DC: All for One Chapter 1 - Ethan Kane

(AN: Done about 30k words now so opening it up to everyone. Each chapter is like 10k each)

Ethan Kane sat at the back of a physics classroom in Gotham City Academy, his pencil scraping across a notepad so threadbare its pages curled like wilted petals. The room was a sallow enclosure, its walls streaked with newly painted walls, the air thick with the acrid scent of chalk dust and the stale sweat of adolescent bodies pressed too close. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a relentless drone that gnawed at his nerves, and Ms. Hargrove, a dowdy woman in her forties with a voice as grating as a rusted hinge, recited thermodynamics with the fervor of a mortician.

Ethan was not listening. His pencil traced the contours of an engine, one that was 50% more efficient than current combustion engines, but the act was a charade, a desperate attempt to ward off the void that stirred within him. He was here, in this room, surrounded by faces, voices, lives, yet he was nowhere, a ghost donning the mask of a student, a boy, a person—though he was none of these, not truly. This class, this school, this city, were a stage, and he played his role, but the performance was hollow, a lie he told himself to keep from collapsing under the weight of his own emptiness.

Boredom was his eternal tormentor, not the fleeting discontent of others but a profound, suffocating abyss that rendered every idea, every person, every act utterly devoid of meaning. He sketched turbines, pistons, circuits, because it was what Ethan Kane—scholarship boy, poor, reputedly clever—ought to do, but the lines blurred under his gaze, and he knew, with a clarity that seared, that this engine would never be built, that it was merely another prop in his ceaseless masquerade.

His childhood had been a one of misery, his parents' constantly drunk or high with vacant eyes haunting a home that reeked of vomit, where he hid in his room, teaching himself the entire high school and college syllabus in a vain effort to impress them. At ten, he had known he was alien, not for his swiftness with numbers or words, but for his inability to feel what others felt—joy, sorrow, connection. He had studied his classmates, their laughter, their tears, and mimicked their gestures, their tones, believing if he acted human, he might become human, but the dissonance never faded, the chasm between the mask he wore and the void beneath only growing wider. Now, at seventeen, he was exhausted, his black hair falling past his ears in disarray, his blue eyes flicking up to feign attention, his lean, scarred body—etched by fights he sought not for triumph but for proof of existence—slumped in a chair, a marionette whose strings were fraying, ready to snap.

Hargrove's voice pierced his reverie. "Ethan Kane, care to tell us the second law of thermodynamics?" Her eyes narrowed, catching his doodling, certain she had ensnared him in his distraction. He did not look at her, did not pause his pencil, for to engage would be to admit he belonged to this world, to its rituals and expectations. "Entropy of an isolated system always increases," he said, his voice flat, mechanical, a recitation from a script memorized years ago. "Heat doesn't flow from a colder body to a hotter one without work." The words were correct, as they always were, but they were empty, mere sounds to deflect her scrutiny. She muttered, "Correct," and resumed her lecture, but Ethan felt the weight of her gaze, the class's stares, their whispers branding him as strange, distant, the poor kid who did not belong. A smirk curved his lips, a practiced reflex to mask the scream within; You fools, you think I care? You think I seek your approval, your pity, your anything? I am not like you, and every moment I pretend is a lie that chokes me, a noose tightening around a soul I doubt i even possess.

He stared at his sketch, the engine that would never be, and the boredom surged, a tide threatening to drown him in its black depths. He crumpled the paper, the sound harsh in his ears, and tossed it over his shoulder, indifferent to its fate. It struck the trash bin—a precise arc, though he had not aimed—and a boy nearby made a sound, half-laugh, half-awe, a noise Ethan did not acknowledge. He slumped further, his eyes tracing the ceiling's tiles, and his mind spiraled inward, a litany of failures. He thought of his parents, their gaunt faces and slurred words m, and how he could not love them, not even in their fleeting moments of sobriety, not even when they wept for forgiveness. He thought of the fights he had fought. He thought of the people who called him friend, though he had none, for to be a friend was to feel, and he was a void, a mirror reflecting what others wished to see, a fraud whose every smile was a betrayal. The bell rang, and he stood quickly, his backpack heavy with books he did not need, his body a puppet driven by habit, a machine that could not stop lest it collapse into nothingness.

He was halfway to the door when a voice halted him,one that sounded piercing, like a shard of glass in his mind. "Ethan, hold up!" It was a girl, and he turned, his stomach twisting, for he knew, before he saw her, that she would demand something he did not want to give—connection, interest, humanity. She was beautiful, excruciatingly so, her red hair cascading over her shoulders like a flame, her green eyes alight with a warmth he could not fathom, her uniform clinging to a body that others would pursue but which, to him, was merely another enigma. Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, always happy, always smiling, as if life were a gift to be cherished, a concept so alien to Ethan it might as well have been a foreign tongue. "Hey," she said, her voice clear and joyful. "I was wondering if you've thought any more about joining the science club. You're, like, crazy smart, Ethan. You'd be a great fit." Her words were not the point; it was her expectation, her belief that he was like her, that he could share her passion, that pierced him like a blade, exposing the fraud beneath his skin.

He mumbled a reply, his voice a lie, his face a mask he had worn so long it felt like flesh. "Uh, yeah, sorry. I'm kinda busy. Got a lot going on. Maybe next semester." The words were hollow, a script he had rehearsed a thousand times, and she smiled, undeterred, her warmth a rebuke to his coldness. "No worries. If you change your mind, you know where to find me," she said, giving a quick wave, her hair catching the classroom's harsh light as she walked away, her hips swaying. He watched her go, not with desire but with a desperate, futile need to understand what drove her, what made her human, what made her real. He failed, as he always did, and the failure was a knife, twisting in the void where his heart should have been. Whispers trailed him—classmates, their voices loud with scorn: "Why's Barbara talking to the street rat?" "What, she slumming it now?" "Bet his junkie parents sold his science books for a hit." He did not react, for their words were nothing, mere air, yet they burned, because they saw the truth: he was not one of them, could never be one of them, an interloper in the world. He hated them for it, and he hated himself more, for he could not feel their hate, could not feel anything, only the endless, aching emptiness that defined him, a shadow cast by a light he could not see.

