Was becoming a DC villain a good idea?

"Apologies for the publication being delayed by a week. The first version of this chapter was deleted due to an unfortunate incident involving 'someone who wanted to check something on my computer.' As a result, I lost 4000 words. Only today have I regained the strength to rewrite everything from scratch. The chapter may be of slightly lower quality, so if you have any feedback, please leave comments on specific paragraphs or in the comment section.

I wish all readers a belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

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"Nice to meet someone who can see the bigger picture, look deeper... You have no idea how refreshing that is. Most people? I have to force them to understand—fear serum works wonders on the stubborn. It opens eyes, sharpens the mind. But you... You seem to grasp this subtle, terrifying art right away."

Scarecrow tilted his head, a thin, sinister smile spreading across his face. His bony, unnaturally long fingers tapped on the tabletop again and again, like a disturbing rhythm being drummed out. He leaned closer, his voice taking on a more sing-song quality, tinged with a note of unhinged fascination.

"But I'm here for a different purpose, Hex. Penguin asked me to take care of your laboratory. I'll equip it, oh yes... An alchemy lab? Leave that to me—it will be a masterpiece of macabre design. But I ask you, what else would you like? What devices? What tools that whisper terror? Or maybe something... something that embodies fear itself? Oh, imagine what we could create together! Something even Batman would fear?"

Scarecrow chuckled softly, the sound slicing through the air like a blade before vanishing suddenly, as though it had never been there.

Neron grinned maniacally, his eyes shining with an unhealthy enthusiasm. He clasped his hands as if in prayer, but his movements carried an unnatural energy, as though barely restraining himself from bursting into wild laughter.

"Ah, Crane, you're a genius, an artist in your dark craft! I see it all in my mind—my creation, a place where nightmares are born and grow strong. But you know, I need something more… something that doesn't just awaken fear but creates it!"

His voice trembled with overwhelming emotion, and his hands began sweeping through the air in grand gestures, as if already envisioning his dream laboratory in every detail.

"Let's start with cages, solid ones made of thick bars, strong enough to hold even the wildest creatures—tight, but with space for observation, for experiments. And then... a place for operations! I want a table, metal, cold, the kind that reflects the glare of surgical lamps like a blade. Surgical tools—precise, gleaming, but they could just as well be rust-covered to add a bit of... character."

He fell silent for a moment, his fingers tracing invisible blueprints as though touching the contours of his dream lab.

"To that, a furnace—a massive furnace for smelting metals, so we can forge and shape anything we desire. Beside it, welding machines, the kind that could fuse steel and fear into one. Let these places reek of sweat, fury, and chaos! But I need one more thing... a computer, yes, a computer with power worthy of gods. Let it calculate, analyze, record every experiment, every scream—we can't let anything go to waste."

"I see, Hex, that you can put into words what your soul envisions. Good. I'll add something of my own as well. Penguin will contact you when everything is ready."

When the Scarecrow left the room, Nero was left alone in the silence that seemed too deep, almost heavy. For a moment, he stared at the door, as if expecting his guest to return – or as if he feared his own thoughts would fill the emptiness left behind.

His gaze shifted to the plate of food, now slightly cold, though still retaining some of its appetizing appearance. Nero reached for his tea cup and slowly took a sip, allowing the warm liquid to soothe his throat. His hands, which had been trembling with emotion earlier, now began to calm down, just like the rhythm of his breath.

He remembered the earlier moments when his dark desires – those hidden deep in the recesses of his mind – had risen to the surface. It was like an awakening, as if the mask of a civilized man had cracked, and from its crevices, a shadow emerged.

"It was... refreshing," he whispered to himself, setting the cup down on the table.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face, as if the memory of that brief liberation brought him a peculiar satisfaction. The glimpse of chaos, that untamed spark that had smoldered in him for so long, returned to its place. Calm, but not extinguished.

Nero raised his gaze from the table, directing it toward the cook, who stood in the corner like a conscience's reproach – silent, hunched, her eyes fixed on the floor. Her skin, once smooth and velvet-like, now seemed like a chalky mask, behind which lay a fear so strong it was almost tangible. Her trembling hands barely held onto the seams of her apron, and every slight movement seemed driven by pure panic.

"Clean this up."

His voice was cold, almost a whisper, but the weight of those two words fell on her like a thunderclap. The cook froze, as if each word was a blade piercing her soul. Though he hadn't raised his voice, he didn't need to – the threat, though not spoken outright, was embedded in his tone.

