"Are you in?"
Gordon's voice crackled through the phone. Tense. Waiting for confirmation of what they both already knew.
"Commissioner Gordon." Jude stood in the doorway. Looking into the bedroom. "The door was unlocked."
His voice was flat. Professional. The tone you used when compartmentalizing horror.
He was looking at five bodies lying in pools of blood.
The bedroom had been ordinary once. Family photos on the walls. Children's drawings pinned to a corkboard. A double bed with a handmade quilt. Stuffed animals on smaller beds.
Normal. Domestic. Safe.
Until half an hour ago.
Now the floor was slick with blood. Dark. Spreading. Five people down. Parents and three children based on the sizes. Shot and left to bleed out.
Jude reached into his pocket. Pulled out fruit candy from his inventory. The colorful wrapped pieces that looked absurd in this context.
And felt extremely fortunate that he'd given the Joker the [I Didn't Kill Anyone]
Because all five bodies were still breathing. Barely. Chest rising and falling with desperate shallow breaths. Clinging to life by a thread so thin it was almost invisible.
But alive.
"You need to hurry," Jude said into the phone. Moving now. Kneeling beside the first body—the father, Tony, shot twice in the chest. "The Joker fired five shots here."
He unwrapped a piece of candy. Bright red wrapper. Cherry flavored.
Pushed it into the unconscious man's mouth. Let the magical healing properties work.
Then moved to the next person. The mother. Then each child in turn.
Methodical. Efficient. Racing against blood loss and shock and the body's surrender to trauma.
About five minutes later—sirens approaching, getting louder, the familiar sound of Gotham emergency response—police cars and ambulances arrived at the scene.
EMTs rushed in with gurneys and equipment and practiced urgency.
They loaded all five members of the Templeton family carefully. Stabilizing necks. Checking vitals. Starting IVs.
"Still alive," one EMT reported. Shocked. "All of them. Jesus Christ, all five still have vital signs."
They were taken to Gotham Hospital.
Racing through streets with lights flashing and sirens wailing.
Still breathing. Still fighting. Still alive despite everything.
Commissioner Gordon stood in the blood-soaked bedroom. Looking at the scene. Processing.
He sighed. The sound was heavy. Exhausted.
"I wonder if today's events will haunt them." His voice was quiet. Contemplative. "Whether it's being shot and nearly killed by a madman, or having to shoulder the exorbitant medical bills for a family of five."
He rubbed his eyes. Too many hours awake. Too much coffee and not enough sleep.
"The Riddler and the Joker seem to be killing people lately without causing death. I occasionally wonder—" A dark smile. Humorless. "—if they have some kind of partnership with Gotham's major hospitals. Keeping the emergency rooms busy. Driving up revenue."
"If you run into a ruthless criminal like the Joker or the Riddler," Jude said quietly, "you're lucky to be alive at all."
He shook his head. Looking at the blood. The evidence of violence. The miracle of survival.
"At least the Templeton family can be reunited. All five of them. Together."
A pause.
"By the way—what happened to the driver? The one who drove the Joker into the fountain last night?"
"He almost died." Gordon checked his notes. "But it seems it wasn't from the gunshot wound. Internal bleeding caused by the car accident. Ruptured spleen. Collapsed lung. But—" He looked up. "—luckily you called the ambulance in time."
It wasn't because I called the ambulance in time, Jude thought.
It was because he'd stuffed a magical lollipop into the man's mouth when he'd gone upstairs yesterday. Before the Riddler confrontation.
Otherwise the driver would have really died. Bled out internally while the exterior looked fine.
Same thing at the theater. The Joker's explosion wasn't immediately fatal. But the collapse of the stage—concrete and steel and heavy equipment crashing down—had caused potentially fatal injuries to dozens of people.
So Jude had given each of them temporary magical rescue. Lollipops. Moving through the rubble like some deranged emergency confectioner.
Saving lives with sugar.
"Do I still need to give a statement?" he asked.