He moved to his locker, a dented metal box in a corner where the paint flaked like ash, and he was shoving books inside when a force slammed him against it, the metal cold against his cheek. Justin Blake, a hulking boy with a buzzcut and a sneer, stood behind him, his friends laughing like jackals. "Watch it, Kane," Justin said, shoving him again, and Ethan sighed, for this, too, was part of the script, a scene he had played countless times. "What do you want, Justin?" he asked, his voice bored, because he had memorized these lines, and Justin delivered his, as predictable as the tides: "You're a fucking junkie, just like your parents. Bet they're sucking dick for crack right now. You don't belong here, street rat." His friends snickered, and Ethan stared, his face blank, for Justin's words were meaningless. "You done? Can I go now?" he asked, his voice a monotone, because he did not care.

Justin swung, a clumsy fist aimed at Ethan's face, and Ethan moved, not because he cared but because his body was trained for this, a machine honed by years of violence he soughyt. Justin's hand hit the locker, the metal ringing like a funeral bell, and he screamed, blood dripping from his knuckles, a scarlet stain on the metal locker. His friends froze, their laughter dying, and Ethan walked away, his bag slung over his shoulder, their curses fading into the hallway. He could have hurt Justin, could have shattered his jaw, his ribs, could have left him broken on the floor, but he did not, for violence, like everything else, was empty, a momentary distraction from the truth: he was not human, not truly, just a shell pretending to be, a fraud whose every act was a lie. The hallway was crowded, faces blurring as he passed, and he felt their eyes, their judgment, but it meant nothing, for he was already judged, already condemned by his own inability to feel, to exist, to be anything but this hollow thing.

At the school's entrance, another voice stopped him. "Ethan, a moment!" It was Mr. Patel, his chemistry teacher, a wiry man whose glasses glinted with a fervor Ethan could not comprehend. Patel held Ethan's paper, a thing he had written about nanotechnology something he'd done in his spare time and had turned in because he'd got too bored doing the actual homework. "This is extraordinary work," Patel said, his voice alight with hope. "I've got contacts at Harvard, and they'd be very interested in—" Ethan cut him off. "Yeah, yeah, do whatever you want. I gotta go." He could not endure Patel's prattling about something that he honestly just didn't give a shit about. He walked into Gotham's gray afternoon, the air thick with exhaust and the sour tang of rotting garbage, the streets slick with oil and rainwater, a labyrinth of cracked sidewalks, shuttered stores, and men shouting at shadows. He walked through the bad part of town, where streetlights blinked on and off and graffiti covered every wall with scrawled names and crude drawings. The sidewalk was wet with spilled beer and rain, the air heavy with the stink of rotting trash and burnt oil from a mechanic shop across the street. His apartment building stood ahead, a sagging stack of broken brick and cracked windows, its fire escapes rusted and bent. Ethan's boots hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. Why did people stay in this city, fighting over nothing, yelling about nothing?

He walked into the lobby, Artemis Crock leaned against a wall scratched with knife marks, her blonde hair tied back, her arms crossed over a faded tank top. Her ripped jeans fit tight, showing a stomach tight with muscle, and her hazel eyes flicked up when Ethan walked in. She was tough, raised on the same streets, but most importantly didn't ask for anything he didn't have. He didn't get why she hung around him, what she wanted, but her being there didn't make his skin crawl like most people did.

"Hey," he said.

"Yo," she replied, a smirk tugging her lips. They stepped into the elevator, its floor sticky with spilled soda, the air thick with piss and old smoke. "Rooftop?" she asked as the doors scraped shut.

Ethan nodded. "Yeah."

"See you up there," she said as he stepped out on his floor. She didn't push him to talk, didn't expect him to act happy, and that was enough. He didn't know why she stuck around, why anyone did, but with her, he didn't have to figure it out. They'd met two years ago, swapping stories about families, about Gotham's endless shit, and she was the only one who didn't make him feel like he was missing something.

He unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside. The place was a mess—carpet stained with spilled drinks, beer cans scattered, a couch with holes burned into the fabric. The air smelled of moldy food and vomit, sharp enough to sting his nose. His mom lay on the floor, eyes half-open, a needle stuck in her arm, her cheeks pale and sunken. His dad sat at a table, hands shaking, muttering about money he owed, sweat beading on his forehead. "Where's the fucking money, Ethan?" his dad shouted, standing, his fist swinging weakly at Ethan's shoulder.

Ethan stepped aside, avoiding the hit. "Move old man," he said, moving past. His mom grabbed his ankle, her fingers cold. "You hiding shit from us, you little fuck?" she said. He pulled free, his face blank, and walked to his room, a small space with a mattress that sank in the middle and walls stained with water leaks. He didn't care about them, hadn't ever, which was good in a way since he saw they'd never be like other parents, never care about him. They'd sold his clothes, his books, anything for drugs, and he'd watched, wondering why people held on to things that hurt them, why they didn't just walk away. He locked his door and stripped off his uniform, his body lean and hard from years of training, abs tight, arms thick, shoulders broad.

He grabbed a protein shake from a mini fridge and drank it fast, the cold liquid hitting his throat. His parents were why he did this, why he came home every day snd lifted weights, hit the bag, push until his body burned. He couldn't be like them, couldn't let himself fall apart. No matter how boring the day he trained, because stopping felt like giving up, though he didn't know what he was fighting for. He started his routine: deadlifts with weights that left rust on his hands, pull-ups on a bar stuck in the doorframe, punches on a bag held together with tape. Sweat dripped onto the floor, his knuckles stung, but he kept going, jabbing fast, elbowing hard, each hit a way to fill the time, to quiet the question: why did people keep living when life felt so empty?

His parents' voices cut through the wall, louder now. "You fucking took it!" his dad shouted, followed by a crash, probably a bottle. His mom screamed back, words too slurred to make out. Ethan wiped his face with a torn towel and opened the fridge, pushing past a moldy sandwich to a hidden spot with vials of green liquid. He filled a syringe, slid the needle into his arm, and pushed the plunger, the sting sharp against his skin. He'd made this stuff at fourteen, in the school lab, when he realized he'd never get enough food, never have anything healthy with parents like his. The vials kept him strong, kept his muscles growing, a way to beat the life they'd given him. He shook his arm, the burn fading, and sat on the mattress, staring at the wall.

