[R&R]: 2. Welcome to Gotham City

For the first time in three weeks, I felt the Celestial Forge glow. It was like a radiant canvas in my otherwise pale imagination, covered in cosmic paints of every conceivable notion. Yet, these paints weren’t on the canvas itself but in the space that surrounded it.

There was life in these colors—a breath of force and nature. They promised grandeur, and they were as alluring as a devil’s whisper.

Some colors glowed brighter than others—deeper, richer, and more real. Others were faint but held an inconceivable depth to them. They all represented a milestone in terms of potential—the potential of what my blank canvas would be capable of handling.

All this time, the canvas had remained idle, but now I could feel it changing. Tempting. Beckoning the paints of the radiant cosmos to dye its pristine soul with the breath of knowledge, power, and awe.

A splash of weak paint offered its first decoration to my otherwise pure canvas, and suddenly, I understood. Not in the way of knowing, but in the way of doing.

Oftentimes, people would discard junk. Throw away useless things, ranging from damaged firearms to expired tech. If only they had offered it to me.

And now, you might be wondering what I could do with junk like that. Turns out—a lot.

I had an intuitive understanding of how to assemble broken pieces of firearms into one concrete whole. One that would work. It might have the appearance of slapdash, duct-tape-rigged uncertainty, but it would work. My power basically confirmed that.

It didn’t give me any knowledge of how I would do what I could do but instead acted as guidance. A simple but effective power. And utterly useless to me at the moment.

This was the second power the Celestial Forge had bestowed upon me. The first had manifested when I arrived in this world. Or rather, even before that—in the form of a key within my pocket.

Lost, broken, or utterly demolished, the key would always manage to return to me. And attached to it came an extra-dimensional room—or rather, a hallway. The key itself could be used on a door—any door—and it would always open to my personal reality.

I hadn’t tried using it yet, finding it too risky. The reason for that was simple: while I was inside the portal or hallway, the door would always remain open. It couldn’t be closed from the inside. And the last thing I wanted was for one of the thugs to stumble upon it and be too curious for their own good.

The other reason was that there was no need. Or at least, I hadn't felt one yet. As I mentioned before, it offered a hallway and nothing else, which was essentially useless to me, considering I carried no belongings.

I would need a safe place to properly assess the space. But for that, I would need money. And to earn money, I would need an incentive for people to hire me—not as one of the mobs to act as Batman’s punching bag, but for an actual honest job.

With the Forge now active once more, my prospects suddenly looked brighter than ever. I just hoped that the next time the Forge tried being generous, it would offer something useful for a change.

At the moment, I inhabited one of the underpasses alongside a couple of junkies. But those guys kept to themselves, huddled in a corner and exchanging hushed whispers. I didn't try to listen—I didn't care to—and instead sat looking out into the dim streets of Gotham. It might have been well past 7 in the morning, but it hardly felt so. Once the traffic started picking up though, I would've had to find myself a nice spot to beg.

I wasn't a homeless guy before my sudden arrival in Gotham. In fact, I had a stable job and rented a rather nice apartment. I had never given thought to what might happen should a day come when I would have to survive on the streets. Even the vague notion of it seemed absurd at that time. But now, I was given a first crash course in trying to keep myself alive by feeding off the junk.

That was the hardest part of living on the streets, besides the beatings I would receive from the occasional crook. At least you could toughen those out and learn to avoid getting on their bad side. But the food had always been a problem.

Most of us would do regular dumpster diving, and despite the decrepit state of the city, the socioeconomic diversity between the wealthy and the impoverished was simply too vast. That fortunately meant the trash discarded by the rich could keep us from starving into extinction.

It wasn't easy though. Most of the gangs hoarded even the dumpsters, only offering to those who could bring in profit.

You see, people like us, covered in muck and smelling worse than sewage, weren't allowed to walk into a restaurant to buy food. Leaving aside the matter of whether we could even afford to buy food, we would be politely asked to "fuck off" if they wanted to remain professional, or given a thorough beating if we tried being stubborn. Not that many of us would bother with that in the first place.

The only place we might find acceptance at would be Crime Alley or the Narrows, and I had consciously avoided going anywhere near that place.

Though that might've had to change given the nature of my powers.

