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...
It's morning in New York. Schiller awoke to the symbiote's voice after a blade of light slipped through the gap in the curtains.
"I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I want brains… one brain, two brains, three brains…"
Schiller sat up helplessly. "You experience hunger?"
The symbiote muttered to itself as it ignored him. Schiller washed up and asked, "Aren't they coming?"
"Who?"
"The brains."
So, superheroes are nothing more than walking brains for you?
Not entirely wrong. There aren't many superheroes who actually use theirs, and the majority of them end up around him.
"I'm hungry; I'm hungry. I want the blue-eyed brain first and the brown-eyed one later…"
Schiller realized the thing did get hungry; via brainwaves, it continued to pump a sensation of gnawing emptiness into his head until he felt peckish himself.
He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and ate some chocolate. The symbiote kept whining.
What puzzled him was how exhausted he'd been after spending so much time in Gotham. He had been exhausted the night he met with the Godfather.
He didn't require much sleep; on workdays, he could get by on coffee and four hours per night for a week without tiring. But after only one sleepless day with Gordon, he was completely wrecked. It made him wonder about this ability to travel between worlds—where did it come from, and what were its limitations were.
After some thought, he admitted that the clues did not lead to an answer. Better to focus on the immediate issue: the symbiote's hunger.
It desired brains. Schiller didn't mind catching and feeding a few criminals in Hell's Kitchen—he wasn't Batman, and he wasn't bound by any "no-kill" rule. While Hell's Kitchen is not Gotham, there are certainly a few monsters who have earned their fate.
"Can you bite someone's head off in one go?"
"Do you want me to?"
"No, of course not." Use proper table manners. We are not barbaric. "Enter through the skull, eat the brain, and don't leave a mess…"
"… Fine. That's effective."
So, yes, the plan was to bite off the head.
Schiller believed that all symbiotes shared a common ancestor, so some similarities were unavoidable.
He dressed and went out to walk through Hell's Kitchen to see if any unfortunate muggers crossed his path.
Hell's Kitchen may not have been as "vibrant and wholesome" as Gotham, but it was still entertaining.
He watched a man in a black puffer jacket walk into the bodega, hands in his pockets. A telepathic scan detected the man's nerves. Schiller watched from across the street as he pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the clerk.
Schiller was about to intervene when the clerk pulled out a larger gun from under the counter and aimed back. The would-be thief raised his hands, backed away, and fled.
So much for luck: the first robber of the day was a moron—and a novice. In Hell's Kitchen, showing up with only a handgun earns you the nickname "bum"
Schiller continued on, crossing a small bridge over a runoff trench and passing the back of an old clothing store.
Hell's Kitchen and Gotham were similar in that they were chaotic, rotten, and crime-ridden, but this place had a vibrant pulse.
Not far from his clinic was a well-known graffiti street, with buildings painted in riot colors and stacked like mismatched shipping containers, alleys as narrow as knife slits, and storefronts with a 1930s vintage smile. Even the hot dog cart had a tin roof and was covered in outrageous spray paint.
In theory, this carnival of color shoved into a slum is ridiculous, but it works. Brighter, more vibrant than Gotham.
If Gotham was full of souls enslaved to crime, Hell's Kitchen was full of rebels who'd chosen to abandon "respectable" society entirely—rebels living free and loud, feeding the neighborhood with a different kind of energy.
A hot griddle hissed and flipped a sausage. The vendor—a blue-eyed kid in a red-and-orange apron with warm brown skin—snatched fries from the oil and said, in a cheerful Mexican lilt, "Want some of my special chili? Keeps you up all day. On the house!"
"From Mexico?" Schiller enquired.
"You won't believe 'Born in the USA,' but it's true. My mother brought me over as a unborn infant—we crossed the border."
He worked with quick, danceable hands. "She works for a garment factory on the East Side. I've enjoyed cooking since I was a child. The González hot dogs are the best in Hell's Kitchen. You won't find a more genuine Mexican food anywhere."
"Isn't Mexico about tacos?"
"Please. Corn tortillas are too much for you Americans. I used to sell tacos, but no one bought them."
"Could you make them? I will take one. I lived on tortillas and avocado soup while traveling in Mexico."
González grinned and snapped his fingers together. "You have a sense of taste. The González taco is also the finest in Hell's Kitchen."
A group of children dribbled a ball up and clustered around the cart, noses up. "No totopos today," he warned them. "Come back later."
They craned their necks, discovered no chips, and dashed away. As he flipped tortillas, he commented, "Those little gremlins ask for chips every day. They'll inhale the entire tub in a matter of minutes. I was the same way—always hungry."
"They're not starving, are they?"
"Nah. The ringleader's father transports freight through the Kitchen. Whatever falls off a truck becomes a week's worth of dinner. The remainder have parents who have good jobs. This is not Mexico. Most people here are fed."
The hot-dogs, taco, and soup were ready in no time and were plated with style. Schiller paid and left a large tip. González smiled, tapping the counter with his spatula. "Friends of González eat for less next time!"
Schiller waved and continued his walk down the graffiti strip.
Daylight reduces crime in this area. The sun cast better shadows on these strange structures than it ever did on Manhattan's neat rows. Wires tangled overhead, reaching the horizon. Motorbikes and sticker-bombed cars clogged the alleyways. Children laughed hysterically somewhere.
Like Gotham, this place was a shambles—but a living one.
The pecking order in Gotham City can be oppressive. A holdup at a convenience store would raise the question of which crew was responsible. What street is this? What is your captain's name? You're starting a war? Accidentally, you may start a shootout.
Hell's Kitchen is not that. Who cares what flag you fly? When you pull a gun, you'd better be prepared to take a volley. Owners are willing to die for their businesses.
In some ways, it is "wholesome." Who is that cheerful hot dog kid? Schiller had noticed the two long guns strapped to the cart. If a genius tried to bully him, González would show them the warmth of Mexico.
At the same time, he gladly pays local crews for protection and often offers them a discount on breakfast.
There are fewer tragic monologues. Most people are looking for freedom, working on their terms with a road-movie swagger and a wink.
If Satan walked into Gotham, layered, regimented crews would flay him; Falcone would "invite him for a talk," he'd catch a blackjack from a man in a bodysuit; and the cops would march him to Arkham—no discharge, no release, no fee.
If Satan appeared in Hell's Kitchen, people would rush him, mince him, pan-fry him, and braise him before hosting a multicultural cook-off.
Everyone here can cook. Maybe not well, but enough to enjoy cooking the devil.
That is Hell's Kitchen: chaos, joy, and swagger in the pursuit of total freedom.
No emperors. No saviors. Not even the largest crew.
Every life here is a protest against a boring, rule-bound society. This neighborhood is a giant graffiti tag on a New York map—messy, blazing with color, and impossible to scrub off.