Under his bed, he pulled out a box filled with junk—old wires, a broken clock, a cracked phone case. Inside were three metal pieces, which he snapped into a key. At his wardrobe, he slid the key into a hidden slot, twisted, and heard a click. He opened the door, pulled off a fake panel, and took out a drone he'd been building, its frame rough, wires loose. He couldn't leave it out—his parents would sell it for drug money before he woke up. He'd been working on it for weeks, picking up parts from trash bins and cheap stores, each piece a pain to find, the wiring a mess without good tools. He sat at a small desk, soldering by the light of a flickering lamp, his hands steady, the work a way to kill time, though he didn't know if he'd ever finish it.

A neighbor banged on the wall, yelling about the noise, and Ethan glanced at his phone, he was late. He pulled on a black vest, climbed out his window to the fire escape, the metal cold under his hands, and went up to the roof. Artemis was there, lying on a frayed blanket, looking at the sky through the city's haze, where stars were barely visible. Her tank top was short, showing a stomach hard with muscle, her cargo pants loose, her blonde hair spread out. She looked like someone people would want to touch, likely more. From an objective point of view Ethan could see why people would want to fuck Artemis, though he doubted he'd ever want to.

He lay beside her, hands behind his head. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied. After a pause, she spoke again. "You ever wonder if there's a city out there, somewhere in the universe, that's as uniquely shitty as Gotham?"

"Probably not," he said, staring at the sky. Gotham was full of crime, junkies, rich kids who thought they owned everything. Why did people stay, build lives here, when it was all so ugly? He didn't get it, didn't know why he stayed either.

"How was your day?" he asked, the words automatic, a way to keep her talking so he didn't have to.

She sighed. "Rough. My sister's back in town, sniffing around, probably up to no good again. It's killing Mom." She kept going—her shift at the diner, some guy she'd hit for grabbing her, her mom crying at the kitchen table. Ethan nodded sometimes, saying nothing, because he didn't know what to say, didn't know why her sister mattered, why her mom's tears did. She didn't seem to mind his silence, didn't ask for more, and that was enough, though he wondered what she saw in him, why she didn't walk away like he would've.

Artemis yawned, resting her head on his shoulder. "Gonna nap," she said, her voice fading. "Wake me if I drool."

Ethan stayed still, looking at the sky. The city hummed below—people yelling, a bottle breaking, fists hitting flesh in an alley. "This place really is a shithole," he muttered softly, not wanting to wake her. Why did people fight for this city, live in its dirt, when it gave nothing back? He thought of leaving, starting over somewhere else, but what would change? Would he still wake up bored, still watch people laugh and cry and not know why? The thought sat heavy, a question he couldn't answer, and he let it sit, staring at the faint stars.

After a while Artemis shifted, drool on his sleeve, her hair messy, her face soft in sleep, not hard like usual. She woke, wiping her mouth. "Fuck, how long was I out?" she said.

"Forty-seven minutes, twelve seconds," he said.

She snorted. "That's creepy as hell, you know." She stood, stretching, her tank top pulling up, showing a scar on her stomach, her pants tight on strong legs, her shoulders cracking as she moved.

Ethan stood, brushing gravel off his jeans. "You ever think about leaving Gotham?" he asked, looking at the city—dark buildings, flashing signs, a factory stack spitting smoke.

"Hell yeah," she replied, hands on her hips. "This dump's a sewer. If I had the cash, I'd grab my mom and split. Somewhere with trees and actual nature, not just needles and piss-stained walls."

Ethan laughed, a short sound. "Aren't you afraid it's all the same?"

She shrugged, her eyes catching light from a broken streetlamp. "Can't be worse than this, right? You telling me you'd miss this shit?"

"I guess not," he said. He didn't know if he meant it. Gotham was all he'd ever known, and leaving felt like stepping off a cliff, not knowing what was below, not knowing if he'd care either way.

They stood quiet, the city loud around them—a car alarm, a woman yelling, a cat scratching at trash. The air smelled of greasy food from a diner nearby, mixed with wet garbage.

"You know what I don't get about you?" Artemis said, turning to him.

"What?" he said.

She leaned against the railing, metal flaking under her hands. "You're building a drone from literal trash, Ethan. You made that steroid juice—shit, guys at the gym would pay a fortune for it. You're smarter than anyone I know. You could leave Gotham, sell your stuff, make a real life. Why the fuck do you stay?"

Ethan's jaw tightened. He didn't know, didn't have an answer that made sense. "It's not a steroid," he said. "Just nutrients and—"

She punched his arm, grinning. "I know, smartass, I'm just saying. You could be out there, living big. What's holding you back?"

He looked at her, her face half-lit, and didn't know why she cared, why she asked. "Maybe it's for you," he said.

She stared, then laughed, bending over, holding her sides. "Oh my God, you're too much!" she said. "You almost had me there!"

Ethan smirked, looking at the city. Her laugh cut through the boredom for a second, but the question stayed: why didn't he leave? Was it her, or was he just too tired to try, too used to this place? He didn't know.

"You kill me, Ethan," she said, catching her breath. "I'm out. See you tomorrow." She climbed down the ladder, boots hitting the metal.

"See you," he said, staying put. He walked to the roof's edge, stepping onto the ledge, the drop fifty feet to the street, covered in glass and crushed cans. If he jumped, would it change anything, take him somewhere new? Or would he still be stuck, still bored, still watching people live lives he didn't understand? His heart beat faster, a spark of something real, something sharp. He leaned forward, the wind cold on his face, then stepped back, the feeling gone. He climbed down the fire escape, went to his room, and fell onto his mattress, the city's noise dragging him to sleep.

---

Ethan woke to fists pounding his door, the wood shaking under the blows. His parents' voices cut through the thin walls of their cluttered apartment, hoarse and sharp. "Get us some fucking money, you worthless piece of shit!" his dad shouted, slamming his hand against the door. "You're living here free, Ethan—pay up!" his mom yelled, her words slurred, thick with last night's drugs. Ethan pulled a faded hoodie over his head, his face blank, and grabbed his backpack, its straps frayed and patched with tape. He slipped out of his room, dodging an ashtray his dad threw, which smashed against the wall, scattering glass across the sticky floor. The hallway smelled of mildew and burnt plastic, the stairs creaking as he descended. Outside, the air was cold, the streets wet with rain, puddles reflecting neon signs from pawn shops and bars. Cigarette smoke hung heavy, mixing with the damp asphalt's sharp tang. Ethan walked, hands in his pockets, wondering why his parents kept yelling, why they cared about money when it just went to needles.

