Broken(DC)

After reviewing countless records and other materials, I found only myths, legends, and indirect evidence concerning certain families with the greatest influence in Gotham. Perhaps I will uncover more if I visit their homes in person. To understand the true extent of their power, I need to determine whom they interact with most frequently. Most likely, they conduct joint business and plan their future actions together rather than separately.

I have someone in mind who might help me. A few minutes later, I was standing in front of my editorial office, where a new door had already been installed, and some minor renovations had been completed. The musty smell was gone thanks to good ventilation, and overall, it felt much more pleasant to be here.

"It's you! We're glad to see you, Mr. Foreman," said Tiffany, who opened the door.

"I decided to stop by and see how things are going," I replied, stepping inside. The rented space allowed us to expand our workshops and set up a separate storage area, which simplified production. The sound of working machines and printers filled the air as fresh newspapers were being printed.

"That brat again," came a voice from one of the offices.

"Stop grumbling, you old fart. Don't mind him he's actually very grateful to you," Miss Phillips assured me.

"I won't pay him any attention. I have enough to worry about as it is," I replied.

"Thank you. We've upgraded some of the equipment, and now the print and paper quality has improved, along with the production speed. As per your request, we've also set up a small server here, which has made our website updates faster. We don't have many users yet, but the number is steadily growing. Overall, the printing business is getting back on track. We plan to produce various editions, brochures, and other printed materials," Miss Phillips briefly summarized the recent changes.

"I have one more request. Do you have anyone here who works in journalism and investigates unusual events in the city?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. We have a few people who cover the main events. Let me think," Miss Phillips said, stepping away for a moment and rifling through some papers. "There was a young man we collaborated with for a while, but he was focused on things we didn't really want to cover, so we stopped working with him. But overall, he investigated Gotham's mysteries and wrote articles about them. I don't know if he's still in the business. Here Norlan Hill."

Before leaving the printing house, they handed me a small business card with a name and phone number. "Secrets and mysteries of the city's dark side..." Hmm. He might just be obsessed with conspiracy theories and wild fantasies or maybe not. It's worth reaching out to him.

As soon as I stepped outside, I dialed the number.

"Hello," a voice answered.

"Norlan Hill, I have a business proposal for you, and I'd like to meet," I said.

"Are you with the government? I'm done with you people. You love screwing over the working man," Norlan muttered.

"No, I'm not with the government. I'm interested in your investigations," I clarified.

"So you believe me? I always knew I could bring the truth to the people! Come over, I'll send you the address," he quickly replied and immediately hung up.

Two sentences, and he was already willing to meet? He didn't even ask for my name. This seemed suspicious, but it was worth checking out. People like him often find the truth where others hesitate. They might be a little insane, but sometimes their theories turn out to be real. Judging by some newspaper clippings and articles, those who uncovered the truth and shared it with others didn't live long. Writers would disappear within months of publication, and their work would never resurface.

Arriving at the given address, I found myself in front of an old apartment in one of Gotham's rundown districts a building that should have been demolished long ago due to its deteriorating condition, yet people still lived there.

I knocked on the door. From inside, I heard hurried footsteps, and then the door cracked open, held back by a chain lock. In the gap, I saw a disheveled man with messy hair, an unkempt beard, and glasses.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I called you earlier," I replied.

"Got it," he said, shutting the door briefly before unlocking it completely and letting me into his shabby apartment.

Trash was scattered everywhere, the floors covered in old newspapers and sheets of paper with strange drawings. Various schematic diagrams hung on the walls, as if their owner was deep in some kind of investigation.

"Come in. It's a bit of a mess here make yourself comfortable," Norlan said.

I approached the couch and noticed stains on its surface. Nearby, on a table, lay a couple of discs with suspicious-looking video labels. The desire to sit down vanished instantly. Norlan noticed my glance and hastily shoved them aside.

"Not mine. A friend left them," he said unconvincingly.

"Doesn't matter. I came for business. What can you tell me about Gotham's secret societies?" I asked.

"Ah, so you're interested in them too, huh? They've been manipulating us for years. Their eyes and ears are everywhere. You can't even buy a damn pastry without them knowing. A secret network, worshipping the goat-headed god, performing rituals under the full moon, and screwing goats" Norlan started rambling, his words becoming more incoherent with each passing second.

At first, I thought he might know something important, but it quickly became clear he was raving.

"Sorry for wasting your time, but this isn't what I was looking for," I said, ready to leave.

