Broken(DC)

POV: Lex Luthor

This year never ceases to amaze me, as if it's one celebration after another. I seize every opportunity fate throws my way with calculated precision. It was pleasant to hear that Brian is back. A man like him can prove useful, especially with his innovations. However, his constant trips across different states are distracting him, which displeases me. But alas, I can't control him yet.

A new phase of my plan is unfolding. Panic and fear have forced the government to grant me rights to any and all developments, no matter how dangerous they may be. Resources, funding, and specimens are flowing in at an unprecedented scale. Another alien attack drove them back to my doorstep, followed by the accelerator explosion, which led to the emergence of numerous metahumans. Realizing the threat, they hurried to seek my help. I warned them, but they have no one to blame but themselves for their shortsightedness.

The first samples of metahumans are already in my possession, but studying them has proven to be an incredibly complex process. Understanding what drives their bodies to acquire specific abilities is nearly impossible. The origins of these powers are unpredictable, and a failed experiment confirmed this. I had to recruit new personnel after the old team decided to take an indefinite leave. Unpleasant, yes, but mistakes are valuable lessons. I've come to accept that.

But the most significant discovery for me is kryptonite. Superman's reign is nearing its end. I will show everyone that he is no god, just a pitiful imitation a false idol. A few shards, recovered from the alien ship, slice through General Zod's skin with ease, which means they can kill Superman too.

Just a little more, and his downfall will be complete, while I rise above him.

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POV Brian Forman

However, I couldn't stay in the city for long I had a grand plan to eradicate crime in Gotham.

Now, I sit in my newly acquired apartment, reflecting on my journey. This old city, in one way or another, always stirs nostalgia. Rising from my chair, I stopped indulging in reminiscence. There's still much work to do, and it promises to be anything but easy.

One of my more recent problems is my monstrous second form. The last time I transformed during a training session, I completely lost control of myself, as if someone else had seized command of my body. It was a strange, vile, and uncontrollable feeling. Since then, I've tried to minimize the times I transform. I'll need to rely more on my intellect than my raw power. My fireball remains my trump card, and I've mastered it, along with my other abilities. With the sins of humanity visible to me their actions, prayers, emotions it's nearly impossible for anyone to deceive me.

Portals have become an indispensable part of my movement. By leaving a small mark imbued with my power, I can teleport back to it, as well as to any location within my line of sight, which stretches for miles. My human body has long surpassed ordinary limit my skin's durability, my speed, and my strength are phenomenal. Only Superman might stand a chance against me.

Upon arriving in Gotham, my first priority was gathering information on the city's most influential figures. At the top of the list was the Penguin, who had become the city's mayor. His power was absolute, and his warehouses, filled with weapons, rendered him untouchable. The police were forced to cooperate with him, further deepening the city's corruption.

Next was the family of the former crime kingpin Carmine Falcone, whose influence had waned significantly but who still controlled certain streets where sheer numbers worked to their advantage. The family was now led by his daughter, who had taken over after Carmine died of old age. She lacked strong authority among the family's members, and her orders were frequently questioned.

Then there are the so-called "special establishments," gathering places for criminals. These places have their own people and resources, which pose additional challenges. Finally, there are the small gangs involved in thefts, raids, and drug dealing. Their numbers are overwhelming.

Acting quickly and decisively would lead to a massive war, resulting in the deaths of both criminals and innocent civilians. I don't want that many lives on my conscience. I made a promise to change and to atone for my sins by working for the good of humanity, no matter how difficult it may be. That leaves a slow but reliable approach starting from the top and working my way down.

The Penguin is not just a figurehead but a criminal genius capable of anything. He won't relinquish his power under any circumstances. The events of two years ago are proof of that.

These events, called the "Mafia Madness," gave no warning of the bloodbath to come. Suddenly, all of Penguin's operations were attacked by numerous gangs under someone's command. They struck him hard, forcing him to flee with whatever he could. But it wasn't ordinary thugs he was up against, the kind he could easily handle. These were mercenaries well-armed, battle-hardened professionals.

Thus began the two-year war between Penguin and the unknown player, a conflict that ended poorly for both sides. Unwilling to relinquish his power, Penguin resorted to extreme measures, blowing up several buildings that he believed housed his enemies. He wiped not only them but also innocent civilians off the map. The government and authorities seemed blind to the chaos, as if Gotham had ceased to exist.

I couldn't understand why no one intervened then, and I still don't understand it now.

As suddenly as it all began, it subsided. After such a tragedy, the criminals seemed to realize the extent of their actions. Perhaps they decided to declare a truce. But that's hard to believe. More likely, they simply reached some kind of agreement, maintaining their conflict in secret.

From that moment on, the Penguin's nickname stuck with him he consumes everything but gives nothing in return. His authority became unchallenged, and thus he rose to become Gotham's king, climbing from a worthless punk to the city's unshakable pinnacle.

This is why dealing with him requires the utmost caution. First and foremost, he must not win the next mayoral term. His men are everywhere, and his street authority is unbreakable. But not everyone supports him out of fear alone. Many vote for him because they fear that without the Penguin, things will become even worse. They need hope for a better future one without a criminal at the helm.