A few blocks from Gotham Academy, a voice called out. "Ethan, hey!" Barbara Gordon jogged up, her red hair tied back in a loose knot, her smile wide. She wore a fitted jacket and jeans, her shape catching looks from drivers slowing at a stoplight.

"Can we walk together?" she asked, stepping beside him without waiting.

Ethan shrugged. "Sure." Saying no felt like more work than walking.

Barbara started talking about school—a math test she'd done well on, a teacher who talked too slow and also about something he wished she didn't mention. "I read your nanotech paper," she said. "It's honestly amazing, Ethan. Like, scientist-level stuff. Why don't you join any clubs or do extracurriculars? It'd look good for college."

"Not going to college," he said, kicking a pebble across the wet sidewalk, watching it skip into a gutter.

She stopped, hands on her hips. "Seriously? Why? Someone like you could get a full ride anywhere—Harvard, MIT, Princeton."

"Not interested," he said. College was just more classes, more people talking, more things he didn't care about.

Barbara kept talking, listing scholarships, programs, jobs she'd heard about, her words piling up like clutter. Ethan looked at the cracked pavement, the lines jagged under his boots. Why did she care? Most people saw him as the poor kid, the one who didn't fit, and walked away. He didn't get why she didn't, what made her keep trying when he gave her nothing back. She stopped walking, turning to him. "Just try science club once, okay? One meeting. If you hate it, I'll leave you alone. Please?" she said.

Ethan sighed, rubbing his neck. "If I say yes, will you stop talking about it?"

"Yes!" she replied, bouncing on her feet. "You're gonna love it, I swear!"

He nodded, already wishing he hadn't. They reached the school's iron gates, the campus a spread of gray stone buildings and trimmed lawns that looked too neat against Gotham's dirty streets. Barbara waved, heading to her locker, and Ethan walked inside, his stomach tight, another long day stretching out.

---

School dragged, the same as always. Ethan sat in the back of his classes, sketching gears and wires in a battered notebook, the pages creased and torn. Teachers talked about things he'd read years ago, their voices fading into a hum. The boredom pressed on him, heavy, making every minute crawl. At lunch, he sat alone in the cafeteria, the tables loud with kids laughing, shouting, trays clattering. He picked at a sandwich, the bread dry, the meat gray, and ate it, he couldn't taste it, it just felt dry in his mouth. While he ate Ms. Carter, his English teacher, a thin woman with gray hair, walked up and sat across from him, her chair scraping the floor.

"Ethan, I wanted to talk about your essay," she said. "Your analysis of 1984 was brilliant, better than most college work. Have you thought about the literary magazine? We could use someone like you."

"Nah, I'm good," he said, not looking up, taking a bite of the sandwich, the taste still stale in his mouth. He didn't care about essays or magazines, didn't know why she thought he would.

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know," she said, standing. "You've got talent." She walked away, her heels clicking, and Ethan kept eating, the noise around him a blur. The day got worse. Three girls pulled him aside, one by one, in empty hallways or behind lockers, their voices soft, their smiles nervous. They were pretty, with long hair and tight shirts, but they only talked to him where no one could see, like he was a secret they didn't want to get out. "Pass," he said to the first two, walking away as they muttered, their faces red.

The third, Kayla, a brunette in a short skirt, caught him behind the library, her hand brushing his arm. "Hey, Ethan," she said. "You, me, Friday night. My parents aren't home."

Ethan leaned close, his lips near hers, his hand on her waist. "Sounds fun," he said. She leaned in, her breath quick, eyes half-shut. He stepped back, smirking. "On second thought, nah." He turned and walked away.

"Fuck you, Kane!" she shouted. Ethan kept walking, her voice fading. It was something to do, a way to break the monotony. The bullies were worse. Justin Blake and his football friends followed him, shoving him in the halls, whispering "trash" as he passed. In gym, two of them, Derek and Nate, blocked him by the bleachers, the air smelling of sweat and rubber mats. Derek, a short kid with a buzzcut, grinned. "What's it like, Kane? Your parents selling your bed for dope yet?" Nate, laughed, throwing a basketball at Ethan's chest.

Ethan caught it, tossed it back. "Move," he said, stepping forward.

Derek grabbed his shoulder. "You don't talk to us like that, junkie," he said, pushing Ethan into the bleachers, the metal banging against his back.

Ethan brushed off his shirt. "You done?" he said. He didn't want to fight, not here, but his hands twitched, ready if they pushed him further.

Nate spit on the ground. "You're nothing, Kane. Go back to your crackhouse," he said. They laughed, walking away as the coach's whistle blew. Ethan stood still, his fists tight, watching them go. Why did they care who he was, why he was here? He didn't get it, didn't know why they kept coming back when it changed nothing.

After school, Justin and his group—five guys, all big, in letterman jackets—cornered him behind the gym, the pavement cracked, the fence rusted and bent. Justin stepped close, sweat on his shaved head. "Time to learn your place, street rat," he said, cracking his knuckles.

Ethan dropped his bag. "Let's make this quick," he said. Justin swung a fist at his face. Ethan ducked, slamming an elbow into Justin's jaw, blood spraying as Justin stumbled. Another guy, wide with a crooked nose, rushed him. Ethan spun, kicking his ribs, the crack loud, the guy dropping with a gasp. A third grabbed Ethan's arm. Ethan twisted, locking the guy's elbow, then pulled hard, the joint popping. The guy screamed, falling. The last two came at once, fists raised. Ethan dodged one, kneeing his stomach, the guy folding over. The other hit Ethan's shoulder, a dull ache spreading, but Ethan turned, landing an uppercut to his chin, the guy's head snapping back. They lay on the ground, groaning, blood pooling.

