Young Justice: A New Reality

 The afternoon sun cast a dull, gray light over Gotham City, its usual dreary haze slightly thicker over the narrow, cracked sidewalks. He walked with his hands in his pockets, head down but eyes scanning the surroundings. The air was stale, tinged with exhaust and a hint of something rotten, and it was too quiet for comfort. Only the occasional distant siren reminded him that he was indeed in a city—and not a very friendly one.

The area around him was a dismal cluster of brick buildings, each more rundown than the last, many of their windows broken and boarded up, graffiti splashed across walls like desperate cries for attention. The few people on the street moved with quick, defensive strides, eyes fixed ahead or cast down, ignoring each other like they were invisible.

After a few blocks, he came upon a tall brick wall that grabbed his attention, standing out in an alley like a twisted monument. It was covered in a sprawling mural of the Joker, a maniacal, smiling face twisted into a grotesque parody of cheerfulness, his green hair slicked back, eyes wild and cruel. Blood-red paint slashed across his grin, transforming it into a hellish, unhinged sneer. The painted words "Welcome to Crime Alley" dripped from the wall, the bold, jagged letters staining the brick like fresh wounds.

A shiver ran down his spine as he took it in. The Joker. Even back in his world, the mere idea of him was terrifying, a monster who wreaked havoc without rhyme or reason. And here, in Gotham, the city bore his scars proudly. He looked away from the mural, hurrying past it with a heightened awareness of exactly where he was.

Crime Alley. Just my luck, he thought, trying not to imagine the stories that had played out here. Stories of fear, loss, and pain that lingered in the very bricks of the East End. He pushed forward, his stomach still twisting with hunger, though now there was an edge of nausea in there too.

For the next half-hour, he wandered, hoping to find anything that looked halfway welcoming. He passed dingy convenience stores, a liquor shop with steel grates over the windows, and a handful of scattered people, their faces haggard and hollow. This wasn't the Gotham he'd seen in stories—it was worse, in every way.

At last, he caught a glimpse of a neon sign hanging above a modest storefront, its bright colours a rare break from the gloom. The sign read "Tony's Pies" in crooked, flickering letters. Relief washed over him as he pushed open the door and stepped into the pizza place, welcomed by the scent of melted cheese, tomato sauce, and a hint of oregano.

Inside, the place was small but cozy, with red-checkered tablecloths and a few tables that had definitely seen better days. A middle-aged woman stood behind the counter, wiping it down as she hummed to herself. She wore an apron stained with flour and sauce, and her dark hair was tied back in a loose ponytail.

"Hey there, sweetheart," she greeted him with a smirk, her eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. "You look half-dead. Lost, are ya?"

"Maybe," he replied, managing a small smile. "Depends on if you've got pizza."

She chuckled, nodding to the menu on the wall. "Pick whatever ya like. But hurry up. I don't have all day."

He scanned the options, finally settling on a classic pepperoni. When it arrived, he barely remembered to thank her before diving in. The first bite was like a shock to his system, the warm, cheesy goodness filling his mouth as he devoured slice after slice. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was until now, and before he knew it, he'd downed the entire pizza.

"Well, you were hungry, all right," she commented, crossing her arms as she watched him with an amused grin.

"Uh… yeah," he muttered, feeling a little embarrassed as he wiped his mouth. "Guess I was."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Want another one to go?"

"Yeah, please," he said, nodding gratefully. "And… could you point me toward any thrift stores or, uh, second-hand shops around here?"

She sighed, leaning against the counter. "Oh, sure, honey. Ain't like we're short on thrift stores in this part of town. There's one a few blocks down, past the liquor store on Sable Row. Not exactly classy, but they've got jackets, blankets, things like that." She gave him a shrewd look. "So what's your story? Kid like you wandering around Crime Alley? Looking for a good way to get mugged?"

He shifted uncomfortably, shrugging. "Just… trying to find my way, I guess."

"Hmph." She clicked her tongue, her gaze softening a little. "Listen, whatever you're mixed up in, stay sharp out there. East End's no place for a kid to be lost. What's your name, anyway?"

Her question hit him like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Nothing. No name, no last name, not even a nickname. His mind was blank, and the silence between them grew heavier by the second.

"Forget it," he said abruptly, his heart racing as he grabbed the pizza box she'd set on the counter. "Thanks for the directions… and the food."

She frowned, her expression shifting to concern as he turned and hurried out the door, his pulse pounding in his ears. He walked aimlessly down the sidewalk, the nameless emptiness gnawing at him like a wound.

