The Average DC Experience #7

Gray's mind went blank, any calm and ability to see reason evaporating from his head, destroyed by the stinging pain coming from his wounded, bleeding shoulder. 

The bastard shot him. And for what? To make a point, an example? Gray didn't know nor care. He was sick of it all, of this rotten city, of its unsympathetic residents, and how light the weight of his own life seemed to everyone. 

He cared for one thing and one thing alone right now. To kill the bastard who'd shot despite getting what he wanted so that he'd calm the seething rage and resentment gouging out his heart.

In the back of his mind, he knew that there would be no going back once he did this, but the countless screams of anger and hatred managed to silence the tiny sliver of the reason that remained in his head. 

He slowly raised his left hand as the middle-aged gangster turned around, the steel wire coming to life under his clothes as he prepared to take his life. 

However, before Gray could act on his dark urge, a shadow came flying from above, drop-kicking the gangster and knocking him into the ground, unconscious. 

Gray froze as he took in the looks of the newcomer. He wore weird green gloves and shoes, a green spandex speedo, and a red shirt with a black badge on his chest, a yellow R in the middle. 

He regarded the newcomer with a light of recognition in his eyes, identifying him as Robin. Though which Robin, Gray did not know.

He instantly returned to his senses and immediately stored the steel wire into his inventory as Robin turned to face him.

"You were about to do something stupid." Robin blankly stated as he gave Gray another look, earning a confused look from the latter. "You almost got yourself killed." He waved a hand to the side and continued as he turned to the gangster, picking up the gangster's gun and waving it in Gray's face as if to elaborate. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gray replied, walking past Robin and delivering a vicious kick to the gangster's midsection hard enough to bring him back into consciousness. A second kick to the side of his head solved that.

Robin looked at this scene and frowned, but he merely silently sighed and said nothing, losing the sternness in his countenance when Gray stopped after only two kicks. 

However, he quickly felt the need to interject when Gray crouched to start rummaging through the gangster's pocket. 

"What are you doing?!" Robin questioned as he reached to hold Gray's intact shoulder, frowning at his actions. 

"The guy mugged me. I'm taking back what's mine," Gray replied, scowling as he stopped rummaging through the gangster's pockets and turned to Robin with a scowl over his shoulder.

"The hell you are!" Robin exclaimed with a scowl, mirroring gray's expression as he pulled the latter away from the unconscious gangster's body. 

"I know a thief when I see one. I'm giving you a break because you clearly need one, but don't push your luck," Robin remarked as he crouched, reaching towards his suit, much to Gray's confusion. 

"Now stand still, and let me patch you up before you bleed to death," Robin added as he ripped a small cloth piece from the Gagster's suite and approached Gray, an earnest expression on his face. 

Looking at his expression, Gray could do nothing but sigh and comply as Robin went to work, wrapping the cloth around his gun wound to stop the bleeding. 

"There," Robin said, nodding as he tied the cloth. "This won't last for long, so head towards Thompkins Clinic in East End. Dr. Thompkins should patch you up properly," he added, crouching to wipe the blood off his gloves on the gangster's suit and take out two $100 bills. 

"Take this," Robin said, stuffing the money into Gray's hands. "I'm being lenient here, but the police are already on their way. They won't be so inclined, so do me a favor and get out of here," he added as the police siren sounded, causing Gray to turn in their direction.

"And keep your nose clean! There won't be a second time!" Robin concluded, and Gray turned to him, a retort on the tip of his tongue but froze as the Boy Wonder was already long gone. 

Gray merely sighed in annoyance as he turned to walk away with twitching eyes. 

...

'I can't believe I got scolded by a kid wearing a speedo... man, fuck this world...'

I mused, bitterly smiling as I sat in Thompkins Clinic's waiting room, inspecting the room. 

The room was full of seedy characters, all sporting cuts, bruises, and injuries, but I could hear not a single whine or a grunt of pain. 

Most if not all people who come here hardened thugs, belonging to different gangs with repeated offenses. And the only reason they waited quietly without causing a fuss or trouble was the man in a black suit, silently keeping a watchful eye over the waiting room; Mortimer Drake.

The man, Mortimer Drake, suddenly showed up in the clinic one day and acted as Dr. Thompkins' bodyguard based on the former Gray's memory. And he seemed to be doing a pretty good job at it, judging by how everyone avoided making eye contact with the man.

There was a rumor that he had single-handedly stopped a gang fight near the clinic. 

And even though the former Gray didn't believe it, I thought differently, considering the nervous looks everyone kept sending him whenever he turned away.

He was most likely a named character from the comics based on his reputation alone. Unfortunately, I had no clue who he was because of my limited knowledge, so there's no point in thinking about it.

The operating room opened, and a tall, fit old lady with kindly features and graying hair, wearing a doctor's coat with a stethoscope wrapped around her neck, walked through it.

She reached for her shoulder and massaged it with a wince before turning to everyone in the waiting room and gently smiling. 

The old lady, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, walked towards her, a kindly smile still tugging on her lips as she greeted me. 

"I was hoping I wouldn't see you again so soon, Gray," the doctor said, heaving an audible sigh as she sat next to me and undid the cloth around my wound to inspect it. 

"What is it that brought you to me this time around?" she asked as she disinfected the wound and began probing to see how deep it was and what kind of treatment it would require. 

"I fell down the stairs," I replied, fighting the urge to shrug my shoulder, to which the doctor sighed but shook her head and said nothing as she continued to inspect my wound. 

The phrase; I fell down the stairs, wasn't a lame attempt at lying on my part. It was a code that anyone who came here for treatment would use if they couldn't talk about the cause of their injuries or were simply unwilling for whatever reason. 

It goes without saying that I fell down the stairs was the only answer the doctor ever received since she started working in the clinic. But she never stopped asking, out of sheer concern and kindness, or maybe simple stubbornness.

Looking at such a selfless old lady who could have been a saint gently tending to my wound didn't make me feel warmth, hope, or any positive feeling. I only felt disgust and unease instead. Her existence reminded me of the reality that I was in a fictional world as no real human being could ever be this selfless.

Gotham City was a horrible place, and there were no regular people there. 

Only demented psychopaths who'd gut someone for shits and giggles. Greedy thugs who had no qualms about killing for a buck. Pragmatic, cynical civilians who'd walk by a dying man without twitching an eyebrow, and people like the doctor who was so selfless she couldn't be real. 

People in this city were either a shade of black or the brightest shade of white. There was no gray in this city, no regular people. This fact served as a constant reminder of my reality that wasn't real. Not in the truest sense of the world. Not to me.

"You look considerably better since the last time you came. Save for the bullet- falling down the stairs, I mean..." the doctor muttered, correcting herself mid-sentence, prompting me to give her a confused look.

"You looked so skinny the last time you came..." she added, tilting her head in confusion. I suddenly wanted to slap myself when I realized what she was talking about after a second of thought. 

The former Gray was malnourished and sickly. No wonder the doctor would be surprised by my suddenly turning healthy. However, I didn't need to worry as the doctor quickly dropped the subject.

"That can't be right. All that overwork is probably affecting my memory," the doctor remarked, sighing as she stood and beckoned a nurse. And I had to resist sighing in relief.

"Gray here has a flesh wound on his shoulder. Stitch him up while I examine the other patients, won't you, Patty?" the doctor remarked, turning to the chubby African-American nurse and earning a nod from the latter.

"Take care now, Gray," the doctor said, gently smiling as she moved to the next patient.