Ethan picked up his bag. "Stay down," he said, walking away, their curses faint behind him. His knuckles hurt, his shoulder bruised, but he didn't care. Fighting was easy, something he'd done forever, but it didn't change anything, didn't make the day less boring, less pointless.

Ethan then met Barbara outside the science lab, a clean room with glass walls and smooth floors, smelling of metal and bleach. Computers and machines lined the walls, lights flashing, a printer humming in the corner. "Where's everyone else?" he said, hands in his pockets.

Barbara laughed, pushing her hair back. "Just me right now. It's a small club," she replied, her cheeks pink. Ethan stared, his face blank. One person? Why bother? He followed her inside, the air cold on his skin. "Nice gear for a club with one member," he said, looking at a microscope that looked new, expensive, out of place in Gotham.

"Bruce Wayne's into science," she replied, smiling. "He gave a lot of money to set this up, wants to help kids like us." She walked to a table covered with tools and wires, talking faster. "Any project you want to do, the club pays for it. Since it's just us, we've got a huge budget. You could build anything, Ethan."

The words hit him. A budget could finish his drone, no more digging through trash for parts. He could work on something bigger, maybe the engine he'd drawn. He kept his face blank, but the idea stuck. Barbara pointed to her project, metal boots wired to a heavy battery, their surface scratched. "I'm working on dynamic propulsion devices," she said.

Ethan raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, fine, rocket boots," she said, her face red. "But they don't work. The thrust stops after a few seconds, and I can't fix it."

Ethan looked at the boots and his mind instantly picked it apart, all the separate pieces, the tangled wires and a blackened chip. He saw the problem, clear as day. "Your power cell's too strong," he said, pointing at the chip. "It's burning out the regulator. Use a weaker cell and fix the circuit."

Barbara's mouth opened. "Holy crap, you're right!" she said, grabbing a notebook. "That makes so much sense. Want to help me fix it? Please?"

Ethan shrugged. "Sure," he said. They started working, pulling wires, swapping parts, testing connections. Barbara took off her jacket, her tank top tight, her arms strong as she turned a screwdriver, sweat on her neck, hair sticking to her skin. Ethan noticed, but didn't care, his hands steady on the tools. They talked as they worked, Barbara's voice filling the room. "I've loved tech since I was a kid," she said, soldering a wire. "My dad wants me to do law, but I'd rather build stuff. You got any projects you're working on?"

"Just a drone," he said, not looking up. "Been putting it together."

"That's awesome!" she said, leaning closer. "What's it for? Like, spying, deliveries, what?"

"Nothing yet," he said. "Still building it." He didn't tell her about the junk parts, about his parents selling anything he left out. Why would she care?

They worked for hours, fixing circuits, running tests. Barbara laughed when a test sparked and failed, the sound loud in the quiet lab. Finally, the boots hummed, lifting an inch off the table, lights glowing. Barbara shouted, hugging him. "We did it!" she said, her arms tight, her hair brushing his face.

Ethan stood still, waiting for her to let go. "Gotta go," he said, grabbing his bag.

"Wait, will you come back?" she said. "Please, Ethan? It's better with you here."

He sighed, scratching his neck. "Fine, I'll come back," he said. "Don't know when."

"Yes!" she replied, clapping. "You're the best!"

He waved her off and left the room with no more words said.

___________________________

Ethan walked out of the school, thankfully with no more people bothering him; causing him headaches or just trying to beat him up for no reason other than he was poor. Now he could go home and go to sleep as his dreams were the most interesting part of his day. Though a small part of him did enjoy working on those childish rocket boots that Barbara was developing. 'Even if it was absurdly easy to fix,' he thought to himself as he continued walking down the path out of the academy gates.

*bzzzz*

It seems he spoke too soon, someone else was right on schedule to bother him once more. Ethan slipped his hand into his pocket and took his phone out; the message on the screen showed he had 27 missed calls from his Mom. It didn't take a genius to figure out what she wanted. 'Still though... 27 missed calls, she missed be starting withdrawal... That could be annoying." It also meant the old man was tweaking too, and he was a lot more annoying than his mother was.

A couple dozen solutions bounced through his mind, most of them were too violent and opened up a slew of other problems he'd eventually have to deal with. The easiest solution would be to get them what they want; they'd dose themselves into a drugged up stupor and for the next few days—maybe even a week—Ethan would be free of their annoying behaviour. While this might hurt the average persons pride, Ethan was no such person. He had no pride, he didn't care if he lost—though he rarely did. Gotham didn't exactly have a shortage of drug dealers, Ethan could easily take one of them out and take the product. What would they do? Call the police?

"Maybe Artemis is right..." he thought to himself as he left Gotham Academy and started the long trek back to his apartment. Why did he stay with those degenerates? He could live on his own; it wouldn't be hard to find his own place. He wouldn't have to worry about his things getting stolen, wouldn't have to deal with his parents trying to break his door down whenever they get drunk. The most logical move would be to leave and yet for so long he'd stayed there. Ethan let a small smile grace his features. "I must be broken..." he muttered to himself. To think someone with his intelligence would do something so idiotic. But then again hell is hell, doesn't matter if you have a place with a window.

*SIRENS*

Several police cars raced past Ethan on the street as they headed downtown, a common sight in Gotham. At least it would make things easier for him when he picked his target.

Ethan looked around and began inspecting the various Gothamites around him. He focused on several people at once noting important information about them that might give him hints as to what they were. His eyes moved across the street, watching people pass by. He was watching their hands, their posture, the way they moved, what they wore, how they wore it, everything was important.

He looked at a man walking fast with his head down. His shirt was worn thin at the collar, and the back of his hand had faded blue stains. His tie was loose. His shoes had one sole starting to come apart. Ethan watched his fingers flex as he adjusted the bag over his shoulder. 'Used to work in an office. Now he delivers papers or parcels. Still uses pens, cheap ones... explains the ink stains. Probably carries documents, not food. Got fired or downsized.'

He turned slightly and looked at a woman near a cart. She held a coffee in one hand and stared at her phone. Her blazer didn't fit. Her shoes were clean but cheap. Her hair was pinned back but strands kept falling loose. She kept biting the edge of her lip. 'Law student or paralegal. No time in the morning. Probably gets four hours of sleep. On her way to a firm, one that she hates.'

