CHAPTER THREE: A CITY OF MASKS

Taylor sat on the edge of a crumbling stone fountain in a small, dilapidated park. The morning sun struggled to break through the heavy gray clouds overhead, casting a dull, dim light over the city. The few trees that dotted the park were leafless, their gnarled branches swaying gently in the cold wind. It was quieter here than in the streets, though the air carried the distant hum of traffic and occasional bursts of sirens.

Over the past few days, Taylor had been piecing together scraps of information about Gotham. Eavesdropping on conversations, glancing at cracked TV screens in rundown bars, and overhearing tense exchanges between vendors had painted a clearer picture of where she’d landed. This city was infamous—a place of whispered fears and heavy silences, where violence lurked just beneath the surface.

In her hands was a newspaper she’d pulled from a trash can earlier. The front page was dominated by the headline: “Gang War Escalates as Penguin’s Men Clash with Black Mask’s Forces”, taunting her with its bold, unapologetic lettering. Beneath it was a grainy photograph of masked thugs exchanging gunfire in what looked like a narrow alley.

Taylor scanned the article, taking in the names and events that seemed to shape the city. Penguin. Black Mask. Joker. There was something about the way the paper reported on them—describing the violence with an air of resignation, as though it were just another part of daily life in Gotham—that reminded her too much of how Brockton Bay had viewed the Endbringers. Not just people or criminals, but inescapable forces of nature.

The last one—Joker—especially, carried an ominous weight whenever muttered by passing pedestrians, their tones hushed, as if the mere mention could summon him.

The Joker reminded Taylor of Jack Slash—a comparison that unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Both revelled in chaos and death, playing games with lives as if it were their only purpose. But where Jack Slash had rules, as twisted and depraved as they were—lines he wouldn’t cross because crossing them would ruin the game. The Joker? He seemed to thrive on breaking those lines, on pushing the boundaries until there was nothing left.

She frowned at the thought, her fingers tightening on the crumpled newspaper in her hand. There was no question that the Joker was a monster, but something about him felt less grounded than Jack. Less… human. Maybe it was the theatrics, the painted face, or the headlines that described him as “Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime,” but the Joker came off as someone who wasn’t just dangerous—he was absurd. And yet, absurdity didn’t make him any less lethal.

Taylor’s stomach twisted. As much as she hated to admit it, the Joker’s approach terrified her in a way Jack Slash’s didn’t. The cape was unhinged in a different way to The slasher—wanting nothing more than to smash everything in his path just to see what broke, to destroy for the sake of destruction. And that made him unpredictable—a trait that could be far more dangerous than raw power.

Symbols, she thought. These people weren’t just gang leaders or criminals—they were symbols of something deeper, something that had a hold on the city’s psyche.

Her gaze drifted back to the paper. Below the gang war headline, further down the page, another article caught her attention: “Batman Sighted in the East End: When Would the Nightmare End?”.

Batman. Another cape that had, also, come up often. The locals didn’t just fear him—they revered him in a way. Whoever—or whatever—he was, Batman wasn’t just a man; he was something larger than life, a figure who had taken on an almost mythic status. Even the criminals, from what she could gather, were terrified of him.

Fear, she thought again. Gotham was built on it—fear of symbols, fear of power, fear of what lurked in the dark. Villains wielded it like a weapon, while someone like Batman used it as a shield. And in a twisted way, it worked. The fear kept the city alive, even if it was barely holding together.

But, she knew, that fear could only go so far. She had seen it in Brockton Bay—the way fear eroded people over time, leaving them fragile and desperate. How long could a city like Gotham survive under that pressure?

Her lips pressed into a thin line as the realization settled over her. Could she carve out a place for herself here? Without her powers, without the overwhelming force of her swarm, could she make people take her seriously? Did she even want to? The thought gnawed at her.

Taylor folded the newspaper and set it aside, leaning back against the cold stone of the fountain. It was a lot to think about—Gotham felt like a city constantly on edge, teetering between destruction and survival. The more she pieced together, the more it became clear that this wasn’t a place where you just survived; you either thrived through power or got crushed underfoot.

The city wasn’t Brockton Bay, and she wasn’t sure what that meant for her yet. But as she traced the deep crack in the fountain beneath her fingers, she couldn’t shake the thought that there was something here for her, something she hadn’t yet uncovered.

The sound of shuffling feet pulled her out of her thoughts. A man wearing a tattered jacket and scuffed shoes shuffled into the park, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. He gave Taylor a wide berth as he passed, muttering something under his breath.

She let him go, her attention already drifting toward a commotion nearby. Two men were arguing on the pathway, their voices growing louder as a small crowd began to gather. Taylor stood and moved closer, staying on the fringes but listening intently.

“It’s not safe here anymore,” one man hissed, his voice low and tense. “The gangs are tearing this place apart. The Bat can’t possibly keep up.”

“When has Gotham ever been safe?” The other man shot back, his tone bitter. “The Bat’s just one guy. Meanwhile, we’ve got the freaks running the show. Joker’s blowing up half the city, and the Penguin’s smuggling in enough firepower to start a war.”

The first man scowled. “Better the Penguin than Black Mask. At least the Penguin doesn’t kill you to prove a point.”

The crowd began to disperse as the argument fizzled out, and Taylor resumed her aimless walk, a frown on her face.

. . . . .

By nightfall, Taylor had wandered into another rundown neighbourhood. Though her muscles barely ached, her mind felt stretched thin. She needed shelter—a place to gather her thoughts and start piecing together a plan.

Turning a corner, she spotted an old, abandoned building at the end of the street. Its windows were boarded up, and the front door hung loosely on its hinges. It didn’t look like much, but it would have to do for now.

Taylor approached cautiously, pushing the door open and peering inside. The interior was dark and dusty, with only a few broken pieces of furniture scattered across the floor, and the faint smell of mildew hanging in the air. She stepped inside, her footsteps echoing softly. Fortunately, it seemed dry enough and relatively safe.

She sat on the floor, leaning against the wall as she pulled her sweatshirt tighter around herself. For the first time since arriving in this world, she allowed herself to relax—just a little.

Start with the basics, she thought, clenching her fists. Learn the rules of this city. Survive.

Gotham was a city of masks, a place where symbols held power. If she wanted to survive here, she would need to become more than just a lost girl. She would need to find her own symbol, her own mask.

It wouldn’t be easy. But Taylor Hebert wasn’t one to give up, no matter how dire the situation.