Gordon nodded. "Record it quickly. Leave after you're done."
He sighed again. Looked at Jude with something between concern and disbelief.
"I don't know if you're lucky or unlucky. You've encountered the Joker twice and the Riddler twice. All four major incidents in the past forty-eight hours. It's a blessing from God that you're still alive."
Jude smiled awkwardly.
Not exactly luck, Commissioner.
When the Joker blew up the theater, Jude had spawned directly into that location via dimensional travel.
When the Riddler escaped from prison, Gordon himself had transferred Jude to guard duty.
When the two supervillains met in the building at night, Jude had rushed there after solving the puzzle using system analysis.
Only meeting the taxi driver this morning had been genuine accident.
In reality, there wasn't much luck involved at all.
After recording his statement—answering the same questions three different ways, signing forms, providing timeline details—Jude walked out of the Gotham City Police Department.
It was still early afternoon. Sunshine continuing. Wrong but pleasant.
First priority: money.
He went to the Diamond District. Found a reputable gold shop—the kind with bulletproof glass and armed security and cameras covering every angle.
Took out several gold bars from his inventory when no one was looking. Standard weight. High purity. Universal currency.
The merchant tested them. Verified authenticity. Calculated current market rates.
Exchanged them for $100,000 in cash.
Then Jude went to Gotham Bank. Opened an account. Deposited the money.
The cash he'd earned in Gotham City in his own universe—from working for Wayne Prison, from Falcone's payments, from various jobs—was basically untouched. Sitting in accounts back home.
At this point in this dimension, Jude couldn't be called a rich man. But he had no problem making a living for the immediate future.
Rent. Food. Equipment. Contingencies.
He was stable.
After finishing financial business, Jude went to Gotham Hospital again.
When he walked into the main hall, it was no longer as chaotic as the last time he'd been here—after the theater bombing, when twenty-seven critical patients had arrived simultaneously.
Now the doctors and nurses seemed to be working in orderly fashion. Calm. Professional. No one was shouting about doctors fighting with patients anymore.
The theater victims were clearly in stable condition. Many probably no longer in danger of dying. Transferred to ICU or regular observation wards.
The impossible survival rate holding steady.
Twenty-seven admitted. Twenty-seven still alive.
He wasn't here to register as a patient, so he ignored the reception desk. Found a nurse in the hall instead.
"Hello." Polite. Professional. "I'd like to see the patients who were brought in yesterday after being injured at the stand-up comedy show."
"Ah?" The nurse blinked. Confused. "You are...?"
Jude took out his police ID. Flashed it briefly. Put it away before she could read details.
"I'm Officer Jude from the Gotham City Police Department. I was at the stand-up comedy theater when the explosion happened yesterday."
He kept his voice casual. Factual.
"I was the one who pulled them out of the rubble. Was taken to the hospital with them for evaluation, but I wasn't injured. Perhaps you have some impression of me?"
The nurse's expression changed.
Blinked. Processing. Then—
Recognition.
Her eyes went wide. Face transformed. Like she was seeing something miraculous standing in front of her.
She finally remembered. During shift change this morning, her colleagues had been talking about a police officer. The stories spreading. Growing. Mythologizing.
He'd single-handedly dragged out all people buried in the rubble after the theater stage exploded. Saved considerable time for rescue. Though six were confirmed dead on the spot the remaining had all survived.
The TV station had called it "the twenty-seventh consecutive miracle."
But everyone at the hospital believed the miracle was the officer who'd dragged everyone out.
Almost all the doctors and nurses had assumed he was a devout believer. Perhaps Christian. Catholic. Some other faith that inspired such selfless action.
They imagined him like Desmond Doss in Hacksaw Ridge. Dragging buried victims one by one from extremely dangerous ruins. A theater that could collapse again at any moment. Death waiting overhead.
Praying: "God, please let me save one more person. Please let me save one more person."
Over and over. Twenty-seven times.
Never giving up. Never stopping. Never thinking of his own safety.
A hero.