He shifted and watched two boys sitting on a bench. One tapped his foot while the other kept glancing at his bag. Both wore shoes with matching scuffs. Their laughter was loud, but they didn't look at each other when they laughed. Ethan kept watching. 'Foster kids. Same group home. One's hiding something in that bag. Probably stole it. Most likely from the other kid.'

He stepped forward and scanned the edge of the alley near the corner. A man stood there with one hand in his pocket. His hoodie looked clean. His shoes looked new and a little expensive compared to the rest of his clothing. His beard was untrimmed. One of his shoelaces was tucked inside. Ethan watched him adjust his stance and lean back but still look around without making eye contact. 'Not homeless. Too clean. Not nervous. Doesn't want attention but knows he needs to be seen by someone.'

He moved a little closer. The man shifted but didn't notice him. Ethan saw the left sleeve stretched out at the wrist. 'Pulls it back often. Could be reaching into it.' He watched the inside of the hoodie shift when the man turned. 'There's weight in the pocket. Not heavy enough to be a weapon. Shape's too square. Probably a powder bag. Maybe two.'

A man walked by. The one in the hoodie gave him a small nod. They clasped hands and the one in the hoodie pulled him in for a hug. While this could be seen as an innocent gesture by most people, Ethan knew better. He saw the exchange of money and drugs as they shook hands. A bonafide drug dealer. From the looks of it he was dealing Heroin or Coke; Ethan wasn't sure as he only caught a glimpse of the bag. He'd find out soon enough.

Ethan waited until the dealer pushed off the wall and started moving; likely going to meet his next client. Unfortunately for him he wouldn't ever make that trip, at least not with the product he planed to sell. Ethan followed closely, but still kept a good distance. While most people wouldn't think to look behind them unless it was late at night or they were going through a dangerous area; drug dealers—at least the good ones—had eyes in the backs of their head. They needed to. Cops, rival gangs, violent customers. There was no end to the number of people who either wanted to see them fail or wanted what they had for themselves.

Despite the dealer feeling like someone was following him, Ethan was able to move out of sight or blend in with the crowd each time he looked behind him. 'While he may have good spatial awareness he's just as predictable as everyone else..." Ethan thought to himself, as he watched the muscles shift in the dealers back and then their neck; by the time he started to turn Ethan was already at a news stand looking for a paper—while doing his best to hide his facial features.

The dealer looked back a final time before turning and slipping into an alleyway. Just the opportunity that Ethan was waiting for, he put the news paper down—igniting the owner who was yelling at him to buy it—and followed the dealer into the alleyway. He knew the dealer was waiting for him in ambush, he could smell the cheap cologne mixed with the strong scent of weed; the sun was also behind him casting his shadow out of the alleyway. With nothing else to do Ethan sprung the dealers trap.

The moment he stepped into the alleyway he was grabbed by the dealer who was a little more muscular than Ethan first assumed. He snarled fiercely at Ethan flashing a mouthful of yellow and brown teeth—quite a few missing as well. "What are you following me for boy!" He spat out, the slobber landing on Ethan's face though the teen didn't flinch. 

Ethan's silence seemed to upset the Dealer and he dragged him further into the alleyway before shoving him against a dumpster.  "You must have some nerve fucking with me, do you know who I am?" The dealer shouted slapping his face. The short impact of the slap confirmed that the dealer was in fact a heroin dealer. Ethan had smelled it enough in his own apartment to recognise it.

'Perfect..." Ethan thought. Cocaine would just rile them up until they crashed, this would knock them out.

Ethan raised his hand and pointed behind the dealer, he didn't say anything—he didn't have to. Most people are curious enough that they'll be compelled to look behind them. "What!?" The dealer said as he followed his finger and turned around. The moment he did, Ethan grabbed his face and forced his head back, while putting a leg behind him and throwing him to the ground; he ducked quickly and slammed his fist straight into his nose several times before the man went limp.

Ethan then dragged the man behind the dumpster and then started going through his pockets; he found the drugs easy enough, he also found a pocket knife, but no gun. 'Strange...' he thought to himself. Most dealers in Gotham were strapped. You had to be if lived in a place where psycho clowns burned down hospitals on the regular. There was a little over $3,000 in cash as well, which Ethan gladly took.

"Thanks," he said drearily before heaving the dealer into the open dumpster. "Your $3,000 will go along way in alleviating my boredom," he said as he dropped the man into a pile of garbage before closing the lid. He dusted his hands off together and started to walk away.

*bzzzz*

Another message, likely his Mom again though he was surprised she could type; usually the shakes were one of the first withdrawal symptoms. He took his phone out only to be surprised when it wasn't his Mom or father who had messaged him but someone unexpected.

Barbara: Hey Ethan this is Barbara Gordon... I just wanted to thank you for coming today, I had a lot of fun with you.

How did she get his number? He didn't give it out to anyone, the only people who had it were his parents and he did that reluctantly. He thought about it for a few more moments before he came to the right conclusion; he listed his own number down at Gotham academy for emergencies the only way she'd have gotten his number would be looking through his file in the records room. As he thought about all of this his phone buzzed again, another message from Barbara appearing on the screen.

Barbara: Sorry if it seems a little creepy, me messaging you out of the blue, I looked up your number on your phone when you were fixing the fuel line on your boots.

'Possible...' Ethan thought. He had taken off his blazer and had it on the back of a chair. His phone also had no password—why would it, he had nothing on there. What he did find interesting though is she managed to slip his phone from his jacket and take it out without him noticing. Rich girl like her maybe she was a kleptomaniac... no that didn't make sense, she didn't seem the type, especially with all that expensive equipment she regularly worked with. She was something else, but what? That was the question.

A smile formed on his face that was interesting.

However his thought process was disrupted when the sound of the dumpster lid opened and the dealer tumbled out. Ethan put his phone away.  "Full cognitive recovery in less than a minute, you could've been an astronaut."

The dealer breathed heavily as spit fell from his mouth and onto his chin. "I'm going to fucking kill you..." he spat out venomously as he pushed himself up against the dumpster.

