Starting With Batman

Charlie was momentarily stunned when he first saw the bloodied corpses scattered across the ground, wondering if there had been a mole within the enemy ranks that he hadn't known about. He hadn't even made a move yet, and somehow, they seemed to have resolved things internally.

What was this? A preemptive attempt at allegiance? Or perhaps some twisted form of internal justice?

But then, as his gaze locked onto the twisted grin on one of the faces—a grin that seemed more at home in a nightmare than reality—Charlie realized what had truly happened. This wasn't some internal dispute; he had stumbled upon an infected individual, a new variant that had turned with terrifying speed.

This fan of chaos wasn't just enthusiastic—they had gone the extra mile, armed with a blood-soaked brick and adorned in a war-damaged skin that looked straight out of a horror flick.

Charlie's instincts kicked in. He clicked the right mouse button just in time, and Daredevil swiftly leaned to the side, narrowly avoiding the heavy brick aimed at his head. In one fluid motion, Daredevil's right foot shot up, striking the young man's wrist with precision. The impact jolted the brick from his hand, sending it flying.

Daredevil didn't hesitate. He circled around to the outside of the attacker's arm, drawing his baton in a swift, practiced motion. With a powerful swing, he brought it down on the opponent's head. The dull, sickening thud of alloy meeting bone resonated through the air—a sound that would've been fatal to any normal human. But the infected man merely staggered, shaking off the blow before turning to launch a counterattack.

Charlie's reflexes were sharp. He guided Daredevil to sway backward, narrowly dodging the incoming grasp. In a heartbeat, Daredevil was back on the offensive, delivering another brutal strike to the man's skull. This time, he followed up with a powerful front kick that connected squarely with the infected man's chest. The force of the kick sent the man reeling, his body shuddering as he stumbled backward before collapsing in a heap.

But it wasn't over.

The infected man's body writhed on the ground before he somehow managed to get back on his feet. His movements were unnatural, his limbs twisting in ways that defied the limitations of human anatomy. Blood gushed from the wound on his head, running down his face and neck, making him look even more monstrous. His grin had only grown wider, more grotesque as if he were reveling in his own pain and madness.

Charlie knew better than to let his guard down. He kept Daredevil in a defensive stance, his batons crossed and ready to block or counter any sudden attack.

But the infected man didn't charge forward again.

Instead, he shook his head violently, as if trying to clear his thoughts, and took two stiff, jerky steps toward Daredevil. His body seemed poised to attack, muscles tensing as if ready to spring.

And then, without warning, his head exploded in a violent burst of blood and gore, like a grotesque firework going off in the darkness.

The headless body remained upright for a moment as if in disbelief before its knees buckled, and it collapsed to the ground with a lifeless thud.

The infection had overwhelmed his body, pushing it beyond its limits until it self-destructed.

Charlie couldn't help but frown at the sight.

After confirming that the infected man was truly dead, Charlie felt a strange mixture of relief and unease. This infection seemed to spread more quickly, more aggressively, than anything he'd encountered. But there was no time to dwell on it. He turned his attention to the container where the hostages were being held; his priority now was to get them out safely.

As the doors swung open, the hostages inside looked up with a mixture of hope and fear, their eyes wide and pleading. They had been through hell, and the sight of Daredevil standing before them—dark, imposing, but undeniably a hero—seemed to bring them a sliver of hope.

Criminals, much like society, had their own hierarchy. Even among the most despised, there were those who operated under a certain code—grand thieves who lived by a set of rules, desperate souls driven to crime by circumstance, and those who, though controversial, had their own sense of honor.

But then there were the others. The scum who were so vile, so reprehensible, that even their fellow criminals looked down on them. These were the ones who, when thrown into prison, were destined to be at the very bottom of the pecking order, despised and rejected by everyone. Even among the underworld, these individuals were regarded with nothing but contempt.

Big D, whose head was now a gruesome smear on the ground, belonged to this category. His death was brutal, but Charlie felt no sympathy for the man. The world was better off without him.

