Generally speaking, Jude believed that people weren't born evil.
Sure, there were probably exceptions. Psychopaths, serial killers, that one kid in third grade who ate glue and pulled wings off flies. But Victor Fries? Not one of them.
By all accounts, he'd been a genius. A cryogenics scientist with credentials that would make most academics weep with envy. And he'd been devoted to his wife—true soulmates, the kind of partnership that made other people believe in love.
Then she got sick.
Terminal. Incurable. The kind of diagnosis that came with a timer counting down in months, not years.
But Victor Fries wasn't the type to accept fate. He was brilliant, determined, and deeply in love. If the world couldn't save his wife, he'd do it himself. He threw himself into research, racing against time to find a cure.
When it became clear she'd die before he succeeded, he did the only thing he could think of: he built a cryogenic chamber. High-tech, experimental, probably not FDA-approved. It froze her in stasis, buying him time. Preserving her life in suspended animation while he searched for a cure.
It should have been a beautiful story. Genius scientist defying death for love.
But this was Gotham.
And in Gotham, beautiful stories don't stay beautiful.
The company funding his research decided to pull the plug. Profits over people. They tried to shut down the experiment, and Victor fought back. The confrontation turned violent.
Then the equipment ruptured.
Chemical spill. Gas leak. An explosion of supercooled air. Victor should have died. Maybe it would've been better if he had.
Instead, he survived.
Changed.
His cellular structure was altered at a fundamental level. His body temperature dropped to sub-zero and stayed there. He couldn't survive in normal temperatures anymore—room temperature would literally kill him. He needed to stay frozen just to live.
So he built himself a suit. Cryogenic armor to keep him cold. Freezing weapons to defend himself and fund his research. And then he went after everyone involved in the accident that destroyed his life.
From that point on, Gotham had another supervillain. And the world lost a brilliant scientist.
He still kept his wife frozen. Still searched for a cure. Funded his research through robbery and worse. And despite everything, he was still considered one of Gotham's less dangerous villains.
Because at least he had a reason.
Jude sighed.
"So," he said carefully. "This doctor who recommended Victor Fries to you. You two have some kind of grudge, or...?"
Drake looked up from where he sat hunched on the rusty chair. "What? No. Why?"
Jude could see him actually running through his mental Rolodex, trying to figure out if he'd somehow offended the specialist.
"Just wondering. And, uh... you know what happened to Victor Fries? After the recommendation?"
"I heard there was some kind of accident. Testing incident. He and his wife both disappeared after that."
Disappeared. Right. Into supervillainy and cryogenic fugitive status.
At least Drake hadn't met Mr. Freeze yet. If he had, Jude would already be planning his escape from Gotham.
"So what's your plan now?" Jude asked.
Drake's laugh was hollow. "Plan? I don't have a plan. I finally managed to get us settled here, get my wife into some kind of stable situation, and now..." He gestured vaguely at nothing. "Nothing. No options. No hope."
He hunched forward, hands gripping his hair again.
"I just wanted to get enough money for next month's medical bills," he said, voice breaking. "That's all. Just enough to keep her going a little longer."
His breath hitched.
"And then I fucking met you!" The words exploded out of him. "I actually believed you! Brought you to my home thinking you could help! I'm an idiot. A complete fucking idiot who can't save his own wife."
The tears came then. Not quiet ones. Wrenching, ugly sobs.
"I'm useless," Drake choked out between gasps. "I can't save her. I can't do anything. I'm just—I'm just watching her die and I can't—"
Jude didn't interrupt. Didn't try to comfort him or tell him it would be okay.
He'd been holding this in for months. Maybe longer. Carrying the weight of his wife's illness, the financial ruin, the desperation. Letting it out was probably the healthiest thing Drake had done in weeks.
Jude pulled over another iron chair, wiped off the rainwater, and sat down. The cold metal bit through his jacket immediately, sending a chill deep into his bones.
He looked out at Gotham's skyline—blurred lights in the distance, wealth and corruption stacked in shining towers while people like Drake struggled in the dark.
Hemp rope breaks at its thinnest point, Jude thought. And misfortune always finds the unfortunate.
Some cosmic law of the universe. The people who could least afford tragedy were the ones who got hit hardest.
He sat with Drake in silence while the rain fell and the city hummed with distant violence.
Click.
The sound of a key in a lock. The apartment door creaked open, hinges protesting with a dry, rusty shriek.
Slow footsteps. Careful, like the person walking didn't have much strength.
"Camilla," Drake called out. "I'm back."
Jude followed him inside.
A woman emerged from one of the rooms. Thin—no, emaciated. No hair left, not even eyebrows. She moved slowly, one hand on the wall for support, like standing upright took all her concentration.
When she saw Jude, surprise flickered across her face. Drake introduced them quickly, and she smiled.
It was a gentle smile. Kind. Even though her body was wasted to almost nothing, even though her skin had the pale, translucent quality of the dying, Jude could see traces of who she'd been. A sunny, warm person. The kind who brought light into rooms.
Three months, Jude thought, looking at her. Maybe less.
He wasn't a doctor. But anyone could see she was dying.
The apartment itself was surprisingly clean. Not spotless—the furniture was old, worn, clearly secondhand from previous tenants—but well-maintained. Drake had obviously worked to keep the place livable despite everything else falling apart in his life.
The Ryans didn't complain about their surroundings. Didn't show any visible disgust or disappointment with the rental. They'd adapted. Made it home.
As Jude took in the space, he noticed Camilla slowly reach behind her back.
She pulled out a pistol.
And carefully placed it back in a drawer in her room.
Jude's eyebrows rose.
If Drake hadn't been the one opening that door, whoever came through would've had a gun barrel in their face. No hesitation.
Honestly? It was reassuring.
This was Gotham. This was a slum apartment. Not having a weapon would be the weird choice.
Which raised a question.
Jude watched Drake walk into the bedroom. Saw him pull out the pistol from the robbery—the one he'd shoved in Jude's face an hour ago. Watched him take a magazine from his pocket, set them both in the drawer together.
Separately.
Oh.
Oh.
The gun had been real. Completely real. But unloaded.
Drake had pointed an unloaded pistol at Jude's head.
Jude should probably feel relieved. No real danger. The safe time had been accurate.
Instead, he felt vaguely annoyed.
I could've called his bluff, he thought. If I'd just known—
No. No, that was stupid. He'd had no way of knowing. And even an unloaded gun could've been used to beat him to death if Drake had panicked.
Still.
Jude pulled up the system interface and looked at his save point purchase. Unused. Just sitting there, waiting.
If he'd been shot—even with an unloaded gun that mysteriously acquired ammunition—his entire "Starting from Scratch" adventure would've ended before it really began.
Time to fix that.
He focused on the save point function and activated it.
SAVE POINT CREATED
Location: Drake & Camilla's Apartment
Save Reads: 20/20 available
Time Limit: None
Status: Active
IMPORTANT NOTES:
If you enter near-death state, you will be prompted to load this save point or decline
Maximum 5 save points active simultaneously
Save points can be cancelled at any time
Save points can be moved or recycled using funds (prices vary)
Current Status:
Save Points Active: 1/5
Current Location: Saved ✓
Remember: Death is temporary. Poverty is the real enemy.