DC: I Became A Godfather

Adam hadn't taken Ed to a working girl out of malice or mischief. It wasn't even about being a bad influence. No—this was a preventative measure.

In one timeline, Edward Nygma snapped over love and became a murderer. Adam had seen the show. The man went from eccentric to homicidal over a redhead and a poorly timed kiss. So yeah, this? This was risk management. Emotional crisis mitigation. Psychological defibrillation through paid affection.

There'd even been a study back in his original world. People who killed over love often had scratches under their fingernails—signs they'd struggled at the edge before doing something stupid. But those who offed themselves over debt? Clean hands. No fight. Just resignation.

"Love," Adam had concluded, "can be cured—with time… or a discount."

Now, Ed was still sitting in the same dingy motel room, pants on this time, sulking as he pestered the woman with one overly philosophical complaint after another.

Adam leaned on the chipped doorframe, half-listening and mentally preparing for damage control.

Then—surprisingly—the girl spoke first.

"Hey," she said, dabbing at her lipstick in the mirror. "What's your friend do, anyway? He looks... off."

Adam jumped in before Ed could start spouting nonsense about riddles and reverse-engineered crossword algorithms.

"He's a TV salesman," Adam said smoothly. "Been in the biz for years. Why, you got a problem with that?"

The girl didn't even flinch. She adjusted her eyeliner, then replied with the tone of someone who had seen too much to be impressed anymore.

"Relax, officer. That's not what I meant." She clicked her tongue and went on, "Say someone walks into your store—quiet, polite, buys the first TV they see. Doesn't haggle. Doesn't test the speakers. Doesn't even ask for a discount. You gonna give him a special deal for being nice?"

Adam and Ed shook their heads.

"Now imagine another guy comes in. Touches every screen, asks a dozen dumb questions, insults your lighting, wastes an hour of your time—and then buys the cheapest model. You gonna charge him extra for the headache?"

Ed answered this one. "Nope."

The girl turned, smirking faintly as she met their eyes in the mirror. "Exactly. So why should I treat this any different? I don't charge based on how fast someone finishes. I charge by the job."

Adam winced. Ed blinked. The logic was brutal, but fair.

Ed sat silently for a second, then offered hopefully, "I still have $30 left. How about... another round?"

She didn't even look at him. "Fifty."

Adam raised an eyebrow and shot back, "Fifty? Wait a second. What did you use to 'get the deal done'? Mouth? Hands? If you're sticking to policy, then the sequel should be half-off. $25. That's fair market rate."

The girl finally turned, raising an eyebrow of her own. "It's up to you."

And just like that, Ed's eyes lit up like a man who just discovered a second helping at a buffet. He looked at Adam with newfound awe, like he'd just watched him haggle a Ferrari down to the price of a toaster.

Adam sighed and stepped out into the hallway. The Riddler's enthusiasm was both endearing and exhausting.

"He's like a damn toddler with a flamethrower," Adam muttered, lighting a cigarette and letting the smoke drag away his annoyance. "Except the toddler is also a future villain, and the flamethrower is... his libido."

Around him, muffled groans echoed through the thin motel walls—Arkham's symphony of quick cash and quicker decisions.

"Is this really a comic book world?" Adam asked the ceiling. "Because it feels like I'm living inside a brothel-themed sitcom where everyone pays taxes."

For a fleeting second, he considered heading back inside to "experience the culture" himself. But the mental image of a woman with rotten teeth and fake eyelashes leaping at him like a Venus flytrap killed the urge instantly.

"Yeah... nope. Still a virgin, but at least I'm a clean virgin," he muttered.

Suddenly, the peace shattered.

"Hey! What's wrong with you?" the girl yelled from inside. "You've just been lying there! You better be done in ten minutes or the price goes up!"

Ed's reply came with the wheeze of a man arguing from the gallows.

"Wait, wait! The blood flow is complicated! If I push it all down, my brain stops working—do you want me to lose my IQ just for a second round?!"

"You wanna rest, or you wanna work? Decide!"

Adam exhaled a cloud of smoke and chuckled. The motel didn't even try to soundproof its rooms. What would be the point? It barely qualified as a building.

He called out, "Hey, Ed! Turn on the TV! Maybe there's a 'how-to' channel. I've seen places like this offer tutorials on... hospitality."

Inside, Ed scrambled to his feet.

"Really?! Let me check—wait, where's the remote?"

Adam smirked, hearing things fall and clatter as Ed tore the room apart.

"Adam! All I see is static snow! You sure there's a channel here?"

Adam blinked. Then he remembered.

Oh right. This isn't his Earth. This is Gotham.

He facepalmed. "Damn. Forgot I'm in a comic book universe. No pay-per-view education here."

The girl wasn't amused.

"Officer, I've worked in this business eight years. Ain't one motel in this district got those channels. You know how much they charge for that? Landlords around here won't even pay for heat."

Adam gave her a sheepish look through the doorway. "Noted. My bad."

But then—

A spark.

Not the cigarette.

A thought.

It shot through his mind like lightning.

—

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