But then, something on the wall caught my eye a drawing. It depicted a man holding a dagger, wearing an owl mask.

It looked strange.

I had never seen anything like it before.

[image]

"Where did you get this drawing?" I asked, pointing at the image.

"I saw him once. His claws tore through human flesh like a wild beast attacking its prey. He was fast and strong. I sketched him from memory. A terrifying executioner of the Court of Owls," Norlan said, his voice growing more serious.

"Can you tell me more?" I asked. He extended his hand, palm up, his gaze filled with expectation.

Pulling a couple of bills from my pocket, I placed them in his hand.

At first, he was clearly pleased, but he quickly tried to hide his emotions.

"That's not enough. I could get killed for this information. Pay more. Ten thousand, and I'll tell you everything," he said in a firm tone.

It was hard to hide my irritation.

For that kind of money, I could buy a full dossier on anyone, including their life story and death. And here, I might just be paying for empty rumors.

"A thousand. Not a dollar more," I said firmly.

"For the sake of our friendship, I'll give you a discount. Nine thousand," Norlan tried to bargain.

"A thousand. Take it while I'm in a good mood," I repeated.

"Eight thousand. That's a fair price," Norlan insisted, planting his hands on his hips.

Under my piercing gaze, he started to sweat. His eyes darted nervously from side to side.

"It's getting stuffy in here," he muttered, wiping his forehead. His nervousness was obvious.

"A thousand," I said coldly.

"Fine, fine," Norlan mumbled anxiously, avoiding my gaze as if I were about to burn him alive.

I pulled out the agreed amount and handed it to him. Taking the money, he walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a folder, and began sifting through various papers and newspaper clippings.

"Let's start with this the Court of Owls began its existence in the 1960s. The country was thriving, cities were growing, and so was the nation's wealth. And along with it, the fortunes of Gotham's most powerful families. Look here," Norlan pointed to a photograph of two men at an official event. "The mayor of Gotham, shaking hands with a Court member. Together, they're opening yet another factory. These people have always remained behind the curtain, but their influence has spread into every major aspect of life. Many of Gotham's wealthy families became members of the Court of Owls. Those who refused... disappeared or died," he added, showing me more newspaper clippings.

"The ones who carry out the Court's verdicts are called Talons. Ruthless assassins who eliminate anyone that stands in their way. They don't care who you are man, woman, or child. Here, look this is the result of their judgment," he said, pulling out an article about the brutal massacre of a family, their bodies mutilated in their own home. A man, a woman, and three children…

"I've been tracking them for a long time," he added, rubbing his forehead. "But there are too few of us left, and many have already been killed. I just wanted justice. I wanted these people to face the punishment they deserve. But their power and influence are too vast. Every attempt to expose them ended in failure. I gave up this fight years ago… and it seems I did so just in time. But I still live in fear that one day, they'll come for me," he finished.

"Will you help me track them all down?" I asked.

"No… I can't. I'm too afraid," Norlan muttered.

I pulled out a stack of cash and placed it in front of him.

"I'll do everything I can," he said, with an unexpected spark of determination in his eyes.

*********************

POV Norlan Hill

Damn it, you idiot, you fell for it like a kid mesmerized by fireworks. Five thousand dollars just handed over like that. And yet, fool, you should've asked for more. But his stare… that terrifying stare I just couldn't. And now I have to work for it, risking my life in the process.

"Here's my pass," I said, showing the press badge hanging around my neck. They gave it to me so I could get into all the important events in the city without any trouble. Saying goodbye to my magnificent beard had been a painful sacrifice, but a necessary one.

"You may enter," the security guard said, letting me through.

Being in such a large crowd made me uncomfortable. I had spent the last few years locked away in my apartment, waiting for my inevitable end but no one ever came for me. Still, the habit of avoiding people had stuck, and I preferred solitude. And yet, what an idiot I was spending years fearing the Court of Owls, only to walk right into their den, practically offering them my head… for five thousand damn dollars.

No turning back now. I'll do the job and disappear.

Pulling out my camera, I started snapping photos of the people I was assigned to watch capturing them in moments of conversation and interaction. I picked a discreet spot in the corner of the hall, trying not to attract any attention.

The photos were just a small part of the job. I needed to record some conversations, too.

Bracing myself, I carefully moved closer to my targets, trying to eavesdrop on their discussions.

"The lights are too bright today hard not to squint. The organizers really dropped the ball," one man muttered, while another nodded in agreement.

