[center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/VkF8N7Gs/batman-flashpoint-v2-by-angel-of-deathx1-d8um0r5-pre.jpg[/img][/center] [h3]Gotham City[/h3] “I believe in Gotham City.” Hamilton Hill took a rather large swig from his glass of scotch and looked out the window at the impressive view of the city below. “My grandparents came here from Kentucky during the war, my grandfather was looking for any opportunity to escape the coal mines. He labored in a factory so that his son could become a lawyer and judge, so that his son’s son could one day become mayor." A soft smile played on his lips as he thought back to some distant memory of his grandfather. "The city isn’t without her flaws and imperfections, but… she’s done alright by me.” Hill turned away from the window and stared across the desk at the man sitting behind it. Bruce Wayne looked at Mayor Hill with indifferent blue eyes. “And my love for this city is why I turn to you. Falcone, Maroni, Sionis, they’re all just nouveau riche wannabes. The name Wayne means something in this city, that name rings out from the slum corners to the corridors of power–” “If you could get to the question,” said Bruce. “And stop kissing my ass, Mr. Mayor.” Hill smirked and raised his glass to Bruce. “Can’t shit a shitter.” He drained the rest of the glass and put it on the edge of the desk. Bruce stared at the glass in silence for a long moment before Hill got the hint and put it on a coaster. “I, umm… am in a bit of a pickle you see,” Hill said, clearing his throat. “It stems back from my days as a law student. I did something rather rash, I’d rather not get into the details…” Bruce watched the fop sweat begin to form on Hill’s forehead. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a lint covered handkerchief he used to mop his face with. Hill was a four term mayor seeking a fifth term next fall, the man had traded away his sense of shame or impropriety and even decency in the same of reelection. Whatever he was hiding, it had to be horrible. “But suffice to say, during my first campaign someone wrote a crude letter threatening to leak the details of that unfortunate event to the world at large if I did not pay them a certain amount. I obliged them and that seemed to put the matter to bed, until my reelection campaign four years later. And every reelection cycle since they reach out and ask for more and more and more. This time I simply cannot afford their asking price! I need your help to find the blackmailer and end my nightmare once and for all. I’ll pay you, name your price.” Bruce let the silence in the room linger as he stared at Hill with an annoyed look on his face. He knew the man was a born politician, a silent room would be the worst thing in the world for him. He let the man squirm in silence for nearly a minute before he spoke. “For almost ten years now,” Bruce said softly. “I’ve tried to donate to your campaigns, including that time you ran for congress and lost in a landslide. But my donations were always returned. I’ve never known a politician to turn away free money.” “It’s the optics,” Hill mumbled. “It just wouldn’t look good. I do the same with Falco– uhh, others. I just don’t want to answer all those pesky questions reporters would have.” Bruce nodded and put his hands together, leaning back slightly in his plush leather chair. “And now you come to me, like a thief in the night. Your chauffeur parks five blocks away, you take the freight elevator up to my office –” Bruce motioned towards the empty glass on his desk. “You drink my scotch, and you ask for help. No, you demand it. And you offer to pay me? Like I’m some errand boy.” Bruce stood and slowly walked around the desk. He wrapped an arm around Hill’s shoulder and walked with him towards the large glass window. “Mr. Mayor, people like me don’t deal in simple things as money. If you’d taken the time to know me, then you’d know that we have at least one thing in common: favors are our currency. You’re not asking me to do work for you, you’re asking me to do a favor. A favor which you’ll pay back one day.” Hill went for his soaked handkerchief again, dabbing it on his cheeks. “I’m not some common hood, Mr. Mayor: I’m a Wayne.” With his free arm, Bruce pointed to the city that stretched out below them. “Like you said earlier in your sycophantic rant, this city was built on the backs of my ancestors. They didn’t hop off some boat from Sicily one hundred years ago and call themselves American. You won’t be the first politician in debt to a Wayne, and you won’t be the last.” Bruce let Hill go, pushing him away slightly. Hill lurched forward against the glass window and caught himself against it while Bruce walked back around the desk. He sat down and spread his hands, letting a cold smile spread across his face. “Besides, Mr. Mayor, if not for my grandfather, how do you think your father would have become a judge? How do you think you were allowed to run for mayor in the first place? Back in the day, nothing happened in this city without my father's say so. You say you’re afraid to be in my debt, but the truth is you were in my debt before I was even born.” He saw Hill’s face flush and Bruce knew he’d struck a nerve. “Now, tell me all you can about your blackmailer.” [hr] [h3]Finger Housing Projects[/h3] The Finger operation ran like clockwork. The high-rises and low-rise courtyards operated 24/7, selling cocaine, heroin, crack, weed, pills, whatever you needed. Everyone in Gotham and the greater tri-state area all came to the Finger regardless of class or social standing. Stockbrokers in power suits lined up alongside dope fiends, minivans with the little annoying stick families idled behind crackheads pushing shopping carts. The demand served as a testament to both the product and the business acumen of the Skeevers Bros. Jefferson and Julius Skeevers had once been corner boys selling dime bags and eight balls once upon a time. The life of the corner boy was usually short and violent, you either died by the time you were eighteen or in jail for most of your life. The people at the top always changed due to the usual violence and backstabbing, but Jeff and Julius were always good soldiers. If the streets were a game of chess, the two brothers would have been pawns, but they were the smartest and most dangerous pawns in the game. After one management change too many they decided they were done being pawns. A few guns and a few connections with the west side dealers for product, and they slowly but surely took over the east end block by bloody block. An alliance with Carmine Falcone gave them all the product and men they would ever need to control the entire city’s drug supply. Jeff stood on the balcony of his apartment at the top of one of the high-rises. He smoked a cigarette and watched the traffic. A dark suburban pulled out of the high-rises and headed down the avenue. That would be the midnight re-up. A group of armed muscle went around the spots and resupplied the dealers with drugs and did cash drops. The crew chiefs were responsible for making sure the inventory count was correct, both in cash going out and drugs coming in. If the count was off both the dealer and his boss would faced the consequences. “Goddamn,” Julius said as he came out on the balcony. “It’s too cold to be out here this time of night. What are you doing?” “Watching,” Jeff said, exhaling a column of smoke. “Look at this shit, Jules, all this territory and all this product, all the work we put in… it’s just amazing.” “Imagine if we’d been born white,” Julius said with a chuckle. “We’d be CEOs or some shit.” Julius bumped his chest with his fist, Jefferson doing the same, before they dapped each other up. “Us,” said Jeff. “Us,” replied Julius. “Always us.” The two brothers looked out proudly at their empire below. What they didn’t know was that while they watched, they were being watched. It was true that they had built up an empire. But like the people before them, and the people before them... [img]https://i.postimg.cc/gJZtxjzy/ufly3q3usmm41.webp[/img] Empires were made to fall.