In this, I have been somewhat fortunate. By some incredible stroke of luck, the new commissioner is James Gordon. I've known him since childhood. He's always been willing to sacrifice himself for others, solving countless cases and bringing many criminals to justice. Gordon never gives up until he finds the truth. A man like him leading the police could bring much-needed reform, but it won't be easy for him most of the force is already on the Penguin's payroll.

The second factor working in my favor is the Dark Knight, as they've come to call him. Dressed like a bat, he operates only in the dead of night. His movements are difficult to track, and he terrifies criminals, leaving their unconscious bodies for the police to find. Of course, most of them are soon released, but his actions still force them to tread carefully. With attention focused on him, I have room to act.

I've established a small security firm under a proxy. Anyone who knows me from my other life will immediately recognize my handiwork, so I have to start from scratch. I can't even hire familiar people. But with my ability to see souls, I can identify trustworthy individuals those who truly want a better future for their city.

In a couple of hours, I have a meeting with the head of a local news channel. I decided to reach out to them, hoping to win them over. I've observed other channels, but all of them, in one way or another, are under the Penguin's control. This one, however, remains independent, though they've struggled financially and faced constant pressure. They mostly publish truthful stories but avoid touching on sensitive topics. Tarnishing the mayor's reputation a bit wouldn't hurt.

This city doesn't just have a unique character; it changes people. Even I couldn't remain unaffected by its influence. Now dressed in darker tones a black suit, an equally dark cloak, and understated steel wristwatch I look the part. My hair is combed to the side, slightly disheveled.

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Walking through the streets, I couldn't help but feel nostalgic.This city holds countless stories and legends within its walls. It was around noon, and the streets were crowded with people. Rarely could one spot a smile on their faces. That hadn't changed, though many other things had. Numerous new buildings had sprung up, and the appearance of many older ones had transformed.

A small ice cream stand caught my eye, and I froze in place when I saw it. Even the man behind the counter was the same. Memories surfaced of walking home from school, buying a cone for myself and Alice, and chatting as we made our way back. Approaching the stand, I glanced at the prices, which had risen considerably.

"One chocolate scoop, please," I said, handing over a five-dollar bill. It was a lot, but I was glad to see this man was still doing well.

"Of course," he replied, skillfully scooping the ice cream and placing it in a cone. "Here you go. You know, your face looks familiar. Have we met before?" he asked, studying me intently.

"Maybe. I used to come here as a kid," I answered.

"That's it! Little Brian! I remember now. You used to come here with a girl… What was her name?" he asked, struggling to recall.

"Alice," I reminded him.

"Yes, Alice. You two disappeared so suddenly," he said.

"We moved to another city," I explained.

"Well, anywhere's better than here, I'd imagine. Decided to come back?" he asked.

"Just visiting the old city and some old friends," I replied.

"Glad you didn't forget. Things are the same here we're just getting by," he said, handing me my change.

"Keep it, and here's a little extra a tip for all the delicious ice cream and the memories," I said, slipping him another hundred dollars. I was genuinely touched that he remembered me after all these years.

"Thanks. Come by again sometime," he said. We said our goodbyes, and I continued down the street, not eating the ice cream, just holding it in my hand.

Taking one lick, I felt the familiar, pleasant taste. Slightly lost in my own thoughts, I began to ponder. Should I fight against the crime in this city, or should I leave it to the people themselves? Could my good intentions lead to even worse consequences? It was a complicated question that would take time to answer. But sitting idly by would be an even worse choice. I would prepare a solid foundation for the fight and be ready to act at a moment's notice.

Suddenly, I was jolted from my thoughts as a young woman bumped into me. I possessed remarkable reflexes and could avoid any danger, but I'd been so absorbed in my thoughts that I noticed no one around me. The ice cream cone completely stained my cloak.

Looking at her, I noticed who I had run into. She stopped, out of breath, unsure of what to say. She had fiery red hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks, and a kind face, despite her glasses. She was dressed simply, wearing a sweater and jeans.

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"Oh, excuse me, sir, I didn't mean to please forgive me," she said quickly, almost stumbling over her words. I looked her in the eye, and though I felt no strong emotions, there was a strange sensation like I'd finally encountered someone I'd long been searching for. But I couldn't respond, unsure of what was happening within me.

"It's nothing, Barbara," I said, almost reflexively.

"How do you know me?" she asked cautiously. A fair question. How did I know? It was as if her name was etched in my memory, but I couldn't recall from where. Could it be that I knew her from another version of time? I remembered her, but she didn't remember me.

"Who doesn't know the commissioner's daughter?" I replied quickly, seizing on the explanation that she was the daughter of Gotham's police commissioner.

"You know my father? Well, I need to go. Sorry again," she said, still studying me carefully. Then, stepping around me, she hurried off.

For a moment, I was tempted to follow her, but I forced myself to resist. Even if we had some kind of connection, to her, I was just a stranger now. I made a mental note to revisit my visions and try to recall what linked us.

