Chapter 1: Martin!
A dark alley in Gotham at midnight.
Bang! A gunshot shattered the silence.
Martin, dressed in cowboy attire, tilted the brim of his hat with his left hand, revealing brown eyes behind round glasses. His right hand held an old-fashioned revolver, its muzzle still trailing wisps of smoke. The sharp scent of gunpowder lingered in the air.
Just moments ago, he had deflected a bullet aimed at him.
Three men stood before him—tattooed, pierced, and armed. Their rough demeanor screamed trouble.
Martin frowned. "This is the first time I've seen robbers shoot first and ask questions later. What if I didn't have any money? You'd be killing for nothing."
"Shit, no meat!" one of them sneered, twirling a gun. "In Gotham, life is cheap. If you don't like the rules, don't play."
Martin sighed. "Why did I end up in this hellhole?"
He was no stranger to strange places. Ever since he was six, he had awakened each morning in a new world, a new identity. By eighteen, he had been to realms beyond imagination—alien landscapes, ocean depths, parallel dimensions. But Gotham…
Gotham was different. Dangerous.
At least his parents and friends hadn't come with him. That would have complicated things.
The robbers grumbled in agreement at Martin's complaint. "We ask ourselves the same damn thing! Why were we born in this dump?"
"Then let's call it fate and part ways," Martin suggested.
"Not happening," one of them growled. "We do things the Gotham way. Either you die, or we do."
Martin shook his head. "Does it really have to be this way?"
"Unless you're willing to pay up," another one smirked, thinking Martin was scared.
"Fine." Martin's eyes turned sharp. In a blur, his revolver fired—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five shots, so rapid they almost sounded like one.
The robbers' eyes widened in horror. Their guns were gone—shot clean from their hands. Two collapsed, knees shattered by well-placed bullets. Blood pooled on the cold pavement as they writhed in pain.
Tonight, Martin was a legendary Western gunslinger. His revolver, though outdated, was deadly in skilled hands.
He adjusted his hat, gaze locking onto the last man standing. "Your move."
"You're out of bullets!" the robber sneered, pulling a switchblade and lunging forward.
Martin sighed. "I hate this city."
Another shot rang out.
The last man crumpled, both knees pierced.
Martin held a second revolver. "I never said I had only one gun."
His voice was ice. "I gave you a chance. You didn't take it. Now, empty your pockets. Cash and valuables only."
Shaking, the men obeyed, tossing their loot onto the ground. Martin gathered over $500—freshly stolen, ironically—along with some rings and jewelry.
He waved the stack of bills. "Not bad. If you ever find yourselves with too much money again, you know where to find me."
The robbers cursed under their breath but knew better than to argue. With their weapons gone and bodies broken, their fate in Gotham was sealed. If the cold didn't kill them, the gangs would.
Martin let them crawl away, then holstered his revolvers and left the alley.
Back at his residence—a small American-style house—he tossed the stolen cash into a drawer, changed into pajamas, and collapsed onto his bed.
"Another day survived."
His eyes grew heavy. As he drifted into sleep, he saw his parents and friends, reaching for them—only to grasp empty air.
Morning came. Something was different.
Martin sat up. His cowboy clothes were gone, replaced by a classic detective's three-piece suit, a deerstalker hat, and a gourd pipe.
He groaned, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Looks like I'm a detective today in Gotham. This won't end well."
Ding-dong!
The doorbell rang. He opened it to find an older man in a yellow trench coat and glasses.
"Martin," the man said gravely. "Batman needs your help."