Ethan rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He wouldn't run, that would just cause more problems down the line. He didn't want a male stalker waiting for him every time he took a shit. The best thing to do right now would be to beat him within an inch of his life and make sure he knows what will happen the next time they cross paths. Ethan scanned the man before him, slight deformities in the man's hands showed he'd broken them before and they'd never healed correctly; scabs also indicated that he'd been in a fight recently.

He favoured his right leg; possible injury to the left or past trauma. Best solution is to kick his right knee cap the moment he gets in range, dislocate it and then once he's on the ground target his weakened hands and break them. Shards from his deformed bones will erupt through his hands; follow through with an uppercut to his jaw to stifle his scream. End it with a knee to his diaphragm.

"You have no clue who you've just fucked with kid..." the dealer said as he straightened up and started walking towards Ethan with his fists clenched.

One

Two

Three

*CRACK*

Ethan's foot shot out the moment the dealer stepped in range; the knee cap—weaker than Ethan expected—popped out and the man swore in pain as he leaned forward, straight into Ethan's other foot which connected with his chest and sent him flat on his back. "You're fucking dead! You're fucking— AGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Ethan slammed his foot down on the man's hand shattering the bones inside. 'Shit...' he wasn't fast enough to hit him with an uppercut. 'Ah well,' he thought as he went to end it.

However something changed.

Ethan wasn't sure what it was, but the man beneath him started sweating, a lot more than a person in his situation normally would, his pupils also dilated.

"AHHHH!!!" He screamed lifting his shattered hand up, and Ethan with him.

Ethan was flung across the alleyway and straight into the wall like a ragdoll, the wind was knocked out of him and he sprained his wrist the moment he hit the ground. His mind was racing a million miles per second, trying to think of an answer to what the fuck just happened. He didn't have much time to think however as the dumpster he had originally disposed of the dealer in came wheeling towards him. Ethan's eyes opened wide and he quickly rolled out of the way and up to his feet.

"I told you kid, you have no idea who you're fucking with, now give me my shit back and maybe I let you leave with just a few broken bones," he growled.

A lie

It wasn't hard to tell he was lying, there was no situation where a criminal with a shattered hand would simply let the person who hurt them go.

'I guess I have no choice...' Ethan turned on his heels and started running in the opposite direction. It was clear this dealer wasn't normal, and while he had a good deal of experience in fighting; he couldn't throw a dumpster like it was a toy car.

"HEY!"

He heard the man shout behind him, but he kept on running. He nearly made it to the end of the alley and out onto the street when he felt the man grab his collar. 'How did he outrun me?' He thought as he was yanked and throw back deeper into the alleyway. He tumbled and skidded across the alley before hitting the dumpster.

'Enhanced strength, equates to a limited form of super speed.' He felt stupid for not thinking of it before.

Ethan looked up and saw the dealer, he was sweating even more, his chest was rising erratically and the man was nearly panting. "I'm going to show you what happens when you fuck with the Iron Row," he said before lifting Ethan up and slamming him against the wall. Ethan punched the dealer multiple times in the face, while elbowing the joint in his arms to try and free himself. The man looked unfazed by it and instead smiled before drawing one of his arms back and punching him so hard that Ethan immediately threw up the contents of his stomach—mixed with a little blood.

"Awww did that hurt!?" The man asked mockingly before he threw him across the alleyway into the other wall. "Well there is plenty more where that came from!" He spat as he walked towards him again.

Ethan stood up with a little difficulty, but did so and managed to avoid the next punch, which hit the wall and shattered the break behind it. At least that explained where the broken bones in his hand came from. Ethan slammed his fist into his liver and then delivered a rapid combo that ended with a hook to his face.

"Is that all you got!?" The man sneered.

Ethan stepped back and avoided several wild swings, it was easy to tell the man wasn't trained at all; most people wouldn't bother when they had strength like that. Ethan stepped forward and kicked him in the stomach, when he leaned forward he grabbed the sides of his head and kneed him, his nose crunched beneath his knee, but unlike before the man didn't yell in pain, in fact he didn't make any noise.

Ethan cursed as the man's grip tightened around his leg. Before he could react, he was yanked off the ground and thrown high into the air. He twisted his body mid-air, trying to control his fall, but the alley walls spun too fast. His eyes locked on a fire escape ladder above. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the folding knife, and threw it. The blade struck the latch. The ladder dropped. He grabbed it as it came down and used it to slow himself. His arm wrenched in the socket, but he stopped the fall.

He dropped to the ground and staggered. His lungs burned. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He took a few steps forward, trying to catch his breath, but the man was already on him again. Ethan tried to think, but pain dulled his focus. The man grabbed for him. Ethan struck him in the ribs, then jabbed upward into his jaw, but the dealer barely reacted. A heavy fist slammed into Ethan's side. He felt his ribs crack and the air flew out of his lungs again as he crashed against the dumpster.

He pushed himself up. His body ached, but he forced himself to move. The man was laughing now. "You're weak boy, now watch as I kill uou and leave your body for the rats!" Ethan deflected the next punch and countered with one to the throat. He followed with a kick to the stomach. When the man bent forward, he drove his knee into his nose again and again. He felt the cartilage give way, but the man didn't even scream. He just smiled with blood leaking from his face.

Before Ethan could react, the man caught his leg again. Ethan jumped up and elbowed the man's spine multiple times, trying to free himself but it was useless, the strength in the man's arm was too much. He was thrown again. His back hit the ground and pain shot through him. He lay there staring at the sky. His head was spinning. His thoughts blurred together.

"Is this really how my life ends?" He thought to himself. He thought about everything he had done with his life. He was smarter than anyone he had ever met. His body was stronger than most adults. Yet what had he done with his life, he was capable of anything and yet here he was still going to die in an alleyway beaten to death by a halfwit drug dealer. He had wasted everything. This was his end. How boring...

He laughed a little. That part actually amused him. A boring death. Just like his boring life.

*Ba-dum*

*Ba-dum*

Something shifted.

It was deep inside him. It didn't make sense. It wasn't physical. It was something else. He felt it stirring. His eyes went to the man again. Something about him drew Ethan's attention. He didn't know why. But he grabbed the dealers arm. There was something in him something that Ethan felt drawn too, something he wanted—though he didn't know why. When he reached the source it resisted, but Ethan pulled. He pulled harder. He wasn't sure what he was doing. He just knew he had to keep going. Then it happened.

