Gotham's Story
Four years later, you have found something like happiness. Perhaps it is pride or the joy of success. Certainly the life of a homeless thief is not ideal for most fourteen-year-olds, but you have thrived and made yourself the best that you can be. No one can run, hide, sneak, or track like you can. You can make your way into any room and leave just as stealthily. You can spot the perfect mark from a block away and walk away with his wallet five minutes later. A better theif has no walked the streets of Star City.
You certainly feel guilty sometimes. Your parents definitely would not have wanted a child who stole, but you have to survive. You have to make yourself better so that you can take the evil away from Gotham. Besides, you only steal from the rich and wealthy-those with plenty to spare.
You walk down the street this morning thinking about breakfast. You could probably go down to Esteban's; the owner there is usually willing to take pity on an orphaned, homeless boy.
A glittering reflection catches your eye. What seems to be a decorative, golden dagger hanging from the hip of a girl that is about your age. She seems to be from oriental or middle-eastern heritage and she is flanked by two enormous men. Body guards. She must be the daughter of some foriegn politician. More importantly, that knife would probably fetch a pretty sum from your usual fence. You casually approach and slip behind the guards, and your hand slips the knife from the girl's belt.
Smiling to yourself, you plan to walk away, but you see a bulging pocketbook on the guard to the right.
You certainly feel guilty sometimes. Your parents definitely would not have wanted a child who stole, but you have to survive. You have to make yourself better so that you can take the evil away from Gotham. Besides, you only steal from the rich and wealthy-those with plenty to spare.
You walk down the street this morning thinking about breakfast. You could probably go down to Esteban's; the owner there is usually willing to take pity on an orphaned, homeless boy.
A glittering reflection catches your eye. What seems to be a decorative, golden dagger hanging from the hip of a girl that is about your age. She seems to be from oriental or middle-eastern heritage and she is flanked by two enormous men. Body guards. She must be the daughter of some foriegn politician. More importantly, that knife would probably fetch a pretty sum from your usual fence. You casually approach and slip behind the guards, and your hand slips the knife from the girl's belt.
Smiling to yourself, you plan to walk away, but you see a bulging pocketbook on the guard to the right.