DC: I Became A Godfather

Gordon's vision swam as he struggled to rise from the cold, blood-speckled concrete. The throb in his skull pulsed with every heartbeat, a dull hammer echoing behind his eyes. His glasses were gone, his surroundings blurred and doubled, but he could still make out the shape of Flass standing over him.

Mocking him.

"Give it up, old man," Flass jeered. "Without your glasses, I bet you can't even find the damn toilet, let alone fight."

He drove a vicious kick into Gordon's ribs, sending him reeling with a grunt of pain.

"You used to be something, didn't you?" Flass taunted, lifting his bat with a grin that Gordon could feel more than see. "Some war vet, some upstanding cop. Too bad this ain't the past. You're just another old mutt in the way now. Maybe next time, before you interfere, you'll remember you've got family."

The bat rose. There was no mercy in his stance. Just arrogance and cruelty.

But just before it came down—

Whizz!

Something flew out of the shadows, hurling straight toward Flass.

Clang!

The sound was metallic—like someone had dented a soda can against a mailbox. Flass staggered back, hit clean in the temple.

"What the hell?!"

He caught himself, blinking. Whatever hit him had exploded on impact, splashing sticky liquid across his face. He instinctively reached up to wipe it.

And immediately screamed.

"My eyes—! What kind of sick freak drinks from a can without closing the lid?!"

He stumbled backward, trying to rub the stinging tea from his eyes—but he never saw Gordon move.

The lieutenant forced himself upright with a ragged breath and lunged, slamming his shoulder into Flass's legs. The taller man collapsed like a downed tree, crashing to the concrete with a guttural grunt.

"I've fought men like you before," Gordon rasped. "Fifteen years ago. Different uniforms. Same cheap bravado."

He straddled the man and pinned him down, using his knees to lock his torso in place. Then came the fists—hard, unrelenting, furious. One hit. Two. Then five. A straight to the nose. A hook to the cheekbone. The kind of precision you only learn when fists and survival are the only tools you've got.

Flass tried to yell, to beg—but Gordon hit him again.

And again.

The garage echoed with the wet sounds of bone on flesh until finally, Gordon's breath caught in his throat. His fists were trembling. Bleeding.

He didn't know whose blood was whose anymore.

Panting heavily, Gordon finally relented. He peeled off Flass's mask with shaking fingers—and there he was. Just a bruised, unconscious man. Not a soldier. Not a wolf. Just a man who underestimated what it meant to push an old dog too far.

He dragged Flass and the other thugs across the lot and handcuffed them with the spare cuffs he always kept in his trunk. Then, for good measure, he ripped their shirts off and dumped them in the nearby trash bins.

He limped back toward the stairwell, every step an agony of strained muscle and cracked bone.

'They'll never report this,' Gordon thought bitterly. 'Flass? Admit he got his ass handed to him by an aging cop? Not in a million years. He'll probably say twenty masked men jumped him. Maybe even throw in a few ninja stars for flair.'

He paused at the garage exit, hand resting against the wall for support.

"But thanks," he muttered under his breath, "for reminding me what kind of price a man pays to wear a badge in Gotham."

Then it hit him.

The can.

His eyes flicked back across the concrete. Whoever threw that had saved his life.

He doubled back slowly, pain flaring with every step, until he found it: a dented aluminum can lying by one of the pillars. He picked it up carefully using a handkerchief. The metal was cold and sticky. The label…

Authentic Guangdong Oolong Tea.

Chinese characters, bold and bright.

He squinted.

"Wait... Oolong?" Gordon murmured. "Who the hell drinks this in the department?"

Then a face flickered in his memory—a young man. New to Gotham. Had a reputation for stirring up trouble. But also once said, loudly, in front of Loeb and the press:

"Batman is a hero."

Adam.

"The Chinese detective... didn't he get transferred to Arkham?" Gordon whispered, staring at the can. "Why would he help me?"

No answers came.

Only the faintest curl of a smile.

Elsewhere, in the GCPD evidence archives…

Adam strolled casually through the underground halls, hands in pockets, a lopsided grin on his face. He had made an appointment under false pretenses—but his target today wasn't a crime boss or a corrupt cop.

It was a friend.

"Long time no see," he called out as he entered the evidence vault.

Inside, the man who would one day become Gotham's greatest intellectual criminal—The Riddler—was still nothing more than an eccentric analyst in a sweater vest. He looked up, eyes lighting up.

"Adam! What a surprise. Here to visit or just bored?"

The room was cramped and silent save for the low hum of servers and the sound of water boiling in the corner.

"I'm good," Adam said, waving away the hospitality. "Already had a drink. Oolong, actually."

He patted his damp shirt and pulled out a cigarette.

"As long as you don't mind me lighting one up, I'll be just fine."

The Riddler raised an amused eyebrow and pointed to a bright red NO SMOKING sign on the wall.

"Come on now. Evidence room. Half of this stuff's flammable. Let's not burn the city down, yeah?"

Adam laughed and tucked the cigarette behind his ear. "Man follows the rules. Good on you. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were law enforcement material."

The Riddler gave a modest shrug, still preparing the tea.

Then he paused.

"Wait—what happened to you?" he said, eyes narrowing. "You've got... stains all over you. Like someone threw a drink at your chest. Or... you threw it yourself?"

Adam looked down, winced, and muttered, "Mental note: always close the lid before lobbing a can at someone. Lesson learned."

The Riddler didn't quite follow. He opened his mouth to ask—but was cut off by a sudden commotion outside.

"Somebody call a medic! Flass just got his ass handed to him in the basement!"

"His eyes are swollen shut—looks like someone splashed soda in 'em!"

"Dude's tied up in the nude! Who does that?!"

The Riddler blinked, turned toward the hallway, then looked back at Adam with wide eyes.

"Hah! That smug bastard finally got what was coming to him?" he grinned. "If my goddess heard about this, she'd never forgive him! Serves him right."

Then, his eyes narrowed.

"Wait... Adam. You came in just now. Flass got beat up just now... You didn't...?"

Adam leaned back with a faint smirk and said nothing.

The tea kettle whistled in the silence.

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