DC: I Became A Godfather

Weaver's hands trembled as he flipped through the file.

Then, silence.

His expression turned sour. His eyes scanned the papers again, this time not for words—but for what wasn't there.

Nestled between the bland reports was a fat envelope. He tore it open and found a wad of bills. One thousand five hundred dollars. Crisp, counted, and returned.

The meaning couldn't have been clearer.

In every corner of the world, there's only one reason men give money back to their superior:

We're done handling your dirty work.

The reports confirmed it. Each section detailed trivial, bureaucratic fluff—minor violations about poor lighting, lack of cleaning, or unattractive staff. Nothing substantial. Nothing that mattered.

And worst of all, nothing about shutting down Adam's operations.

"What the hell is this?!" Weaver bellowed, slamming the folder to the floor. His foot came down hard, stomping it repeatedly, as if that would change its content. "You think I'm a fool?! He bought them! That bastard ADAM actually bought out my entire team?!"

His breath came heavy and ragged. He walked to the window, seething.

Beyond the glass: Gotham's glittering skyline.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt.

"Fine," he muttered. "You want to play games? I'll play. Let's see who survives to laugh last."

The following days passed quietly.

Which, for a city like Gotham, was often the most ominous sign of all.

Detective James Gordon trudged across the parking lot beneath Gotham General. His coat hung heavy with case files, his eyes half-lidded from disappointment.

No reply again.

He had submitted his transfer request weeks ago, asking for a different precinct, a less politicized command. But the higher-ups didn't bother with a yes or a no. They left it open, suspended, unfinished.

He sighed and rubbed his temple.

"Why the hell aren't the lights on?" he mumbled, noticing the gloom in the basement lot. He flicked the wall switch. Nothing.

Darkness clung to the pillars like mold. Only thin strands of natural light trickled down through grates in the vents above, casting long skeletal shadows across the concrete floor.

The place looked more like a mausoleum than a parking structure.

Still muttering, Gordon made his way toward his car, arms full of folders and a mind full of irritation. He was already stewing over the fact that Commissioner Loeb was off attending some world peace summit in Metropolis.

World peace? Gordon scoffed inwardly. Gotham's burning and that clown is giving speeches?

As he fumbled for his keys, a voice echoed behind him.

"Evenin', Lieutenant. You clocking out early?"

The tone was mocking. Lethargic. Dangerous.

Gordon turned.

Four men stood by the exit ramp. All of them wore worn leather jackets, muscle-cut and stocky, faces hidden behind mismatched wrestler masks. Each one had a wooden bat slung over his shoulder like they'd just left a ballgame.

Except this wasn't a game.

The tallest one smirked, stepping forward.

"Might wanna send a message to the missus. You're not goin' home tonight. Could be a hospital bed… or a morgue slab. Depends how quick you learn to mind your business."

The others spread out, circling him, closing in. In seconds, Gordon had no exits.

But the veteran cop didn't move.

He just stared, still as a stone, his face unreadable in the dim light.

"What's the matter, old man?" the leader taunted. "You mute now? This is your cue to beg? Maybe next time you'll think twice before interfering in another man's profits."

No answer.

Only a slow inhale.

Then—

WHOOSH.

Gordon exploded into motion. The folder he had been carrying whipped upward—papers flying everywhere in a flurry of white. A distraction.

Before anyone could react, he stepped forward and swung.

The leader caught a full-force blow to the jaw and spun mid-air, crashing into a parked sedan.

The others staggered back, stunned.

In Gordon's hand was a metal baton. It had been wrapped inside the folder the whole time.

"You should've checked my service record," Gordon said through gritted teeth. "I've handled worse than you in countries most people can't even pronounce."

He moved with frightening efficiency. One of the thugs lunged with a bat—Gordon parried it, ducked low, and struck clean into the man's kneecap. A crack followed. Then a scream.

Another came from the right—Gordon sidestepped, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him spine-first into a concrete pillar.

Within a minute, all four were down. Moaning. Coughing. Some clutching ribs. Some barely conscious.

Gordon was breathing hard. Knees stiff. But still standing.

He wiped blood off his temple.

"Consider yourselves lucky," he said between pants. "If this was the battlefield, none of you would be breathing. I left your ribs intact. You'll walk out—eventually."

Then—

A whistle sliced the silence.

Gordon turned.

Too slow.

CRACK.

A bat collided with the back of his skull. His glasses flew, his legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, vision spinning.

He coughed, blood in his mouth, and heard laughter.

Low. Arrogant. Familiar.

"Well, look at that. The army vet falls."

The speaker stepped out of the shadows, mask still on. But the voice needed no introduction.

Flass.

The Special Ops captain from GCPD. Ex-Navy SEAL, according to his own constant bragging. A man known more for power than loyalty.

"You forgot," Flass sneered, gripping the bat tighter. "There's more than one soldier in the department."

Gordon groaned, trying to push himself up. His arms shook.

"You've made a lotta enemies," Flass continued, circling. "This is just a little warning. A tap. A hello from the people you crossed."

He grinned under the mask.

"Don't worry. I'll stop short of the hospital. But you won't walk straight for a while."

—

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