DC: A Cop in Gotham

Chapter 26: Dean and Manaphy on duty

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"The evacuation work should not be led by individuals or corporations. It should be planned and implemented by the government."

Dean stood on a crowded Gotham street as the evacuation unfolded. Hundreds of Gotham's citizens hurried past, carrying bags of belongings, their faces painted with a mix of fear and uncertainty. At the end of the throng, a bus transfer station was bustling with double-decker buses shuttling evacuees to designated shelters.

"But I must admit," Dean muttered to himself, watching the flow of humanity, "in a country that prides itself on freedom and democracy, the government's ability to organize and lead pales in comparison to the power of capital. And Wayne Enterprises has done an extraordinary job here."

The Batcomputer had calculated the most optimal evacuation routes, breaking the movement into well-ordered batches by neighborhoods and streets. It was a nearly flawless plan, giving people enough time to evacuate efficiently. But as perfect as the Batcomputer was, it couldn't account for every variable. Batman had anticipated this.

Crime

In Gotham, crime was more than a statistic—it was a constant, ingrained reality. Within two hours of the evacuation notice, the city's crime rate had spiked by an astounding 500%.

People couldn't take everything with them when fleeing their homes. Items of value—secured or not—were left behind, making houses ripe for opportunists.

"Hand over the money!"

"No, please, this is all we have left!"

A desperate man, eyes wild and unfocused, grabbed an eight-year-old boy by the throat, shaking him violently.

"I said, **give me the money!**"

The boy, his voice caught in his throat, froze in terror. His father's words echoed in his mind: *When you meet a bad person, don't resist. Most of them don't think clearly. Fighting back will only make things worse.*

The boy whimpered, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Mom… It hurts."

The boy's mother, tears streaming down her face, clutched a small bundle of cash to her chest. After a moment of agonizing hesitation, she placed the money on the ground.

"Please, don't hurt my son. Here… take it. It's everything we have."

The robber's dilated pupils fixated on the green bills. Greed surged through him, overtaking any remaining shred of humanity. He shoved the boy aside and lunged at the woman.

"My money! Get away from it!" he screamed, his voice ragged.

But before he could grab the cash, something extraordinary happened.

"Mana!"

A soft, gentle voice rang out.

A stream of water appeared from seemingly nowhere, wrapping around the man like a rope. With a flick of its translucent tentacles, a tiny figure tossed the robber high into the air.

The boy, though thrown to the ground, found himself cushioned by an odd, protective layer of water. He stared in awe at the figure before him—a small, ethereal creature that shimmered like a jewel.

"It's… It's an angel!" the boy exclaimed, his fear melting away.

The mother, clutching her son, looked up in shock to see the Pokémon Manaphy blinking at them with wide, curious eyes before darting skyward in a graceful arc.

Meanwhile, the criminal landed hard on the pavement, howling in pain. His leg twisted at an unnatural angle, the sound of bone snapping echoing in the street.

Dean, arriving moments later, clamped a pair of handcuffs on the groaning man.

"You're under arrest," he said coldly, stepping firmly on the man's broken leg for emphasis.

The man let out an agonized scream as Dean tossed him unceremoniously into an already overloaded police car.

Manaphy, now perched on Dean's shoulder, gave a proud chirp.

"You did good," Dean said, patting Manaphy's head. "Clean and efficient. But you got too close to the perp. If he hadn't been knocked unconscious, he could have slashed you with that knife he was carrying."

Manaphy tilted her head, chirping again, as if to apologize.

"Next time, keep your distance. A well-placed water gun can knock someone out just as effectively."

The duo resumed their patrol. Dean used the ongoing crime wave in Gotham as an opportunity to teach Manaphy how to handle combat situations. He knew what awaited the Pokémon in the near future, and preparing her was essential.

"Your power isn't limited to surface-level moves like water guns or tidal waves," Dean explained. "You can manipulate the water itself. Master the flow, and you won't just be fighting—you'll be controlling the battlefield."

