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Chapter 4 - Chapter 4

The dim light from the old monitor illuminated Alex in the half-darkness of the greenhouse. The air was thick with the scent of soil and genetically modified plants. The internet in Gotham was unreliable, but sometimes it was in its murky depths that one could find the right catch. Alex opened a browser tab—not the dark web, but a regular, semi-anonymous forum called "Parahumans." The interface was simple, even outdated: white background, blue links, sections by interest. Here gathered enthusiasts, conspiracy theorists, ex-cops, metahumans, and those who had simply seen too much strangeness.

The "Anomalies: Eyewitness Accounts" section was buzzing with posts:

"Yesterday in Bludhaven, old docks area: the asphalt literally split open under a gang chasing a homeless guy. The crack was a meter wide, perfectly straight. Cops said 'natural wear,' but I was there—the ground was moving!"

"Three months ago at a construction site in Metropolis—a landslide stopped dead in its tracks. The foreman whispered about a 'guy in a hood.'"

"In Star City, behind the train station—a hill grew overnight. Geologists are scratching their heads. Pics attached."

Alex scrolled through the page, his superpower automatically filtering out the obvious nonsense. He was interested in one thing: earth manipulation. There were no such metahumans in Gotham—here, it was all brutes, pyromaniacs, and master schemers. But Bludhaven… Gotham's satellite suburb, just as gray but less crime-ridden. Reports of "earth miracles" there popped up with alarming regularity. Too regular to be coincidences.

He highlighted key details from the posts:

Location: Always Bludhaven or its immediate surroundings.

Action: Saving people (homeless, workers), creating barriers, altering terrain.

Style: Powerful but rough. Walls crude, cracks jagged. Works on instinct, not blueprints.

Anonymity: Always "guy in a hood," "shadow," no names or detailed descriptions.

Gotham's docks were waiting. Rusted beams, toxic soil, dilapidated buildings—all needed reshaping. They needed someone like Geo: capable of shifting earth, reinforcing foundations, digging out a secret base. But how to find him? A ghost working from the shadows. He wouldn't respond to ads like "Earth-mover with superpowers wanted."

Alex focused on the latest Bludhaven post—about the crack near the old docks. The forum user mentioned a rough location: "next to the abandoned grain silo 'Silo-7.'" That was enough. If Geo operated there, he might be based there or frequent the area. There was no time to waste—if he went underground, finding him would be nearly impossible.

 ***

Meanwhile, at Wayne Manor, champagne flowed, and the guests' smiles were as tight as violin strings. Bruce Wayne, the embodiment of a carefree playboy, glided through the hall with a glass in hand, catching snippets of conversation through the hum of voices. One topic interested him: a new "brand" on the streets. Clean, supposedly harmless, rapidly gaining popularity among the golden youth. It was being sold under Falcone's banner.

His gaze caught a group of real estate empire heirs—their laughter was louder, their eyes unnaturally bright. One, the son of a Midtown developer, whispered excitedly to the others: "Dudes, it's incredible! No comedown, pure high. To the roof? It's quiet there…" Giggling, they headed for the service stairs. Bruce discreetly set down his glass and followed, melting into the corridor's shadows.

On the roof, Gotham's wind stripped away their masks of merriment. They lit a joint, smoke curling in ghostly rings. The smell was unusual—floral, without the usual chemical bitterness. Bruce stepped out of the shadows, sudden as a nightmare. "Seriously?" His voice, usually lazy, turned icy. "At my banquet? With a full hall of guests and half a dozen undercover detectives downstairs? Do you want your names on the front pages tomorrow?"

Pallor replaced their bravado. The joint fell to the concrete, scattering its smoldering contents. They muttered apologies, shoving each other, and retreated. Bruce picked up the packet with the remaining green—neatly packaged, with a small logo of a stylized leaf. In the Batcave, analysis confirmed his suspicion: the composition was unique. Pure cannabinoids, modified plant enzymes, no toxins or addiction. Botanical perfection. Only one person in Gotham could create this: Pamela Isley, Poison Ivy. But why supply Falcone? Why not poison? This changed the game. With such a product, Falcone would crush Maroni, and the mafia war would drown the streets in blood. Bruce needed to understand her play. The greenhouses of New Eden required Batman's attention.

 ***

Every minute of delay could cost him Geo. Alex slammed the laptop shut. Papers with address notes and key details went into the safe. On a map of Bludhaven bought at a gas station, he circled the old docks area and marked "Silo-7." The greenhouse was left behind, Pamela watching his departure in silence, her vines frozen in a questioning curve.

The road to Bludhaven wound through Gotham's industrial zone—a landscape of rusted pipes, broken windows, and fading lights. His superpower analyzed the data:

Geo acts impulsively, reacting to threats against the weak.

