## Chapter 3: The Cost of Intervention
The rain hadn't stopped. It drummed against the grimy window of Bob's room above Sal's Deli, a relentless percussion to the grim rhythm of his existence. He sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the System interface hovering in his vision. The numbers were a stark reminder of the agonizingly slow path he walked.
**[Level: 2 (0/75 XP)]**
**[JP: 3.0]**
Level 2. It felt less like an achievement and more like a reset button on a steeper incline. He needed seventy-five XP just to reach Level 3, which would only grant him 2 JP and unlock the *potential* to upgrade abilities further. Worse, upgrading any ability to Level 2 now cost 15 JP – a 50% increase from the initial upgrade cost. He had a paltry 3.0 JP. The Void's mocking laughter echoed in the back of his mind.
*"Round and round the hamster wheel,"* it sneered, its voice a low, persistent hum beneath his thoughts. *"Level two? You scrape dirt from the bottom of a deeper hole. When do we stop playing their game, little sentinel? When do we make the rules?"*
Bob ignored it, massaging his knuckles. The Lv.2 Regeneration had made the bruises from his nightly patrols fade faster, but the constant strain remained. He was still fundamentally human – tired, vulnerable, and painfully aware of his limitations. He needed to earn more. Faster. But recklessness in Gotham was a death sentence. He had to be careful, precise, and utterly invisible.
***
The next week was a blur of rain-slicked streets and minor interventions, each meticulously calculated to avoid attention and exploit his slight edges:
* **Quest: Prevented Purse Snatching:** Near the Gotham Museum, he spotted a swift-fingered thief targeting a distracted tourist. Using his Lv.1 Speed (merely a quick sprint), he intercepted the thief, using a well-timed shove (*Strength Lv.1*) to disrupt the grab and snatch the purse back before vanishing into the crowd. **[Reward: 1 XP, 1.5 JP]**
* **Quest: Assisted Stranded Driver:** Helped a young mother change a flat tire in a downpour near the Sprang Bridge. The effort of lifting the spare and working the jack taxed his Lv.1 Stamina, leaving him winded. **[Reward: 0.5 XP, 0.5 JP]**
* **Quest: Deterred Vandalism:** Used his presence and a low, authoritative shout from the shadows to startle teenagers preparing to tag a community center wall, causing them to flee. **[Reward: 0.5 XP, 0.5 JP]**
* **Quest: Reported Gas Leak:** Smelled gas near a tenement building. He quickly alerted residents by pounding on doors and shouting warnings, then called emergency services from a nearby payphone before slipping away. Avoided being seen. **[Reward: 1 XP, 1 JP]**
The points trickled in:
**[Level: 2 (3/75 XP)]** // *Earned 3 XP total*
**[JP: 6.5]** // *3.0 + 1.5 + 0.5 + 0.5 + 1 = 6.5 JP*
Progress, but painfully slow. The Void grew more insistent. *"Scraping pennies from gutters! That gas leak... imagine the fireball. The screams. The *power* in that chaos!"* Bob focused on the relieved face of the young mother, the untouched community center wall. Small victories. Small points. He felt the strain in his muscles, the lingering ache in his joints. Lv.1 Strength meant he was strong, maybe as strong as a dedicated weightlifter, but not superhuman. Lv.1 Speed meant he was quick and agile, like a skilled athlete, not a blur. Lv.1 Invulnerability meant he could take a punch better than most and maybe shrug off a minor cut, but a knife or bullet would kill him just like anyone else.
Then, a shift. Patrolling near the dilapidated warehouses bordering the Gotham Docks one rain-lashed night, the System pinged with unusual urgency:
**[Quest Generated: Intergang Tech Interception]**
**[Location: Warehouse 7, Gotham Docks]**
**[Objective: Prevent Intergang operatives from securing and removing an unstable device. Minimize collateral damage.]**
**[Threat Level: High (Trained Mercenaries / Unknown Tech)]**
**[Potential Reward: 15 XP, 15 JP]**
Fifteen. Bob froze mid-step, heart hammering against his ribs. That was more than he'd earned *total* since arriving in this world. Enough to upgrade an ability significantly. But *High Threat*. Trained Mercenaries. *Unknown Tech.* The words screamed danger. This wasn't deterring vandals; this was stepping into a warzone far beyond his capabilities. His hand instinctively went to his side, where the phantom ache of the alley bruise sometimes lingered.
