Where Are The People That Accuse Me (The Ones Who Beat Me Down And Bruise Me)

Chapter one

Gotham was dark.

Gloomy, sunless, shady
Tragic, dire, gruesome

Gotham was cold.

Freezing, biting, raw
Disdainful, frigid, aloof

Gotham was cruel.

Merciless, brutal, inhumane
Tough, bitter, agonizing

The people living there, the rich with their big manors and electric fences, the poor, making do with the barest of the minimum; were all under her suppressing thump.
There was no middle-class, no American Dream to achieve.

You do or you don't.
You live or you die.

Those were Gotham's rules.

There were those poorer than poor, the homeless children, families living in Crime Alley or the Narrows, fearing for their lives on a daily basis. Those who had to get by either offering their services as hired guns (always ending up in jail, beaten by a myth) or dead, shot down by their own bosses or greedy partners.

Or they offered their services in... other businesses, turning tricks, working the street. Sometimes, they would send their kids or partners instead, forcing them to run drugs or please customers.

(Jason wall all too aware of that)

Then there were those richer than rich, the businessmen that owned half the buldings in Gotham, possessing more money than some of Gotham's citizens were worth.

Gotham consisted of crime lords and crooked cops, of child traffickers and pimps, of people screaming how unfair life was, how different they were from the rich and powerful, the violent and dishonest. But no Gothamite was innocent, there was not one human Gotham hadn't infected yet, not one pure soul she hadn't corrupted.

(Try surviving with a mindset like that)

Hearing all this, no one would call Gotham home.

(No one who never lived there, that is)

Because Gotham pulls you in and doesn't let you go.

It's weird, Jason thought, watching the bustling city, even after nightfall. There was something about Gotham, something drawing you in, forcing you to keep coming back. Jason knew the captivating spell of his home city by heart.

Maybe it was the smell; not the rancid, rotten, sour stench of Crime Alley, neither the fake, clean, perfumed scent of the wealthy city areas.

No, it was the clear air above the smog, only reachable through grappling guns, the smell of wet pavement after weeks of downpour.

It was the sight of thousands of small lights, like a carpet of glittering stars draped over small buildings, when you stood on top of skyscrapers with nothing but a thin wire to catch you should you fall.

It was the look in the people's eyes, in the Gothamites' he swore to protect. It was the greatful smiles on the faces of homeless children in Crime Alley's child care center, whenever he brought food and water, staying to read stories or tell tales of his adventures.

(And maybe, just maybe, the dark vigilantes protecting the city, a band of misfits who somehow formed a family, were the reason he kept coming back no matter how often he promised himself to leave for good. But just maybe, he told himself.)

Just maybe...

Jason glanced back at his two companions. Koriand'r of Tamaran and Roy Harper.
They were in full Starfire and Arsenal attire, and he himself wore his signature red helmet, the white slots glowing in the dark.