"Give me a gun."
Downton shoved the door open before his boots even crossed the threshold, his voice cutting through the stale air of the gun shop. Behind the counter, the bald owner didn't look up immediately—just kept reading his newspaper, the rustle of newsprint the only reply.
At the sound of Downton's voice, the man finally lifted his gaze, his eyes narrowing behind wire-rimmed spectacles as they settled on Downton's cracked lenses and hollow stare.
"You don't look like someone who can afford to pay," the shopkeeper said flatly. He set the paper aside and leaned forward, scrutinizing the blood-smeared linen shirt and torn trousers clinging to Downton's frame. Bullet holes peppered the fabric. One gash near the thigh had split wide enough to reveal pale skin beneath.
His pockets hung flat—emptier than a beggar's promise.
Downton stepped forward without a word and planted his palms on the counter. "If you want payment, at least let me see what I'm buying. A pistol'll do. And—" He glanced toward the street, jaw tight. "I'm in a hurry."
The shopkeeper grunted. "A pistol, huh? Could grab you a Glock, but that's pedestrian." He studied Downton's calm eyes—too calm for a man dripping blood—and felt something stir in his gut. Not fear. Interest. "I know what your type likes."
From beneath the counter, he produced two well-worn sidearms: an M1911 and a Desert Eagle. "Stability and stopping power," he said, racking slides and chambering rounds with practiced ease. "Take your pick."
He laid both loaded guns on the glass, fingers resting lightly on the grips—ready to move if needed.
Downton didn't hesitate. He shoved the shopkeeper's left hand aside and snatched the Desert Eagle, thumb flicking the safety off with a sharp click.
In the same breath, the bald man had the M1911 leveled at Downton's chest.
Downton grinned. "I already have a gun. So why should I pay?"
He tapped the barrel he now held against his own temple, then swung it toward the shopkeeper's forehead. "You sold me this little beauty. Show it some respect."
The shopkeeper didn't flinch. He just exhaled through his nose. "Kid, you're about my son's age." His voice lowered, rough but not unkind. "Gotham's drowning in trigger-happy punks. We don't need another. You're beat to hell—but you're still breathing. That counts for something. Cherish it."
Downton's smile didn't waver. "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. And what can kill me?" He holstered the Desert Eagle at his waist. "Makes me stronger than ever."
He turned toward the door, already walking away as if the gun aimed at his back meant nothing.
The shopkeeper watched him go, then barked a dry laugh. "Alright, hotshot. Consider it a rental." He tossed a box of .50 AE Magnum rounds across the counter. "If you're still upright tomorrow, come settle your tab."
He paused. "Name's on the receipt. What's yours?"
"Downton," the man said without turning. "Downton of Downton Manor."
The shopkeeper caught the flicker of sarcasm—or delusion—in the name, but said nothing as Downton caught the ammo mid-stride and disappeared into the Gotham dusk.
Alone again, the shopkeeper's grip on his M1911 tightened—fingers twitching twice—before he slowly lowered the weapon.
Gotham had no shortage of armed madmen. Or robbed gun shops. He'd survived plenty.
But this one?
This one made him wonder.
"Downton," he muttered to the empty room. "We both know I could've put ten rounds in you before you cleared leather."
He smiled faintly. "But if you don't care about dying… why should I care about a gun?"
With that, the bald shopkeeper sheathed his pistol and picked up the newspaper again.
Today's headline stunned him: Bruce Wayne had returned to Gotham after more than a decade abroad.
At the mention of that name, the shopkeeper's gaze seemed to pierce through brick and steel, fixed on the gleaming spire in downtown Gotham.
That building was Wayne Tower—and in many ways, Gotham was Wayne City.
This was Wayne's Gotham.
The prodigal son—and heir to its shadowed legacy—had come home.
…
Leaving the gun shop, Downton frowned. The torrential rain blurred street signs into smears of neon and rust. Gotham was always cloaked in storm clouds, its humid subtropical air thick with the promise of violence. Downton hated it here—but Gotham, it seemed, had taken a liking to him.
This morning, he'd been arranging canned goods in his newly acquired neighborhood bodega when a thunderclap—not just loud, but wrong—ripped through the air. In that instant, the world twisted. One moment he was in his old life; the next, he stood in an alley soaked in rain, wearing clothes that weren't his, with a name that didn't belong: Downton.
He quickly realized he'd been thrust into another world—the DC Universe. Worse, one without Batman, Superman, or the Flash in the public eye yet. The newspapers carried no reports of capes or cowls, only crime lords and crooked cops. That meant this was Gotham before Batman—the most dangerous time to be alive in the city.
Downton knew better than to stay. He bought a one-way bus ticket to Metropolis. Without Superman active (and Metropolis still relatively stable under LexCorp's uneasy order), it was safer than Gotham's lawless streets. From there, he'd head to Washington, then maybe Europe—Switzerland, perhaps—somewhere far from costumed chaos and gang wars.
But fate had other plans.
The bus never made it out of Gotham.
Midway to the city limits, it rolled straight into a crossfire between the Maroni and Odessa gangs—not Russians, but Eastern European syndicates carving up territory in the wake of Carmine Falcone's waning influence. Rockets tore through the chassis. Downton's coat burned away. His body was riddled with shrapnel.
He died. There was no doubt about it.
Yet here he stood—alive, drenched, burning with something more than fever.
Gotham had killed him… and then refused to keep him.
Now, standing in the rain with scorched clothes and bullet holes stitched into his flesh like morbid embroidery, Downton knew one thing: what had killed him would make him stronger than ever.
He wouldn't just survive. He'd make them pay.
When those thugs turned a public crossroads into their private battlefield—using civilians, buses, him as cover—did they ever imagine one of their victims would crawl out of hell and walk back?
Letting the freezing rain sluice over his skin, Downton raised a hand and flagged down a battered yellow cab.
The vehicle screeched to a halt. The driver—a grizzled man with a scar down his cheek—rolled down the window, leveled a snub-nosed revolver at Downton's sternum, and growled,
"You'd better just be lookin' for a ride, pal."
"I am," Downton said flatly. "Take me to the bus terminal. Where the shootout happened."
He climbed in before the man could protest. The driver's eyes flicked to the charred bullet holes in Downton's jacket—too clean for random shrapnel, too precise for luck.
"Whole city's on edge today," the driver muttered, shifting gears. "Odessa boys hit the Sabatini crew hard near the terminal. That's Falcone turf—Sabatini's one of his lieutenants. You ain't Italian. Ain't Russian neither. So why you headin' into it?"
"Just drive."
The driver exhaled smoke from a half-lit cigarette.
"Alright, boss. I'll drop you half a block out. Don't wanna get my paint job shot up. But seriously—what's your angle?"
He glanced sideways. "People like you… eyes lit like you've seen the other side? You're the type who start wars just by showin' up."
Downton didn't answer. Instead, he pulled a magazine from his pocket—the one the gun shop owner had slipped him—and dumped ten .357 Magnum rounds into the driver's lap.
"No cash. This is your fare."
The driver's eyes widened. Then he grinned.
"Hell—these'll feed my kid for a week. You're alright, stranger."
He stomped the gas.
"Hold on. It's gonna get loud."