Nero did not leave immediately. He stood slowly, stretching out the moment, as if deliberately savoring the sight. He watched as the woman sprang into action, collecting the plates with trembling hands, not raising her gaze to him, as though the very thought of it was unbearable.

His smile was barely noticeable, but there was a perverse satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. This woman, once so proud, so hostile toward him, now trembled at his mere presence. Each of her glances, though avoiding, spoke of untamed fear.

"Good girl," he muttered softly, more to himself than to her, with something resembling amusement in his voice.

He slowly turned and moved toward the door, not hurrying, as if he were deliberately prolonging the tension. Though he didn't look at her again, he could feel her eyes – wide open, full of terror – following every one of his movements. The fear radiating from her was like music that soothed his senses. It was as if, in that moment, the entire world was playing exactly to his tune.

After returning to his room, Nero felt the tension slowly leave his body, and the suffocating weight of his earlier emotions faded away. He shed his clothes, stepped under the stream of hot water, and let it wash over his body. Each drop seemed to cleanse not only the sweat and fatigue but also the remnants of the dark emotions that had torn at his mind just moments before. After a long shower, his thoughts became more organized, and his mind was cool and analytical—just the way he liked it most.

Then came two hours of intense training, which truly tested his body. After another shower and changing into looser clothes, Nero sat on the edge of his bed and began mentally noting his observations about the process of earning experience points for the [Body Virtuosity] skill. There was something fascinating about analyzing this data—it was almost like studying his own body and mind on a micro scale.

The basic calculations were simple. During an hour of exercise performed without concern for perfect body positioning and technique, he earned about 40 XP. This was a standard result that ensured moderate progress.

However, a more intense, more conscious training, focused on every detail – from the precise positioning of limbs, through the smallest muscle tensions, to micro-movements – yielded as much as 75 XP per hour. The difference was significant, almost fifty percent greater, but even more exhausting.

That day, he managed to reach 110 XP/1000 XP in [Body Virtuosity] development, which was a solid result, though far from a full level. The problem, however, was exhaustion – his body could no longer endure another hour of intense exercise. His muscles throbbed with pain, and the mere thought of additional effort sparked a feeling of reluctance.

He glanced at the clock. In an hour, he had a scheduled visit to the shooting range. He wanted to maintain mental clarity and at least a bit of energy for that task. After all, considering the evident lack of superpowers, acquiring combat skills was essential for him.

With a sigh of resignation but also satisfaction from the work done, he threw himself onto the bed with momentum. The springs groaned under his weight, and he quickly settled into a comfortable position, reaching for the remote.

He pressed the button, and the TV lit up with a bright flash.

Wcisnął przycisk, a telewizor rozbłysnął jaskrawym światłem. 

[Live broadcast from Gotham News Network]

The screen is filled with a view of a well-dressed reporter standing in front of the Gotham Bank building on 23rd Street. In the background are many police cars and several officers laughing as they talk to passersby. The situation is incongruous, after all, someone tried to rob a bank.

Reporter (with a sarcastic smile):

Good evening, Gotham! We have yet another piece of evidence that our city never stops providing entertainment. Imagine this – our favorite green, fearless criminal, known as... The Kite, decided today to "rob" Gotham Bank. The problem? The bank had already been robbed just the day before! Yes, that's right – he came in here, waving his little Kite, only to find... an empty vault and cops still packing up evidence from the previous heist!

The reporter turns slightly toward the camera and makes an exaggeratedly surprised face.

Reporter:

From witness accounts, we know that The Kite entered with full confidence in his "great plan." He shouted the rather standard phrase "Hands up!" and when one of the employees opened the vault, The Kite froze in place when he saw that the bank looked more like a construction site than a place with cash.

A cellphone video appears on screen – The Kite stands in the middle of the bank, gesturing dramatically, while police officers and several bank staff are literally holding their stomachs, laughing.

Reporter (with a voice barely holding back laughter):

And then, get this, he said something like, "Well, maybe they left some leftovers?" Leftovers, ladies and gentlemen! As if it were some kind of clearance sale at the supermarket.

The screen cuts back to the reporter, who is now barely keeping a straight face.

Reporter:

It's unclear whether The Kite even realized he had become the subject of mockery, but after a brief exchange of words, he simply... flew away. Just like that. The officers didn't even bother chasing him — let him fly, right?

In the background, we see one of the officers holding up a sign to the camera that reads "Criminal of the Year?" with a caricature of The Kite.