Jude watched the nurse's eyes change from confusion to surprise, then to being deeply moved. Even a little... worshipful?
He felt something was wrong.
Very wrong.
What is she worshipping?
"You are—" Her voice cracked with emotion. "You're the hero who risked his life to rescue everyone from the rubble—"
"Alright, alright." Jude immediately interrupted. Uncomfortable. "That's enough. No need to say any more. I know what you're going to say."
This was the first time in his life that he'd been praised as such a selfless hero.
And he felt genuinely embarrassed.
Because it was a lie. An accidental myth. A story built on misunderstanding.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, let's keep our voices down. I mainly want to see the people who were admitted yesterday and today. Check on their condition. Follow-up investigation."
Professional reasons. Official business.
"No problem!" The nurse brightened. Eager to help. "I'll take you there—"
"No, no, no." Jude raised his hands. Backing away slightly. "This will disturb your work too much. Just tell me where they are. Room numbers. I can find them myself."
"No, I still insist on taking you." Her voice was firm. Determined. "It's no trouble at all. It would be an honor—"
The corners of Jude's mouth twitched.
This was the first time he'd encountered such trouble in his life.
He'd never had this kind of problem when operating as the Wheelchair Stripper back home. People feared him. Respected him in a wary way. Gave him space.
No one had ever looked at him like he was a saint.
He lowered his voice. Leaned in slightly. Made it conspiratorial.
"Well, now that things have come to this, I have to tell you something." Mysterious tone. Serious expression. "I came to the hospital this time because of a secret police operation."
The nurse's eyes widened.
"I can't tell you the details," Jude continued, "but I can tell you that this matter is very important. Needs to be kept confidential. I can't let more people know I'm here."
Official business. Classified. Important.
Her face suddenly showed understanding. "Oh!" She nodded rapidly. "Sir, then I won't follow you. I'll just tell you where they are."
She gave him room numbers. Ward locations. How to navigate the hospital.
"Ahem." Jude nodded gratefully. "Thank you. Thank you very much."
He turned toward the elevators. Escaping before she could reconsider or tell other staff members that the hero was here.
The elevator doors closed.
Jude stood alone in the small metal box. Watching floor numbers tick upward.
And thinking about a question that had been bothering him since the nurse's reaction.
The rumor about a "police hero" had spread throughout the hospital. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, administrators. Everyone knew the story.
Which meant it would spread further.
To newspapers. TV stations. Social media. The story was too good not to share. Too inspiring not to broadcast.
Officer risks life to save 27 people from bombed theater.
Miracle survival rate attributed to quick rescue.
Hero cop pulls victims from rubble one by one.
When he thought about this, Jude felt embarrassed. Uncomfortable in a way he'd never experienced before.
For him—with enhanced physical fitness, with the Horn of Plenty providing magical healing items, with video game mechanics preventing death—saving people had been easy.
A piece of cake.
Literally involving cake. Or candy. Close enough.
Because he was powerful, any little help he gave to others seemed enormous to them. They would be grateful. Moved. Inspired.
He didn't like that feeling.
It seemed like condescending charity. A superior looking down on lesser beings. Noblesse oblige from someone fundamentally different.
But in reality, he considered himself a member of those beings. Just a person. Normal. Ordinary in every way that mattered.
In fact, he thought, until now, I don't think of myself as a hero.
The word felt wrong. Ill-fitting. Like wearing someone else's clothes.
Because I've never made any "sacrifice" for others.
That was the core of it. The reason the praise felt false.
Heroes sacrificed. Gave up something valuable. Risked something precious. Made choices that cost them.
Jude had risked nothing. Lost nothing. Sacrificed nothing.
He'd used magical fruit candy that cost nothing, candy he made using fruit from the Horn of Plenty and he made thousand to keep in his inventory. Used skills that had no personal cost. Worked with enhanced physical fitness that made difficult things easy.
What sacrifice was there in that?
What heroism existed in using cheat codes?
DING.
The elevator arrived at his floor.