Daredevil remained perched on a high vantage point, his senses on high alert. He waited, watching until a team of FBI agents arrived on the scene. Thanks to Daredevil's radar sense, Charlie confirmed their identities, ensuring they were who they claimed to be. Once he was certain that the hostages were in safe hands, Daredevil used his baton to fire a grappling hook, swinging away from the scene like a shadow in the night.

Charlie exhaled deeply, relieved that the mission had come to an end. He had earned some points, tried out a new hero, and, most importantly, saved innocent lives.

But as much as he enjoyed the thrill of the game, he knew that even heroes had their limits.

Daredevil landed on the rooftop of a nearby building. Charlie brought up the game menu, his cursor hovering over the logout button. But just as he was about to click, a bright exclamation mark flashed in the corner of the screen, signaling a new mission.

Suddenly, his curiosity got the better of him. His hand moved away from the logout button, and his eyes locked onto the exclamation mark.

It was like seeing a blemish on an immaculate surface—something that just couldn't be ignored...

Charlie hesitated, weighing his options. Every mission that appeared on the map represented a real-world crisis, a situation where someone needed help. Each one was also an opportunity to gain experience, to grow stronger, to learn more. And every missed mission felt like a loss.

Being a hero, even a virtual one, wasn't easy. Batman might have been a force of nature, able to run a company by day and fight crime by night, but even the mere act of sitting in front of a computer and patrolling the digital city for hours on end was exhausting. The next day, people might start making assumptions, wondering if he had been out all night partying. But no, Charlie was just trying to do the right thing—even if it meant sacrificing his own comfort.

Daredevil's radar sense wasn't just useful for detecting crime; it also made him more sensitive to potential threats, picking up on activities that other heroes might miss. He could hear the faintest whisper of a conversation behind closed doors, the subtle hum of a phone call that hinted at an impending disaster. With Daredevil, the world was a little clearer, the dangers a little more apparent.

And that meant farming quests with Daredevil might be more efficient, with more opportunities to gain experience.

Charlie directed Daredevil toward the exclamation mark, activating the hearing booster as he approached.

The sound was coming from a security patrol car. Through the car's intercom, Charlie could hear chaotic shouts, the sound of objects crashing, and voices calling out in distress.

"This is the fourth branch of the FBI!" someone shouted desperately over the radio. "Requesting support! We need support..."

The transmission abruptly cut off, followed by a sound that resembled a gunshot, and then a low, sinister laugh in the background.

The patrolling officer immediately switched on the security lights atop the car, and the siren blared through the night as the vehicle sped toward the FBI's fourth branch office.

Charlie was caught off guard.

Someone's actually attacking the FBI?

…

Just a few minutes earlier, the atmosphere had been calm and routine at the FBI's fourth branch office in Riverton City.

Director Lincon sat in his office, enjoying what he thought would be the last cigarette of the day as he prepared to leave for the night.

It wasn't quite time to clock out, but he had promised his wife he would pick up the kids from school. They had an evening class to attend, and with only an hour to grab dinner, he needed to leave a little early to make it work.

Just as Lincon stepped out of his office, a low, ominous buzzing sound filled the air. Without any warning, the entire FBI building was plunged into darkness, the power cut off abruptly.

"What's going on?"

"Did we just lose power?"

For a few moments, the agents were disoriented, unsure of what had just happened. But then, the backup generator kicked in, and a dim, cold light flickered on, casting eerie shadows across the room.

But the relief was short-lived.

"George? What are you doing?" one of the agents asked, his voice laced with confusion and growing concern.

George, an agent who had been standing by the water cooler just moments ago, slowly turned around. His movements were stiff, almost robotic, and his face was contorted into a disturbing, unnatural grin.

He raised his arms, revealing a sidearm in his hand.

Director Lincon quickly realized the danger. The black barrel of the gun was pointed directly at him.

Bang.

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the room, and a burst of blood erupted from Lincon's chest. The intense pain was brief, giving way to numbness as he collapsed backward, his vision dimming amidst the panicked cries of his colleagues.

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