He avoids contact but can't ignore suffering.

His base/point of interest is the old docks area of Bludhaven ("Silo-7" likely the epicenter).

The old grain silo "Silo-7" loomed as a grim monolith in the middle of a wasteland. The smell of mold and rust hung in the air. The asphalt around was pitted with cracks, one especially fresh and deep—matching the forum description. Alex examined it. The tracks were old, dust had settled. Geo had been here, but not now. Waiting at the silo was pointless and dangerous. He needed to provoke Geo into action, but in a way that seemed natural, not a trap.

The plan came quickly, without convoluted intermediaries or hideouts. Alex knew the ways of the outskirts. He found a group of homeless people sleeping under a nearby bridge. A few bills, a couple of cheap wine bottles—and "volunteers" for the evening were secured. Their task was simple: loudly argue and fight each other late at night on the wasteland next to the silo, drawing attention. Noise, shouts—common in such places, but noticeable enough to attract someone who keeps order in his district. Alex took position in the shadow of a half-demolished wall of a neighboring warehouse, in direct view of the action but out of the conflict zone. He was ready to intervene only if the fight turned truly dangerous.

Night fell over Bludhaven. A cold wind swept papers and dust across the wasteland. At the appointed time, shouts, the sound of breaking glass, and,也不销screws up the "actors" were performing well. Alex watched tensely. Twenty minutes passed. Thugs from a nearby bar were already glancing toward the noise with unhealthy interest. And then… the ground trembled. Softly but perceptibly. Between the fighting homeless and the approaching curious thugs from the bar, the asphalt buckled. Not a crack, but a real wall of compressed earth and stone, rough, uneven, but solid—two meters high. The thugs jumped back with curses, the homeless scattered in panic. From the shadow of the tall fence next to the silo, a figure emerged. Hood, dark jacket, movements cautious but confident. Geo.

Alex waited a few seconds, letting him ensure the threat had passed, then stepped into the open, hands in front, palms out. "Impressive entrance," he said calmly, nodding at the wall. "I can see you're used to using your power when it matters. I'm not an enemy. I'm looking for someone with your… abilities. For a job in Gotham."

Geo froze, his gaze from under the hood wary, scanning. He assumed a fighting stance, the ground at his feet stirring slightly.

A threat assessment: high. Readiness to flee/attack: 90%. Key: Clear goal, no lies.

"A job?" Geo's voice was low, with a slight, indistinct accent. "What kind of job? And why should I trust you?"

"Restoration," Alex replied clearly. "Gotham's docks. A district everyone's forgotten. I want to clean it, reinforce it, build something useful there. Your power is key to this. You can move earth, change the landscape. I've seen you're not indifferent," he nodded toward the wall. "Here's a chance to do something more than one-off heroics. To build. To protect for real. I'll pay generously and honestly."

Geo was silent, but his stance relaxed slightly. Alex sensed a microscopic shift. "You're talking about the docks… I know that place. A dump." A pause. "What exactly do you need?"

"A base," Alex answered. "Underground. Secure. Plus reinforcing old buildings, cleaning the soil. You're the main excavator and bulldozer. But for precise work, calculations—you need a specialist. I have an architect, a professional. You do the heavy lifting according to her blueprints."

"An architect?" Interest flickered in Geo's voice, not lecherous but professional. "Does she understand… what I can do? What I need?"

"She's a pro. Worked on complex projects. She'll understand your capabilities and limitations. Her job is to give you a plan you can execute with your power, not a shovel." Alex saw Geo pondering.

Motivation: Interest in large-scale work, recognition of his power, professional collaboration. Probability of agreement: 85%.

"Prove it," Geo finally said. "Where do we meet? When?"

Alex pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, wrote down the address of an abandoned warehouse in Gotham's docks—their future starting point. "In a week. The 15th. Midnight. Come—you'll see the place, we'll discuss details. No traps. Just work." He handed the paper.

Geo took it, glanced at the address, then at Alex. The ground under Alex's feet trembled slightly—a warning. "I'll be there," Geo said gruffly. "But if anything…" He didn't finish, turning sharply and vanishing into the fence's shadow as quickly as he had appeared.

Alex exhaled. First step taken. The ride back to Gotham on his motorcycle flew by. In the greenhouse of New Eden, Pamela's appraising gaze met him. The vines behind her writhed slowly.

"So?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Found your mole?"

"Found him," Alex took off his jacket. "His power is just what we need. He's got attitude. He'll be at the docks in a week. Get your soil cleanup and 'green' defense projects ready, Pamela. We'll start building soon."

She huffed, but in her eyes—attentive and slightly less distrustful than usual—something like excitement flickered.

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