Celestial Forge. I didn't understand much of what it represented, except all things crafting or forging, or whatever. It expressed that it was a growth-type power, meant to be taken in small chunks—or perks, as it called them. To be honest, not my ideal type of power or even what I would choose given the choice, but I could make do.

And what are the odds that Forge would activate right as I was thinking about it? I shook my head and focused on the sensation, the colors glowing radiant in my mind. They were layered on a spectrum, though not single-file—more haphazardly strewn about. Some bled into others and created an enchanting corona that I found particularly fascinating, but the most attention-grabbing were indeed the mystical pieces of art.

I didn't know how to describe it, but imagine a single shade of color used to create the most elaborate painting possible. That was not what I was seeing here. In the first place, an artwork of that manner would probably not exist, given the lack of distinction between one region and the other. But somehow, it was possible here. I didn't know how—it just did.

My mostly blank canvas lit up like a flashlight, but as the colors passed by and through it, one particular shade seemed to get attracted. As I was hoping for a stronger power, the result that followed left much to be desired. Nothing had happened.

I had known about this—or was informed of it, at least. In case I happened to miss, my accumulated potential would continue to grow, but it wouldn't try another shade until a certain threshold had been hit. But the next time, I would have to hope for a better power—of that I was assured.

I moved out from the underpass, scratching at my beard as I took to wandering. It had grown dusty—my beard, that is—with mud and grime making it stick together. Three weeks weren't enough for it to grow by much, but it remained irritating nonetheless. Compared to it though, my clothes were still doing fine—if you ignored the rips and stains and the acidic smell of garbage.

At this time of the day, roads were sparsely populated by pedestrians. I had chosen this part of the city—Coventry—for a reason. It was a middle-class district bordering Upper East Side to the east and Upper West Side, which was the home to Gotham City Police Department.

Police in this city were a mixed bunch. You could see both loyalists and those entirely under the thumbs of people like Penguin and Two-Face. Then there were those who only tentatively dipped their hands in the poison without getting too absorbed. They were usually new on the payroll though, guys who had just graduated the academy with the oath still fresh in their minds. Give it a couple years and they would roll around.

I hadn't had the best impression of the guys in navy blue uniforms. When gang guys beat up the man starving to death, they would never show up. But when that same guy finds a park bench to rest upon, they would be ready with their batons, demanding public law and order be maintained.

Though given that it was a comic book verse, and painting the background as dark as possible would only make our hero shine all the brighter. To that end, I found myself contemplating deeply.

Batman was a hero, true, but sometimes I couldn't help but wonder whether Gotham needed a man in a bat suit more than a businessman with assets in the trillions to actually do something about the city. I wouldn't go as far as to claim that I could've been a better man, but even a blind person could see that Gotham needed a stabilizing agent in not just criminal activities but economic ones too.

Most of the vagrants inhabiting the streets were a result of gentrification. Already they had been living in slums and whatnot, but take that from them and suddenly they're begging on the streets just like thousands of others. These men would need jobs, but they weren't provided such. They could use some charity, but all they got was a guy trying to stop a food joint from getting robbed—which they wouldn't benefit from. It was no wonder that many of them tended not to be kindly disposed toward Batman. I knew I wouldn't.

That is, I wouldn't if I didn't have the outsider's context.

Make no mistake, I was still largely dissatisfied with the way Bruce Wayne handled his matters, but I could at least appreciate the work the man was putting in.

I crossed the intersection to arrive at the marketplace. It was already seeing signs of activity, with people seeking to buy fruit and vegetables. I was here to make sure my pockets weighed a little by the end of the day and my stomach didn't ache as much as it was doing now.

With this many people going out and about, some would be sympathetic enough to throw a coin or two my way. Not much, but beggars can't be choosers—literally.

I settled in a corner and kept my head down. From the corner of my eye, I was watching a street stall that sold apples. The front panel had layered bundles of appetizing green fruits, and they were all in the view of the owner. Thankfully, I had learned to plan better for my thefts.

Yes, I was going to steal the fruits. The old me wouldn't even have tried to entertain the thought, but if there was one thing Gotham promised you, it was the promise of change. In the end, struggling against starvation would only leave me weak and suffering, and weakness wasn't something I could afford.

As time went by, the rush of people picked up. I was dropped a penny once in a while and even a nickel two times—I would count that as a fortune. Still, I waited.