Reporter (looking at the viewers with an ironic tone):

In a world where the Joker, the Riddler, and other dark minds continue to come up with plans that give Batman a headache, we also have... comedic heroes like The Kite. He may not have made a career in crime, but he sure gave Gotham an unforgettable evening.

The reporter turns to the camera with a wide smile.

Reporter:

That's all for today from Gotham Bank. This is Vicki Vale for GNN. And if The Kite is watching – next time, check if the bank has something worth stealing before you throw out your "Hell Yeah!"

The broadcast ends with a shot of laughing pedestrians and officers in the background.

It was... rather unfunny. Neron recalled the character of the Kite Man from the Harley Quinn series and, honestly, he concluded that it would have been better if Kite Man had gone through some deep trauma – something so painful that it would have turned him into a real tough guy. Then he wouldn't have ended up as an outcast, and Poison Ivy might not have ended up in Harley's arms. Although in his own solo series, Kite Man found true love, the whole production seemed more like fanservice than an attempt to show the hero in a new light.

The longer Neron pondered this infamous villain, the more he noticed his untapped potential. With proper training, Kite Man could become the perfect assassin – especially if the League of Assassins decided to take him under their wing.

Or maybe, with the help of villains like Tinkerer or another brilliant engineer, he could enhance his gadgets, making them deadlier. His signature "flying" fighting style could evolve. Imagine – a mechanical kite inspired by Wayne technology, allowing him to dominate both in the air and on the ground. With the right approach, he could become a twisted version of the Green Goblin or Doctor Doom.

But it all came down to one thing – his psyche. Even with the best technology in his hands, Kite Man's current approach guaranteed that he would sooner harm himself than take advantage of new possibilities.

Neron began to wonder what kind of tragedy could shake Kite Man enough to finally "grow a pair." What would have to happen for him to truly change? And, most importantly, how could he make that happen?

After watching the news and taking a moment to reflect on the comical villain, Neron switched to a channel more suited to his current need for relaxation. Luckily, Gotham TV offered a range of cartoon channels that maintained a high standard, reminiscent of the years 2010-14 from his home world.

As soon as the series of Ben 10 episodes with the pink Omnitrix ended, Neron got up and headed towards the shooting range.

Nero closed the door to his quarters behind him, stopping for a moment to adjust the hood of his leather jacket. His footsteps echoed in the narrow hallways, the walls of which were covered in a rather peculiar-smelling paint, and upon closer inspection, one could spot signs of violent struggles that had once taken place here between the Penguin's employees.

The fluorescent lights flickered uncomfortably, the harsh light far from the type Nero preferred. The air was thick with the scent of dampness, paint, and something unpleasantly unidentifiable—perhaps the lingering stench of fear that seemed to permeate the place.

As he turned a corner, his attention was caught by two voices bouncing off the walls. Two of the Penguin's goons, apparently completely unaware of his presence, stood leaning against the wall, talking with a tone of venom in their voices.

The first, tall and as thin as a scarecrow, appeared to be losing the battle with his addiction more and more each day. His skin was pale and unhealthy, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes were so deeply bruised that it looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks. His long, bony hands nervously gripped the handle of a knife, which he was twirling between his fingers. Beside him stood the second thug, nearly his opposite—short, stocky, and slovenly. His greasy hair clumped together in strands, and his beard, once perhaps impressive, now looked like a tangled mess of dirt and food remnants. He lazily held a cigarette, from which smoke drifted slowly into the air.

"Seriously, a workshop on the outskirts of town? How could Penguin give him that?" hissed the lanky one, his voice full of jealousy. "He didn't do anything... a stupid bank robbery. I could've done that, he just got lucky."

"Especially since no one checked what really happened on that job," added the fat one, releasing a cloud of smoke. "He probably just sat in a corner somewhere and then took all the glory for himself. He could've just as easily killed the others and spared the driver. I'd have done it that way…"

Their laughter was brief, for at that moment they noticed Nero standing at the end of the hallway. He didn't say a word—his cold gaze was enough. Nero's eyes seemed to pierce through them as if he could see not just their fear but also the darkest secrets they were hiding from the world. The fat one swallowed audibly, while the lanky one froze in place, forgetting he was still twirling the knife in his hand. The silence that followed felt like an unspoken threat. After a moment, Nero moved on, leaving them with pale faces and trembling hands. Although the thought of smashing their skulls against the corridor walls was incredibly tempting.