How could I not know my own name? he thought, the question twisting in his mind like a knife. He'd been so focused on surviving that he hadn't even realized—his own identity was just… gone. It was as if that part of him had been erased.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice where he was going until he heard a sound—a faint, rhythmic noise coming from a nearby alley. He paused, listening closely, and realized it was the sound of someone breathing heavily and hitting something, grunting as they worked through some sort of exercise.

Curious, he followed the sound to the source, peering around the corner of the building. There, in an old, beat-up gym, was a man working a punching bag with powerful, relentless strikes. He was an older guy, his face lined with age but his body still lean and strong, with movements that radiated experience and skill. The sign above the building read, in faded letters, "Wildcat's Gym."

His breath caught in his throat. Wildcat. No fucking way…

This was Ted Grant's gym. Ted Grant, known to the world as Wildcat, one of the greatest fighters and mentors in superhero history. He'd trained some of the best, including Black Canary and the Batman himself, and here he was, right in front of him, the legendary heavyweight champion and ex-Superhero.

He had to know. He had to see it for himself. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, his heart pounding as the smell of sweat and old leather hit him like a punch.

The man—Ted Grant, he was certain—looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow as he took in the sight of a kid wandering into his gym. "You lost, kid? Or just lookin' to get your ass handed to ya?"

He swallowed, feeling a strange thrill of excitement and fear. "I… I just wanted to see the gym."

Ted snorted, crossing his arms. "Lot of looky-loos come through here. Most don't stay long once they realize it ain't all glitter and spandex. So, you got a reason for bein' here, or what?"

He hesitated, clutching the pizza box like it was a lifeline. "I'm… just looking for a place to train."

Ted eyed him, and for a second, he thought he saw a flicker of something in the man's gaze—curiosity, maybe even respect. "Training, huh? Well, I don't take kids on as projects. But if you're serious about it, you come back tomorrow morning, ready to work. And I don't mean that half-assed 'Oh, I think I'll try this out for a week' kind of thing. You're either in or you're out. Got it?"

He nodded, trying to keep the excitement from showing on his face. "Got it."

"Good." Ted waved him off with a gruff nod, turning back to the punching bag. "And don't think about slacking off, either. If you're gonna train here, you're gonna give it everything. Or else you'll be out the door faster than you came in."

As he left the gym, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. Maybe he didn't have a name, and maybe he didn't know what he was supposed to do here, but now he had a place to start—a chance to build himself up in the heart of Gotham, in one of the city's toughest training grounds.

He might not know who he was, but he knew one thing for sure.

He was in Gotham now. And Gotham would either break him, or it would make him into something new.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the promise he made with Ted, the young teen made his way across Crime Alley to the thrift store the woman from the pizza place had mentioned earlier. It was one of those stores that had survived in Gotham's East End for years, a rundown brick building with a cracked sign that simply read "Second Chances." Inside, aisles were crammed with clothing racks and shelves of old camping supplies, knick-knacks, and random odds and ends, all at prices that barely required his precious cash.

He scanned through each aisle carefully, picking out items with an eye for practicality. For exercise, he grabbed a couple of worn but sturdy t-shirts and some thick, soft sweatpants that looked like they'd withstand the rigors of training at Ted's gym. He also found a couple of pairs of athletic shorts, just loose enough to move comfortably in, and a set of basic sneakers that, while far from brand-new, had enough of a sole left to last him a good while.

Next, he turned his attention to the cold weather section, knowing the Gotham nights were no joke. He found an old but well-insulated black hoodie, along with a durable, slightly oversized military-style jacket with plenty of pockets. He snatched up a couple of thick wool socks and a pair of gloves, thin enough for maneuverability but still offering some warmth.

On one of the shelves, he noticed a small section dedicated to camping supplies. He carefully sorted through it and picked up a few essentials: an old camping stove that still had some life in it, a small mess kit with a pot, pan, and utensils, and a thin but functional sleeping bag. He even lucked out with a tin cup and a battered thermos that seemed sturdy enough to last a few more winters. With a wry smile, he added a couple of candles and a box of waterproof matches to his haul, envisioning his dark warehouse corner lit by their warm glow.

After checking his supplies, he took his items to the counter and handed over enough cash to cover his new gear. It wasn't much, but it felt like a small victory—a way to make this unfamiliar world a little less daunting. Back at the warehouse later, he'd have warmth, a way to cook, and enough gear to get by for the foreseeable future.