By the time midday had arrived, I was joined by two other fellow beggars. They seemed even more decrepit than me, with shredded trousers and hole-marked shirts. That meant my own income had rapidly plummeted to only an occasional penny now. No worries, I wasn't after that in the first place.

I felt Forge shine a resplendent glow, then fall silent as another stroke was missed. No worries though, next time my chance at scoring one of the bigger ones would only increase.

I sat in the shadowed corner for most of the day. By then, many of the stalls were running low on supplies, and even the apple stall only had a couple layers left. Normally, people like me would try their hand during the rush of traffic. Owners would be busy with the customers and no one would notice anything amiss if a single item were to be missing from the whole.

I have learned not to trust false appearances. Just as they have learned to guard against us. The trick was to sugarcoat the lie with truth.

Pushing myself off the ground, I decided to approach the stall. It was darker and probably the only time where I found Gotham's unsettling murk acceptable.

The owner glanced at me as I approached and heaved a tired breath. "You again?" he asked, listlessly.

"I, uh..." I hesitated, fumbling with the coins in my hand. They amounted to little more than a dollar, but I had hidden away a good chunk of them in my pocket. "40 cents is all I got." I offered him the coins.

The man shook his head. "Listen, man, I told you, gotta have at least a couple bucks. That ain't gonna cut it."

Now I know what you're thinking—two dollars for a single apple that barely fit in the palm of one's hand? Ludicrous! But this was Gotham. You aren't just buying fruit—you’re buying danger pay, panic pricing, and probably Penguin's cut and that of half a dozen goons that infest this city.

I adopted a look of reluctance and proffered the coins to the man. "I will pay you the rest tomorrow," I said, with as much sincerity as I could muster.

But I knew what his answer was going to be.

"Alright."

If anything, I was counting on it to—wait, what?

"Y-you're giving it to me?" I said, puzzled.

"Wha? Did I stutter?"

I shook my head and somewhat absentmindedly handed him my hard-earned coins. He tossed me a somewhat bigger apple and I turned around to leave, muttering thanks. All the while, I kept thinking—this wasn't in the script at all. I was meant to steal, not buy.

Oh well, I decided to stop dwelling on what should've been and focused on what I had. Apple. Which would be gone in just under a minute with nothing to prove its existence remaining in this world.

Apples weren't a viable source of food if you wanted to stave off starvation. Thankfully, that wasn't the only thing I would rely on. I patted the remaining coins in my pocket and wandered into an alley.

Not every dumpster promised food in the city, mind you. However, the ones closer to the markets and restaurants would almost always carry some. It was why most of those dumpsters were hoarded by the local gangs. They weren't technically affiliated with anyone influential, but they commanded enough fear and authority that most of us would readily give in to their demands.

If you wanted a share from a dumpster, you would've had to buy it. I had fortunately accumulated enough to hold my place among the destitute.

I walked with my head held low, all the while my mind kept flashing back to the earlier sensation of power. Even now I could feel the potential growing—pulsing and beckoning. And it was growing fast—faster than I had expected. If I was lucky enough, I just might earn a bigger stroke. And I had a feeling that the next power would change everything.

That wasn't to say the power I had latched onto before, called Bandit Gunsmith, was anything to scoff at. It was an incredible power and one I could've leveraged at any moment to earn myself a position in any of the gangs. But I hadn't.

As much as I abhorred my current circumstance, I knew what awaited me should I offer myself on a platter to someone like Penguin. These weren't some back-alley junkies; they were true hardened criminals. And none of the crimes were below their station. That is to say, I would have to be prepared to be rendered into their lifelong slave should I even think of approaching them.

I scratched at my beard as I turned the corner. My gaunt figure cast a dispersed shadow on the ground, and through the dim lighting I saw the blaze of orange and swirl of smoke floating in the air. They were here.

As I approached closer still, I caught sight of one man huddled in the corner tearing through a platter of rice. Wet, sticky, and wrongly colored rice. I gulped, forcing down my revulsion, and moved even closer.

One of them spat something on the ground and looked at me, gaze hardened. I gulped and fished out the entirety of my fortune and proffered it to him. He offered a token glance at it and then looked back at me.