I needed people discussing real business, not this idle chatter. High society had always been a master of talking about nothing while making it sound important.

Finally, as I drifted past several groups, I stumbled upon a conversation that might just involve members of the Court of Owls.

"We're launching the new factory next month. The profits from its production will fatten our pockets nicely," said a man with a bloated face and a belly like a pig.

"And the waste? Dumping it in the woods as usual?" his companion asked.

"Of course. What's the difference three hectares or a thousand? Doesn't matter," the pig-like man waved dismissively.

"Just don't forget to cut costs on safety measures. The prices for those have shot up way too high," the second man added.

"That goes without saying. Who cares how many peasants die?" the fat man sneered.

There they were the bastards. People like them had been poisoning our city and killing its people for decades. To them, we were nothing more than a resource a means to make even more money.

"What's that mutt doing here?" one of them suddenly asked, clearly noticing my presence.

Shit. I've been spotted…

"Hey, you! Identify yourself! What are you doing here? Or we'll deal with you real quick," the fat one said, eyeing me with suspicion.

"I'm a journalist. Covering a story on Gotham's wealthiest citizens highlighting their contributions to the city," I replied, trying to keep my expression calm, though inside I was boiling with hatred. In my head, I wanted to call him a fat bastard.

"Oh, well, in that case…" The fat man gave me a long, scrutinizing look from head to toe. "Then go ahead, take your shots. But if I see a single word against me, you're gonna regret it."

"I'll make sure it's perfect," I said, giving a slight bow before backing away as far as possible.

Disgust churned inside me. Every second in their presence felt like an eternity. I needed to get out, clear my head. The restroom I'll go there and pull myself together.

My steps felt heavier with every movement, and each passing minute in that place drained me.

********

POV Brain Forman

While my new spy tries to dig up something from public sources, I'm focused on the classified ones.

One of their homes there had to be a hidden safe somewhere. If I could crack it, I might get my hands on some valuable documents.

The house was well-guarded, packed with security measures. A problem for most people but my abilities gave me an undeniable advantage.

Still, it wasn't easy. I had to search every room carefully.

I could see souls but not objects. The thought crossed my mind burn the whole damn place down. Whatever doesn't burn would be easier to find in the ashes. But I quickly dismissed the idea too much effort, and avoiding security systems was already a pain.

But persistence always pays off.

There it was a safe, built directly into the wall.

My hand heated up, and under my touch, the metal began to soften. No fire, no smoke I controlled the process precisely, making sure no alarms for heat or fire would trigger.

The locking mechanism was old-school no electronics, which made things simpler.

I carved a hole through the door and peered inside.

Documents. And… an owl mask.

"Looks like I'm late. Someone's already after my prize," a sultry female voice purred from behind me.

[IMAGE]

She stood right behind me, clad in a tight-fitting suit, a whip hanging from her belt, and a cat mask covering her face.

Is there some kind of animal club in this city? A bat, owls, a penguin, and now a cat?

"Miss?" I asked, trying to keep my composure.

"Call me Catwoman," she smirked. "And here's the deal, sweetheart you're going to step away from that lovely little safe and leave its contents to me, or I'll take them by force."

A thief? What an interesting coincidence.

"There's nothing valuable here, just documents. Waste of time," I said, stepping aside and motioning toward the open safe, all while carefully observing her soul.

She wasn't evil, that much was clear. But I wouldn't call her pure either. Her sins were mostly petty thievery, but no murder.

"That can't be right. The Gerhauts are among the wealthiest families who keeps only papers in a safe?" she noted skeptically, stepping closer to inspect the cut-open vault.

"You'd be better off not getting involved with them," I said, pulling out a few documents and skimming through them quickly. Contracts, some lists with strange markings…

"I have nine lives. Danger doesn't scare me," Catwoman chuckled. "And if there aren't any jewels here, information can be just as profitable."

"Leave them and go. Your nine lives won't save you from these people. This information could cost you your head," I warned, still flipping through the papers.

I needed her to leave. I couldn't just portal out of here I had several more houses on my list. If I used my abilities, it would connect the thief to my alter ego. But if she just saw a bunch of worthless papers, she'd leave, and suspicion would fall elsewhere.

I had to scan everything quickly and save it to my camera.

"You know what? I think I'll take my chances," she said, grabbing a stack of papers and dashing away deliberately setting off several alarms in the process.

I clenched my jaw.

Why does everything have to be so damn difficult?