The Void surged forward, ecstatic. *"YES! FINALLY! Prey worthy of our attention! Power awaits! Tear them apart! Take the device! Unleash it upon this wretched city!"*
Bob wrestled the darkness down, the cold rain mingling with sweat on his brow. The reward was immense, but the risk... Intergang dealt in alien weaponry. "Unstable device" sounded like a death sentence. But... 15 JP. He could upgrade *Strength* to Lv.2, becoming genuinely superhuman. He needed that edge. Desperately. His current Lv.1 Strength felt terrifyingly inadequate against armored thugs with automatic weapons. Could he even make a difference? Or was this suicide?
He crept closer to Warehouse 7, using the labyrinth of rusted shipping containers as cover, moving with the cautious silence his Lv.1 Reflexes allowed – heightened awareness, not precognition. Peering around a massive container, he saw them. Eight figures clad in tactical gear bearing Intergang's jagged insignia. They were loading a pulsating, metallic cylinder, roughly the size of a water heater, onto a reinforced flatbed truck using a hydraulic lift. The device emitted a low, unnerving hum. The air around it shimmered faintly, like heat haze but cold – it made his teeth ache and his skin prickle. *Dimensional tech?* Jack's comic knowledge screamed warnings about Bleed energy and unstable portals. This was bad.
The potential reward warred with the primal urge to flee. The Void screamed for action. *"NOW! BEFORE THEY LEAVE! CRUSH THEM!"*
Bob took a deep, steadying breath. Low-key. Unknown. *Survive.* That was the plan. Stealth and sabotage were his only tools. He couldn't fight them head-on. He focused, using his Lv.1 Speed (a quick, silent dash) and Lv.1 Reflexes (keen senses, quick reactions) to become a shadow flitting between stacks of crates and rusted machinery. He reached the truck's cab unseen. Taking another breath, he assessed the door. He couldn't rip it off. He couldn't bend the frame. Instead, he spotted the fuel line beneath the chassis. Using a sharp piece of scrap metal he found nearby, he jammed it hard into the rubber hose, slicing through it. Fuel began spilling onto the wet concrete with a pungent smell. *Disable the truck, not the driver.*
*"Coward! Weakling!"* the Void raged.
He moved quickly away from the truck, staying low. He needed a distraction. He spotted a loose, heavy crate precariously stacked near the mercs. Throwing his shoulder against its lower edge with all his Lv.1 Strength (a strong shove, not a superhuman heave), he managed to topple it. It crashed down near the group, startling them.
"Contact! Possible hostiles!" one merc yelled, weapons snapping up, scanning the shadows where the crate fell.
Bob used the momentary confusion. He grabbed a discarded metal pipe – not to throw like a javelin, but to use as a lever or club. He targeted the merc closest to the humming device, moving quickly but not supernaturally fast. He swung the pipe low, aiming for the back of the man's knee (*Reflexes Lv.1* helping him aim precisely). The merc cried out, leg buckling. Before Bob could press the advantage, another merc spun, firing a short burst.
*CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!*
Bob threw himself sideways (*Reflexes Lv.1* giving him a split-second edge). One bullet whizzed past his ear. Another slammed into his upper left arm.
*AGONY.*
It felt like a red-hot poker driven deep into his flesh. He cried out, staggering back, the pipe clattering from his grip. *Invulnerability Lv.1* meant the bullet didn't pass through or shatter bone, but it *tore* through muscle, embedding itself. Blood instantly soaked his sleeve. Pain radiated in blinding waves. The System's damage notification flashed red in his vision, a stark counterpoint to the Void's triumphant roar.
Suddenly, a whip-crack sound echoed through the warehouse. A black-clad figure landed gracefully, silently, atop a stack of containers near the entrance. Black Canary. "Intergang! Party's over! Stand down!"
Bob froze, clutching his bleeding arm, pain and terror warring. *Hero.* *Exposure.* His anonymity, his fragile safety net, was shredding before his eyes. One of the mercs near the device, panicked by Canary's arrival, fumbled with a control pad on the cylinder. "You won't take it!" he screamed, slamming his fist down on a large red button.
