cases have shown accelerated tissue regeneration, recovery from chronic conditions, and in some cases, reversal of terminal illnesses. The supply has been extremely limited, and the source remains unknown."

Another expert chimed in, a woman in a lab coat. "What's most concerning is that we have no idea how it's made. Chemical analysis shows compounds that shouldn't be stable together, yet somehow they are. It's as if someone bypassed decades of pharmaceutical research overnight."

I smirked.

If only you knew.

The news anchor leaned forward. "And the price?"

"Anywhere from fifty thousand to half a million per vial, depending on the buyer and the drug itself. It seems that it comes in different levels of effectiveness. It's become one of the most sought-after substances in Gotham's underworld."

I set the mug down and leaned back in my chair.

Half a million?

The most I'd been charging was two hundred grand, give or take. Apparently, my buyers had been flipping it for profit.

Entrepreneurial bastards.

'Well, there goes my cover.'

Right on schedule.

I'd known this was coming. You don't sell something that effective without someone eventually noticing.

The segment continued.

"Commissioner Gordon is expected to make an official statement later today regarding the GCPD's investigation into the source of this serum. Authorities are urging anyone with information to—"

A knock at the door.

I glanced at the door, then at the TV, then at the mess that was my living room.

"Alvaro? You in there?"

The voice was recognizable.

I stood, stretched, and walked over. Through the peephole, I saw her—brunette ponytail, sharp green eyes behind stylish glasses, arms crossed like she'd been waiting longer than she had patience for.

'Vicki?'

I opened the door.

"Vicki."

"Al." She gave me a once-over, frowning. "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."

I leaned against the doorframe, blocking her view of the apartment. "It's been a while. What for?"

"About a story I'm chasing." She stepped forward, and I moved aside before she could shoulder past me. "And about the fact that you're the only person I know who might actually be able to help me with it."

Vicki walked in like she’d been here a hundred times before, ignoring the clutter and the faint buzz of the flickering ceiling light.

"Still living like a college dropout," she said, nudging an empty ramen cup off the table with her pen. "Nice decor."

"Thanks," I said, closing the door behind her.

"Minimalist. Keeps the rats humble"

"Sure," she muttered,

glancing around like she was afraid the furniture might catch a disease.

Her eyes stopped on the coffee mug, the half-finished notebook, then the faint glint of a diamond ring on the counter.

I froze slightly.

'Shit. I forgot.'