"That it?" he asked; I held my head down. "Street-scum piece of shit!"

I flinched and waited in apprehension at being kicked out. I wasn’t—kicked out, that is—and instead was thrown an aluminum wrapper with a half-eaten piece of bread and something mixed in it. I scrambled to pick it up and found a corner to hide in. To make myself smaller. That always seemed to work, and they didn't bother with me again.

Holding the bread in my hand, I brought it closer to my mouth and nearly gagged from the smell. I forced down whatever was trying to force its way back out from my stomach and chomped down on it. It tasted horrible, as expected, but if it could keep me alive for a little while longer, then I wouldn't mind.

Just as I was ready to take another bite, I felt the Forge move. Celestial Forge in my mind was a marvel of reality-altering powers, but those powers manifested in the way of different colors. Certain colors—though different they may seem—formed a palette. Each palette was given a separate designation, with my earlier power coming from the Crafting Skills domain.

My latest ability, though, came from the Vehicles domain and was one of the weakest colors to exist. It was called Mechanic, and it gave me a thorough ability in terms of keeping machines—vehicles, usually—in top form. It also offered some understanding in terms of how electronics worked, just in case I had to hotwire a car or bypass a security system. Nothing revolutionary, but enough to get me past mundane applications.

Of course, the most important aspect of this power—and one that bordered on supernatural—was the ability to rebuild any motor vehicle from the most devastating of crashes.

It was not the ability I had expected, or even been hoping for, but it was one that would finally allow me to look for a job.

I managed to finish the last of my meal and scurried away from the alley. Though the local gangs imposed unreasonable regulations on poor and homeless, I didn't actually hate them. They like many of us were only trying to survive, though they came about it in their own twisted sort of way. That said, I did resent the way they treated others—by acting high and mighty. Perhaps that was the only grievance I harbored toward them.

Night time in the Gotham is when all the nocturnal creatures would go active—that means crimes were abound. From simple mugging to straight up murder, nothing could be put past the residents of this city driven to madness. Yet, it was also the night when those guilty would hide away in fear and those less daring would cower at the slightest hint of creeping darkness. It was night when the prowler would stalk the streets and punish those who committed heinous crimes.

I had learned to hide among the populace. Even if you lack a rag to cover your shivering body, you could at the very least find safety in the midst of vagrants. It wasn't always like this though. When I had first stepped foot in this city, I had tried to maintain isolation, even spending night at an abandoned shipyard where no one would stumble upon me. I had been wrong.

I still carried the bruises from that night, as a sign of my ignorance. Since then I had learned to hide among the masses, learned to make myself invisible. David Foster as an individual didn't exist in this street, just another homeless vagrant trying to live another day.

Finding a corner thankfully was easy enough. Though it smelled of trash and sewage, my sense of smell had grown numb enough to allow me to fall asleep. But sleep didn't come easy that night, as I found myself returning to that display of Cosmic Might swirling inside my head.

Celestial Forge might be a force of creation and one geared toward crafting, but that didn't make it any less awesome. These weren't just abilities offered to guarantee success in whatever craft I partook in; no, these were the abilities that would allow for the creation of objects and items of immense value and power. But more than that, they represented a limitless potential.

The same way creativity was limitless.

And they would all belong to me. The very prospect of what lay ahead excited me immensely, as even now I could feel the echo of blinding canvas raising in brilliance. It was truly splendid.

I focused on the vast cosmos around it. Though a scene of chaos, dotting of colors in a haphazard manner, they somehow maintained an order to their dance—grouping themselves into thirteen distinct palettes.

One of them I recognized as Crafting Domain, from where I had gotten my Bandit Gunsmith ability. Other one was called Vehicles Domain and the Mechanic ability originated from there. There was another palette I recognized, though quite distinct from others, and was where the Access Key had come from.

I fumbled in my tattered coat pocket to pull out the seemingly ordinary key. Had it not explicitly mentioned that loosing it was impossible, I might have acted more cautiously and hidden it somewhere safe. As it stood, I had no need to.

This Access Key had arrived from the Domain that was called Personal Reality and was also the only palette to remain dormant.

When Celestial Forge had activated this morning—though I couldn't figure out why on this specific morning—all but one palette had livened up. All but the Personal Reality. Though it was a mystery and one I felt inclined to solve, I was also coginzant enough to realize that it wasn't something I could solve.