The device reacted violently. The low hum became a shrieking whine. The shimmering air intensified, warping visibly. A tiny, unstable rift, no larger than a dinner plate, flickered open beside the cylinder. Jagged bolts of unstable energy lanced out, vaporizing a nearby crate and scorching the concrete floor.
**[CRITICAL THREAT: DIMENSIONAL INSTABILITY DETECTED! COLLAPSE IMMINENT!]**
The System's warning blared. Canary yelled, "Get clear!" but the panicked merc was already stumbling back. The tear pulsed, growing slightly, emitting a terrifying suction that pulled loose debris towards it.
Instinct screamed. Forget the pain. Forget hiding. Forget the Void. *Stop it.* Bob didn't charge. He couldn't. He scanned desperately. His eyes fell on the heavy-duty hydraulic lift they'd used to load the device onto the truck. It was still connected, its thick cable snaking to a nearby power box. Gritting his teeth against the agony in his arm, Bob lunged for the power box, not the device. He ripped the access panel open (Lv.1 Strength enough for flimsy metal) and grabbed the main power lever, throwing it into reverse with all his might.
The lift groaned. Its arm jerked downwards violently, slamming into the top of the pulsating cylinder with tremendous mechanical force. Not Bob's strength, but the machine's.
*CRUNCH!*
The metal housing buckled under the impact. Sparks flew. The shrieking whine cut off abruptly. The flickering rift snapped shut with a sound like tearing fabric. The device went dark, inert metal pinned under the lift arm.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the groans of injured mercs, the drip of water, and Bob's own ragged, pained breathing. Black Canary stared, first at the crushed device, then at Bob, her expression unreadable behind her domino mask, but her posture radiating shock and intense focus. Bob stood exposed, panting heavily, his hood fallen back during the struggle, revealing Bob Peterson's young, strained face – pale with pain and shock, smudged with soot, sweat, and blood. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, blood soaking through his sleeve and dripping onto the concrete. His hands were empty, trembling.
"Kid..." Canary's voice cut through the silence, wary but undeniably impressed. "What... how did you...?" She took a step towards him, her eyes flicking to his bleeding arm.
Bob didn't wait. He couldn't answer. He saw her comm earpiece light up – a faint blue LED. Backup was coming. He turned and fled, clutching his wounded arm, staggering rather than sprinting. Every step sent jolts of agony through him. He poured every ounce of his Lv.1 Speed into a limping, desperate run towards the maze of containers and out into the rain-lashed night. He didn't look back. He just ran, the image of Canary's masked gaze and the searing pain in his arm burning into his consciousness.
**[Quest: Intergang Tech Interception - Complete!]**
**[Reward: 15 XP, 15 JP Awarded!]**
**[Level: 2 (18/75 XP)]** // *3 XP previous + 15 XP = 18/75 XP*
**[JP: 21.5]** // *6.5 JP previous + 15 JP (Reward) = 21.5 JP*
He was still Level 2. He had 21.5 JP – enough for significant upgrades. But the victory tasted like blood and failure. He'd been seen. He'd been *shot*. The Justice Points felt like a bitter payment for shattered anonymity and a grievous wound. The whispers of the Void slithered back, colder and more insistent than ever.
*"Exposed,"* the Void hissed, a sound of dark delight laced with contempt for his injury. *"The mask is off, little sentinel. Now the real game begins. They will hunt the wounded animal."* A pause, filled with malevolent promise. *"Or... you could let the wound fester. Let the pain fuel me. Let me hunt *them*."*
Bob stumbled through the rain, not just fleeing the warehouse, but fleeing the terrifying new reality. His low-key existence was over. The slow path had just become a gauntlet of pain and exposure. The shadows of Gotham no longer concealed him. The real DC universe had taken notice, and the price of power had been paid in blood. The twenty-one and a half Justice Points in his account felt less like a reward and more like a down payment on a war he was losing before it had truly begun. Gotham's darkness had new eyes fixed upon him, and Bob Peterson, bleeding and broken, was squarely in their sights.