Manaphy chirped in acknowledgment, her eyes sparkling with determination.

Dean's Bat-communicator lit up, interrupting their moment of calm.

[Oracle: Bank robbery detected 500 meters ahead. Turn left at the next intersection. Armed suspects confirmed. Heavy firepower likely. Proceed with caution.]

Dean acknowledged the alert, narrowing his eyes as he glanced at the loaded police car.

He sighed. *Now I understand why Batman and Dick always install autopilot systems on their vehicles.*

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The sound of gunfire and the screech of tires echoed through the streets as a black truck rammed through the bank's reinforced gates. The vehicle skidded to a halt, and the back door swung open.

From inside, a group of masked gang members spilled out. Their leader, wearing a crow mask, stepped forward, brandishing a firearm.

"Clear the way!" he barked, his voice muffled but commanding.

The remaining glass in the shattered doors fell to the ground as his men discharged their weapons into the air, sending warning shots to deter any rival gangs.

"Cowards," the crow-masked man sneered. "This bank belongs to us now."

Inside the lobby, the bank manager trembled behind the counter, clutching his tie as he tried to remain calm.

"You think I didn't see you pressing the alarm button?" one of the gang members snarled, his gun trained on the manager.

The man's face drained of color. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

"Go ahead," the gang member mocked, waving his gun. "Beg for your life. Makes it more fun."

The manager shut his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable, but the gunfire never came.

"Look at him," another gang member chuckled. "He's acting like some kind of hero. News flash, pal—you're not Batman."

From a distance, the gang's leader sat casually on a torn leather sofa in the bank lobby. Unlike his subordinates, he wasn't shouting or firing his weapon. Instead, he remained eerily calm, one hand resting on the armrest, the other lightly tapping the needle-like extension on his fingertip.

"Enough."

The room fell silent as the masked man on the sofa stood. The group parted, making way for their true leader—Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow.

The manager's eyes widened in terror at the sight of the straw falling from Scarecrow's tattered coat.

"You… you're…" the manager stammered.

"Scared already?" Crane tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smile visible beneath his mask. "You're a weak man. Weakness is boring."

The manager bolted toward the vault, fumbling with the key in a desperate attempt to escape. Crane watched him with disdain.

"The fear of the ordinary is dull," he mused, his voice dripping with contempt. "True fear lies in the hearts of the strong. The unbreakable. That's where you find the sweetness."

He thought of Batman, his eternal adversary. But today, he had no intention of seeking out the Dark Knight. With chaos erupting across Gotham, Batman would be far too busy saving lives to stop a single bank robbery.

"Boss," one of the gang members called, gesturing toward the television in the lobby. A live news broadcast displayed images of the evacuation, with Bruce Wayne's face front and center.

"Can you believe this guy?" the man snorted. "Bruce Wayne's got the whole city running scared. No cops, no order. It's like Christmas came early."

Scarecrow turned his masked face toward the screen, his eyes narrowing. "Enjoy it while you can," he said coldly. "Once we empty the vault, we move to the shelters. That's where the real fun begins."

The crows worked quickly, tossing duffel bags stuffed with cash into the truck. Bills littered the floor, unnoticed in their haste. Outside, Dean's sharp eyes tracked every movement, his blade ready.

A loose hundred-dollar bill drifted across the floor, catching a robber's eye as he stood near the hostages. Before he could react—

Bang! Bang!

A series of precise shots echoed through the lobby. One robber collapsed, disarmed by Dean's swift intervention. Two others tried to react, but the detective closed the distance with practiced efficiency, incapacitating them with calculated strikes.

Now, only four robbers remained from their team, their confidence wavered.

Separating the hostages from the crow robbers, Dean revealed his figure.1

Dean stepped into the open, his voice commanding. "Scarecrow don't move and surrender yourself!"

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