The man screamed and stumbled back. He clutched his chest and stared at Ethan like he was seeing a ghost. "What the fuck did you just do?" he yelled.

Ethan straightened. His body still ached, but something had changed. There was something inside him now. He couldn't describe it, but he could feel it. His heart pounded. He felt his pulse in every limb; deeper inside he could feel something pulse.

"What the fuck did you do?" the man screamed again and threw a punch at him. It landed against Ethan's jaw, but it didn't hurt. It barely made him move. Ethan blinked.

The man stepped back. He looked at his hand. "No. No no no no," he said. He started hitting his chest. "Come back. Come on. Come back."

Ethan wasn't listening. He was focused on the sensation that ran through him now, one that was becoming more familiar by the second. Focusing more on the new sensation inside him he gained a rush of understanding; in a single moment he had understood what he had just done, what he had just taken. This man had an ability and Ethan had just stolen it. That wasnt the only thing either; when Ethan focused on the ability he was able to almost intuitively understand what it was.

He had assumed the man had enhanced strength when he'd first witnessed the man use it. He was wrong.

He activated it.

His heart rate shot up. His vision narrowed. His hands trembled and he clenched them. His body began to perspire more than normal. Every muscle tightened. His pupils dilated. Blood rushed faster through his veins.. It was an advanced form of hyperarenalism—adrenaline production pushed far past normal limits.

But it wasn't just raw output. It was controlled. This man's ability allowed him to produce and process extreme levels of adrenaline. Where a normal person would burn out or die from the strain, his ability adapted his body and maintained the high for longer periods. If Ethan had to measure it, he'd estimate the man's strength had tripled under the effect. Speed. Reflexes. Recovery, strength. All elevated by the same mechanism. A very powerful fight or flight reflex that could be turned on and off like a switch.

Now it was his.

He smiled.

The dealer panicked. "No! What did you do?! Give it back!"

Ethan walked forward and grabbed the man by the throat. He lifted him with one arm, something tha felt like picking up a toy. The man kicked and punched him. Ethan didn't feel it, his pain threshold had likely been elevated to a massive degree while in this state. He stepped forward and threw him into the wall.

There was a crack. A wet crunch followed. The back of the man's skull split open as it struck the bricks, splattering his brain matter against the wall. His body went limp immediately. Blood poured from the wound and spread quickly across the alley floor, soaking into his shirt and pooling beneath him in a dark uneven patch. His eyes remained open, staring blankly at nothing. His jaw twitched once, then stopped. There was no breath left in him.

'I made a miscalculation...'

Ethan stood there in silence. He didn't feel anything. He just looked at the body. His eyes scanned it for movement out of habit, but there was none. His original calculations took into consideration the dealers body; Ethan's was distinctively different than the man before him. He was extremely healthy and had quite a bit of muscle, his body no doubt would work at a higher level while under the influence of the ability. He was likely 4-5x stronger than he was normally.

'No wonder his head split open...'

When considering what he should do next he ran through a list. No witnesses. No security cameras. No sounds of nearby pedestrians. No ID on the man. No phone. No sign he had friends nearby. That was something he checked earlier. Still, a corpse was always a problem. The longer it stayed in the open, the higher the risk. Someone could wander into the alley. Cops might respond to a smell or a tip. If the body was found intact, it could lead back to him. That couldn't happen. Not now. Not after this discovery.

He bent down and grabbed the man's arm. It was heavier now. Dead weight always was—he had enough experience with that with his parents. He dragged the body to the dumpster, hoisted it over the edge and dropped it in. It landed with a dull thud against the other trash bags inside. Blood smeared the edge of the dumpster and soaked into the cardboard under the lid. Ethan wiped it off with the sleeve of the man's hoodie. He reached into his pocket and took out a lighter, grabbing some of the cardboard and a half drunken bottle of spirits he lit it up and dropped it back down, and watched as the flames caught.

He didn't stay to watch it burn. He closed the lid—not entirely—and stepped back, listening to the fire crackle inside. The smoke rose fast. He could smell it already. Plastic, skin, hair, something chemical too—maybe whatever he'd used to cut the heroin. It didn't matter. The body would be unrecognisable by morning. Even if someone opened the dumpster, there wouldn't be much left. Fire simplified things.

Ethan turned and walked out of the alley.

His heart was still racing, but it didn't feel like panic. His blood felt thinner, lighter. Every breath hit deeper in his lungs. The sound of car horns from the next block rang sharper. The cold in the wind felt cleaner against his face.  Everything felt amazing, it felt like his whole life he was deaf and blind and now he was just starting to experience it.

M

He reached the end of the block and looked down the street. There was nothing special about it. Same cracked sidewalk. Same neon signs. Same broken gutters and rusted vents. But it looked new to him. Like he was seeing it in high resolution for the first time.

He looked around, at the people around him. Noticing everything they do, and doe the first time he didn't feel bored. What was happening to him? Everything in his life until now felt dull, he hadn't even felt like a person; like he wasn't the same species as everyone around him.

But now he could feel it, for the first time in his life he felt excited about something. For so long everything was so predictable and boring. Nothing surprised him, nothing interested him; the rare times something did were brief moments that he treasured, but they weren't enough to break the monotony of life.

Now however, he had no clue what was coming next. He had just set sail, the course? He had no clue.

He smiled.

The kind of smile that didn't fade.

He didn't know what he'd just become. But he liked it.

(AN: So this is my new story. I realised that a lot of my stories have heroes In them or are heroes. I'm trying to expand my horizons and while I don't plan for this guy to become a villain he's not going to be a hero. Wait so like Mark I guess... shit. Well I don't like villain MCs tbh they remind me too much of bullied Manwha protagonists. Anyway Ethan Kane has All for One, but it won't work how you think, to balance it I'm basically just changing it to a Meta power, so Ethan can only steal and give meta gene powers as they are the most similar to quirks. So I'm afraid he can't just go and steal Superman's or flashes power. Only people with the Metagene. But yeah his first power might be familiar to anyone who watched the TV show Alphas. Hyperadrenal; my boy Bill is a menace. Anyway hope you enjoyed the chapter.)