The Doctor Is In

The Good, The Evil, The Beginning

Several years ago

   I slip into the dress provided for me by Amanda. It’s probably the most risque number I’ve ever attempted to pull off, but thankfully, being straight off of the CIA task force, I’m in pretty good shape. In my hand, I hold a dainty clutch purse, which contains some money, and metal marbles that when thrown, can shock a person or set them on fire, or both, I’m not sure, I haven’t had a chance to try them yet. Under my dress, strapped to my thigh, are those fancy daggers that Amanda gave me. Supposedly the small microbeads coated onto the daggers will track a person once implanted into the blood, leave it to Amanda to think of something like this.

I arrive at the door of one of the many seedy bars in Gotham City. If it were up to me, this is not how’d I’d want to be spending my first day back in my hometown since graduating from high school but what Amanda wants, Amanda gets.

I open the door to be greeted with a dank, dark atmosphere. There are a couple of drunkards, but it’s apparent that most of these men are on official business, by the way they stare me down suspiciously.

I make my way past the bar to a table where men in black and brown suits are huddled closely together, rolling dice and taking bets.

“Evening gentlemen.” I greet them, placing one hand on the edge of the table.

The men turn around from their game to look up at me. They say nothing at first, and their stares are blank and unmoving.

I push my hand forward, leaning into the group, “I hear that Falcone is hiring.”

The men all burst out into a collective chuckle, before one of them replies, “Falcone? Hiring a pretty thing like you?”

“Why not? Whatever he needs I can do.”

The men put stand up from their seats, and I prepare myself to take them on, but I realize the all stood up at the sound of the front door of the bar bursting open. Two more gangsters stumble in, carrying a much smaller man in a black-and-white suit.

Poor guy, anywhere else he’d be considered of average height, but in Gotham City where the average adult man is a freakish six feet, he’s puny.

“Look who came in crying for a job again!” one of them shouts, slamming the guy onto the bar.

Someone pushes me from behind, I turn around and it’s one of the mobsters, who’s shoving me along with the other recruit. I could take them out...but the goal is to make nice with these guys, however hard that may be.

Becoming more aggressive, the thugs throw the man to the ground, stomping on him. I bite my lip, I could jeopardize my entire mission if I help this man, but then again, I really couldn’t be in much of a lower standing with them right now, could I?

I run in front of the man, shielding him from the gangsters, “Stop!”

The thugs laugh, before one of them throws a punch at me. I block it, but then another one comes from the side, knocking me off balance. I stumble and catch myself against the bar.

The next thing I know, I’m being grabbed by two of the thugs and escorted out of the bar. Looking to my right, I see that the man is being dragged out, clearly far worse for wear than I am.

The bar doors are flung open and I’m thrown out onto the dirty, wet pavement, with the man launched right next to me, before the doors are slammed behind us.

I look over my shoulder and see that the man is lying motionless on the ground. Is he hurt bad?

“Hey.” I bark over to him.