Continuing down the hallway, he passed a few more corridors before reaching the cafeteria. As soon as he entered, all conversation ceased. A few workers, who had been noisily arranging plates and trays, immediately froze in place. One young man eating his meal dropped his fork, which clattered loudly on the floor. Their faces said it all—pure, primal fear. The rumors about his "civilized" conversation with Crane had probably reached them recently.

Nero paused for a moment, allowing his presence to fill the room. A barely noticeable smirk appeared on his face—not warm, but rather mocking. He seemed to relish their terror. His gaze met that of a familiar woman working in the kitchen, and she immediately lowered her head, as if that eye contact had sealed her fate.

Satisfied with the effect, Nero walked through the cafeteria, ignoring the soft whispers behind him that began almost a second after he left the room and entered the last corridor leading to his destination: the shooting range.

A few minutes later, he finally arrived at the shooting range. The door opened with a slight creak, revealing a spacious room with thick, soundproof walls that dampened every gunshot. At the far end of the hall were shooting stations, each equipped with a precise target system capable of moving in various configurations. The room was lit with cold, white light, which reflected off the floor covered in gunpowder dust.

At one of the lanes stood Deadshot, fully geared in combat armor. His distinctive red and silver armor and mask drew attention, although he was completely focused on his task. He had just fired another burst from his pistol, and each bullet hit perfectly at the center of the target. He didn't even turn his head when the door behind him quietly closed.

"Someone came?" he asked nonchalantly, adjusting his grip on the weapon. His voice sounded calm, almost bored. "I didn't think any of Penguin's people even used these rooms."

Neron entered, closing the door behind him, and approached slowly. A cool, confident smile was on his face.

"Maybe I'm the exception that proves the rule," he replied, watching Deadshot with slightly more interest than he had initially planned.

The sight of the infamous assassin mildly surprised him. As he searched through his memory for any information, he couldn't find anything that would explain Deadshot's presence in Penguin's hideout. The only plausible explanation seemed to be the high caliber of this shooting range – its reputation could attract even such a professional.

The shooting range was indeed impressive. The amount of available weapons bordered on the absurd. Ten lanes, each equipped with an identical set of firearms – perfect for someone who wanted to practice, for instance, the art of shooting with two pistols simultaneously.

As for the types of weapons, nearly everything available on the market could be found here – both legal and illegal. The only exceptions were weapons with particularly destructive capabilities, like grenade launchers. For those, Penguin had prepared a separate range, better suited for explosions.

Penguin, however, had bad luck when it came to his people. If only half of them spent some time training here, he probably wouldn't have to worry about competition from other mafia bosses.

Neron approached the absurdly abundant shooting buffet, scanning the impressive collection of firearms. His gaze stopped on a classic Colt M1911. It was an elegant and reliable pistol that had served both the military and civilians for decades. The matte steel and wooden grip gave it a raw but noble look. As he picked up the weapon, Neron felt its solid weight in his hand – as if the history and precision of this design were meant to give him confidence. He then walked to the nearest shooting station and prepared to take his first shot.

Deadshot, focusing on his exercises, glanced at the rookie out of the corner of his eye. A barely noticeable movement of his head, a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth. His facial expression clearly suggested disgust. Nero's attitude cried out to heaven for vengeance. – his elbows were spread too wide, and his grip on the weapon was uncertain. Deadshot didn't comment, at least not for now, but the subtle glances spoke more than words.

Nero stood before the target. He took a deep breath, raised the pistol, and fired his first shot. The bang echoed through the room, and Nero felt a slight jolt in his wrist. He looked at the target. A hit – but right on the edge, at the closest possible distance.

"Alright, this is just the beginning," he muttered to himself, trying to boost his confidence.

He fired more shots. This time, he aimed at targets placed a bit farther away. The bullets either hit the wall behind them, the ground, or, at best, the outermost edge of the target.

Now, recalling the gunfight during the bank escape, he realized that it was only due to the close distance between the van and the police cars that he had been able to eliminate them easily. If the police had kept a greater distance and had a good marksman, he would probably have died inside that van.

Deadshot glanced again, this time openly. "Your targets are over there, not on the ceiling," he commented with ironic calm, causing a twinge of frustration in Nero. He could sense a hint of amusement in the voice of the infamous contract killer.

Neron gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip, trying to ignore the pressure caused by the presence of the expert. The following series were slightly better—hits were more frequent, but still only at close range. The farther the targets, the bigger the problem. His hands started to tremble from the effort, and with each miss, he felt growing irritation.