Celestial Forge might give me the ability to figure out everything else, but it wouldn't be including itself. Or I reckoned it wouldn't, but then again I wasn't exactly sure of its proper mechanism.

In any case, with Bandit Gunsmith and Mechanic, I had enough ability to put myself off the streets should I chose to. I wouldn't, of course. Not because it would put me under the radar of some criminal mastermind, but because I was an anomaly.

David Foster, a 25 year old male didn't exist in this reality. He had no address or proof of identity. And the last thing I wanted was to end up on Batman's radar. If there was one thing I feared more than getting taken in by some gang, then it was Bruce Wayne's paranoia.

I stuffed the key back in my pocket and rolled over to get some sleep, and of course that's exactly when the Forge knocked on metaphorical mental doors. I waited in quiet anticipation as splash of paint burst through my mind.

And it missed.

Of course it missed, what did I expected. I sighed and watched as the potential of my soul climbed to even higher degrees. Next time, I just might score one of the mid-sized abilities, though it would depend on my luck.

Feeling exhausted, I allowed to sleep to lull me into its comforting embrace and within moments I was asleep.

Morning found me among the crowd of homeless, waiting in line for our share of water. Unlike food, you didn't have to pay for it. Gotham City Reservoir promised a steady supply of fresh water. Even though it carried the risk of some biochemical infestation—as a result of some villain trying to sabotage it—the residents barely, if ever, showed apprehension when drinking from the tap.

It was both endearing to see the resilience of the human spirit, which seemed to bounce back from even the most tragic disasters, yet disheartening to learn that people had gotten so used to their barely functional environment that they had learned to consider it normal.

My turn arrived, and I rubbed some cold water on my face. This was the only cleaning we were entitled to, and anything else would require payment to access one of the bathing establishments. Truly, Gotham City as a whole functioned worse than a penitentiary. One couldn't help but wonder if that was the reason many would turn to a life of crime. Even if caught, the end result would undoubtedly be better than rotting away on the streets of this city.

Unfortunately, I had no intention of spending time in a prison. The weight of the Celestial Forge pulsing with promise in the back of my head served as a constant reminder.

Having sated my thirst, I took to walking along the streets, passing homeless and destitute. All the while, I noted the potential of the Forge burning in my mind. For some reason, it had made no progress while I was asleep. Perhaps the condition for constant build-up was for me to remain awake.

In any case, I was headed toward a level of potential where I could secure any of the mid-sized abilities. That left me in a conundrum—whether I should wait for it to establish the connections or start looking for a job right away.

Celestial Forge might be awesome, but its awesomeness depended deeply on how exploitative I could be. If I didn't gather resources for my start-up, it wouldn't matter if I had the knowledge to build a literal starship. Resources meant I needed money, and for that I needed to get a job.

A job as a mechanic—a really good mechanic—was probably not that difficult of a prospect, but I couldn't help but wonder if I was simply wasting my time. What if the next power happened to give me the ability to build things from junk? Considering how much junk there was to be found in some abandoned places in Gotham, I could very well be looking to establish a name for myself. At that point, would it really matter whether I had a job?

I had spent the past week learning as much about Gotham as possible, though efforts centered mostly toward the gangs. Again, I didn't mind the local petty versions of beat-up junkies, but that was mostly because I found myself emotionally removed from the inhabitants of this place.

Even now, it was hard for me to look at these people and think—yes, these people had indeed suffered terrible atrocities under the hands of people like Penguin and Joker. That they weren't just faceless images in the background, but real victims of gentrification and strangulation.

Perhaps that was why I wanted those people who only served to worsen the state of this already decrepit city to also suffer the consequences of their doings. It wasn't an urge born of heroic desires to serve the masses; just that if it burned them along the way, then all the better.

That said, I did need some level of power to act upon those thoughts. More than that, I needed to put myself in a better position—one where I wouldn't struggle for food or shelter and could freely access my dimensional box.

I realized with a start that I had walked all the way from Dillon Avenue to Murphy Avenue. Looking in the distance at the harbor, I found myself contemplating my future.

The DC universe was fraught with danger, and Gotham was a different sort of beast. I had the potential to rise to heights unknown even to me. Though I could choose to be a hero, I knew I wouldn't make a good one. Neither did villainy appeal to me.