The ice cream stain on my cloak wouldn't come out anytime soon, so I removed it, folded it neatly, and carried it in my hand.

Finally, I arrived at the address I needed. The building before me was old, with cramped office spaces lacking ventilation and carrying a stale, musty odor. Much of Gotham had been rebuilt or modernized, but remnants of its past, like this, were still a significant part of the city.

Entering the building, I climbed the stairs to the third floor. At the top, I saw a small plaque with the words "City Mysteries" the name of the firm. I knocked several times and stood waiting.

A few seconds passed. Just as I was about to knock again, I heard the sound of locks turning, and the door cracked open on a chain. A man peered at me cautiously.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked. He was well past his prime, his face lined with deep wrinkles.

"I scheduled an appointment with you," I said evenly.

"I didn't think you'd be so young," he replied, closing the door momentarily. I heard more clicks behind the door, and then it swung open fully.

"Come in, but don't take up too much of our time. We're busy," continued Audrey Hernandez, the man I had spoken to on the phone. He gestured for me to step inside.

The office was about seventy square meters and divided into multiple rooms. Everywhere, there were stacks of printed paper, filing cabinets filled to bursting, and piles of folders spilling over. In one corner sat bundles of newspapers tied with twine likely tomorrow's issue.

Small publishers like this one still printed newspapers and made a modest living, though times had not been kind to them. The internet was taking over, and the decline of print media was inevitable. Their struggling state was not due to incompetence, but the simple obsolescence of their technology.

"So, you're the one who decided to finance us?" asked a woman who approached us. She was older, dressed in a loose skirt below the knees, a blouse, and a shawl draped over her shoulders.

"Yes, I liked your style. Brian Foreman," I introduced myself, extending my hand.

"Tiffany Phillips. Nice to meet you. It's hard for me to admit this, but without your support, our firm might go bankrupt," she said.

"What are you talking about, woman? We're doing just fine," said Mr. Hernandez. I already knew from our phone call that he was a stubborn and rather grumpy man.

"Don't listen to his grumbling; he's just as stubborn as an old drum and can't admit the truth," Tiffany said with a hint of amusement.

"Pah," scoffed Mr. Hernandez, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I understand. My proposal is as follows: I can help you with financing so you can upgrade your equipment if necessary and purchase new supplies," I said.

"Kid, what do you know about printing? I've been working here for forty years. All my equipment works perfectly and doesn't need replacing or repairing. We're doing just fine," he replied. It took all my effort not to sigh or curse. Even on the phone, it had been a long struggle to convince him to agree to this meeting.

"I know one thing: you are the past, which will soon be gone," I said, meeting his gaze. He couldn't hold it and looked away.

"No need to argue. You're right our equipment isn't in the best condition," Ms. Phillips admitted, glancing around the room and at those currently working on the machines.

"I'll be direct and brief: I need you, and you need me. I liked the articles you write, but newspapers are a thing of the past. It's time to move forward and evolve," I continued.

"Youngster, newspapers have been published for over a hundred years, and now you're telling me they're no longer needed? Even television couldn't kill them off," Hernandez retorted.

"It's about competitiveness. A television isn't something you can take with you to a café and discuss the news over coffee. But soon, a competitor will emerge that will drive newspapers into oblivion for good. You may doubt my words now, but within a few years, they'll fade into obscurity," I said.

I could see the tirade forming on the old man's lips, but Ms. Phillips grabbed his arm, pulled him closer, and whispered something to him. Somehow, she convinced him to stay silent.

"We'll listen to what you have to say," she said.

The internet is growing in influence, and keeping up with it is becoming increasingly difficult. While newspapers might be distributed within a state or perhaps a few, the internet allows news to spread nationwide. I'll help them adapt to this rising trend while others are still assessing the risks. The newspaper will continue to be printed, but a news website featuring fresh event coverage will also be launched.

After long negotiations, they eventually agreed. The next steps were relatively straightforward: I would purchase the necessary equipment and help launch the project by funding it. In return, I would acquire a stake in their company and gain influence over decision-making. Yes, I bought them out and will impose my opinion, much like the Penguin does. The war is being fought on multiple levels, not just physically.

The first seeds have been planted. It will take a long time for them to grow. The key is to ensure they aren't "devoured" early on while they are still vulnerable.

On my way back, I noticed a speeding car. Inside were masked men armed with weapons likely robbers or criminals preparing for an attack. The police standing nearby didn't even move, merely watching the car tensely.

Things have gotten much worse. In my childhood, it was different: the night belonged to criminals, but during the day, the police maintained order and caught wrongdoers. Now, clearly, it's no saints in that car, yet the police didn't even try to intervene. Among their weapons, I noticed an old, worn revolver. Trying to act with that arsenal would be suicide they'd die without achieving anything.

I absolutely need to meet with the commissioner. But the more openly I act, the more attention I'll attract from the Penguin. He knows exactly who I am, and he won't like anyone trying to claim a piece of his pie. I need a cover or someone to act on my behalf. For now, private meetings without outside interference are likely the best option.