"How is this even possible?!" he hissed under his breath, resting the pistol on the stand and brushing his hair from his forehead. He had hoped that a few dozen series of shots would be enough for the system to let him unlock at least the basic skill of handling a pistol. But after an hour of intense shooting, emptying dozens of magazines, and aching hands, he felt he hadn't even come close to his goal.

With each passing minute, his frustration grew. He wasn't surprised—he had faced similar difficulties unlocking the Body Virtuosity skill, which required incredible precision and control over his body. The system always set the bar high, and shooting seemed to be one of the most demanding challenges.

The problem was that Neron didn't have solid knowledge of firearms. His experience was limited to watching action movies and the chaotic use of a rifle in the past. Now, with his time at the shooting range slowly running out, he had less than an hour to improve his performance.

That's when he came up with an idea that caused Deadshot to laugh. Neron sighed heavily, sat down on the cold floor of the range, pulled out his phone, and began watching instructional videos.

Deadshot, who had been ignoring him with a stone-faced expression, raised an eyebrow and snickered quietly beneath his mask.

Neron glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, ignoring the remark. He knew that without a solid foundation, his efforts would be in vain. For several minutes, he absorbed information from the videos: from the correct grip to the shooting stance, all the way to controlling the recoil. Although everything seemed simple in theory, he knew that practice would be a completely different story.

Rising from the ground, Neron took the pistol in his hand, trying to recreate the new stance he had just seen in the instructional videos. He spread his feet shoulder-width apart, placed his left hand under his right for better support, and gently bent his elbows. He aimed the pistol at eye level, trying to keep the weapon steady.

Deadshot observed him from the side, this time with less amusement, though the distance and cool assessment never left his posture.

Neron fired the first shot in the new position. The bullet hit the target—admittedly close to the edge, but at least not into the wall. The next shots were slightly more controlled, but the lack of experience still showed. His grip on the weapon was still uncertain, and the recoil after each shot caused his hands to tremble more than they should.

"Hehe... Hmm," Deadshot muttered under his breath, as if suppressing a brief laugh, leaning against the wall. It didn't sound like an insult, but there was a trace of acknowledgment in his voice for the effort. After all, it was rare to see someone who belonged to the cannon fodder category for most villains actually trying to change something within themselves.

Even though Neron improved his stance and grip, the result still left much to be desired. His hits were more consistent, but the precision was still far from ideal. Especially with shots at longer distances, technical errors became apparent—gripping the weapon too tightly, uneven weight distribution, and lack of control over his breath.

However, every small correction gave him the feeling that he was taking a step forward. It might not have been a revolution, but an evolution—slowly working toward the goal. He knew that reaching a level that would allow him to unlock the skill would take time and determination.

Finally, he lowered the weapon and wiped his forehead, which was dotted with sweat. His hands were shaking, and his forearm muscles burned from the effort. His reddened hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

"There's probably no shortcut," he muttered under his breath, looking at the targets, which were silent witnesses to his efforts and failures.

With a sigh, he removed the magazine from the Colt, emptied the chamber, and placed the pistol back in its spot on the rack. The metallic sound of the weapon making contact with the stand seemed like the final note of the day. Neron stretched lightly, feeling the tension in his shoulders and hands, which had worked beyond their limits today.

At that moment, he had only one simple thought in his mind: he wanted to lie down. Today had been an intense mix of excitement and exhaustion. The new challenges related to the system, his first attempts at the shooting range, and the painful awareness of how difficult it was to acquire new skills had left him completely drained.

He cast a brief glance at Deadshot, who continued his perfect series of shots with almost inhuman precision. For a moment, a vision of the future flickered in Neron's mind: someday, he would surpass him. Someday, he would become a one-man army, before which even the greatest powers—Kryptonians or Darkseid himself—would kneel, begging for mercy.

But for now, it was just a distant ambition. He was at the beginning of his journey, and every step toward his goal required more effort than he had anticipated.

Clenching his jaw, Neron headed toward the exit, ignoring everything around him. Most people in the hallways glanced at him sideways, with expressions of concern or curiosity. Some gossiped behind his back, while others preferred to pretend they hadn't noticed him. Neron didn't let it bother him.

When he reached his quarters, he immediately headed for the shower. The lukewarm water washed away the sweat, dust, and exhaustion, though it couldn't erase the muscle pain that was currently bothering him quite painfully.

A few minutes later, he was lying in bed. As soon as his head touched the pillow, he felt the weight of the day's fatigue starting to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes and, with a smile on his face, snuggled into the pillow.

"So soft…" It seemed that Neron's exhaustion had finally caught up with him, and he fell into a deep sleep.