All I had ever wanted was to seek comfort. Though I wasn't beyond providing help where I could, I also wouldn't go out of my way to risk my life for strangers. To some it might sound callous, but to me it was just human. Even if some higher power had given me access to all these awesome abilities, I wouldn't be revolutionizing the world any time soon.

Perhaps when I was strong enough, had enough resources, and could guarantee my own safety. Perhaps. Until then, my only mission would be to grow as much as possible.

To survive.

I smiled and turned around as the golden streaks of sunlight broke free of the gloomy stretch. All around me, the noise of a bustling metropolis humed with life—a stark contrast to the darker underbelly of this city.

I rounded a corner to find a solitary spot, where no one would, thankfully, chance upon me any time soon. I sat and braced myself as the Forge whirred to life, the colorful streaks swirling in startling cadence with beautiful rhythm.

The canvas of my soul, blank save a few streaks of paint, shone a resplendent glow, with the palette orbiting around it like planets would around the sun.

A streak of brilliance brushed against the canvas—easily one of the strongest abilities in the Forge—and just as I wilted in defeat at another miss, the streak split into two, the stronger part continuing to trail in the distance, leaving behind a weak splash to coat my canvas.

And suddenly, I was a scientist with an actual doctorate in the field of Mechanical Engineering.

[A little side note: I was supposed to have added this in the previous chapter, but I forgot-silly me. Anyhow, there are few things to take note of while reading this story.

First of all, credit goes to all the users who have contributed to the Jumpchain as a whole. Then a big thanks to Lord_Roustabout without whom this wouldn't have been possible.

Now, let's talk about Celestial Forge:

Word to Point conversion will be 100 points for every 1000 words, moderately paced. We roll every 1000 words, and if a connection is missed the points will be banked and used on the next roll.

However, I have decided to add limitations with the Personal Reality Domain. First of all, the domain will remain dormant for the most part, and only every 10,000 words will we perform a roll. Depending on the number of points three rolls will occur, though it retains the risk of missing but that's the usual with Celestial Forge.

I guess that's all... If I happen to remember something important, you will be notified.]

Jumpchain abilities this chapter:

Access Key (Free): This is a special key which lets you access your Personal Reality and its contents. When inserted into any door with a lock, the door can be opened to reveal a gateway into Personal Reality at a predetermined location within it. You are the only person who can take the key out of the lock, the gateway remains open as long as the key is in the lock, and if key is ever lost or stolen you will find it in your pocket a few minutes later. You cannot close the door as long as you are inside the Personal Reality.

Entrance Hall (Free): This is the room your Access Key opens a door to. It starts off as a 5 meter cube with blank white walls, floor, and ceiling, as well as a couple of doors, one leading outside, the other into your Cosmic Warehouse, with additional doors appearing leading to other extensions as these get added to your Personal Reality. Feel free to customize this Entrance Hall as you see fit. Additional Halls can, at your discretion, be linked only to certain keys or only to certain extensions. This allows you to have an entry hall just for skiing if you want.

Bandit Gunsmith (Borderlands) (100): You have amazing technical insight and when shown a pile of broken weapons or energy shields you can use parts from some to reassemble others into decent condition. Don't expect it to be pretty, but you can nail 15 repeater pistols together to make a functional shotgun, or use bits of five shields to make one that works.

Mechanic (Fast and Furious) (100): Machines, especially ones that go fast, just speak to you. You have no problem fixing up and tuning any motor vehicle, and can rebuild them after the most devastating crashes. You can keep anything in top condition with just a few simple tools. Of course, you also need to understand the electronics, so hotwiring cars (and sometimes, alarm systems) is not a problem either.

Scientist: Machinery (Girl Genius) (100): You have a DOCTORATE! And skill in ACTUAL SCIENCE! That doesn't need you to go crazy to work! Admittedly, it won't break the fabric of space and time, but meh. Tradeoffs everywhere you go. You're highly trained in one field, and can easily apply its principles to your work. After all, building a crazed abomination upon the natural order usually requires at least a smidgen of understanding of which bones are supposed to go where (Even if you end up changing them around a little). At the very least, you're also in the genius range of standard intelligence.