Getting over the border was fairly easy. I repeated a time-honored tradition — attaching myself to the underside of a large pickup truck and cloaking myself in Curtain when I arrived at the stop. To make sure the dogs didn't get curious, I made a Binding Vow that momentarily spiked the cost of the Curtain so they'd smell nothing.
It worked. I slipped away the first chance I got, produced one of my many bikes, and rode into Detroit. My first stop was a roadside motel. My eyes and hair were hidden under a hat and sunglasses that earned me a wary look from the manager — an overweight white woman — but she took my money anyway.
"We don't want trouble around here," she said firmly.
"Neither do I."
I listened for some time after entering my room, waiting to see if she'd sell me out to the cops or someone else. She didn't. I let out a small sigh of relief, stepped into the bathroom, and stared at the mirror, taking deep, unsteady breaths.
Now came the moment of truth.
Between Lex's network, the Justice League, and Artisan, it was only a matter of time before someone found me on surveillance.
If the system screen was to be believed, I had a solution to that encoded into my DNA. All I had to do was mess with my face.
The good news? I wasn't much of a looker to begin with, so it could only be an upgrade. It also helped that I had a near-perfect memory now — I could recall every blemish and tick. Restoring my face later shouldn't be hard.
I hoped. I learned the hard way that changing your face was easier said than done.
Growing bones and mushing them together was one thing; sculpting your own physiology was another. I rounded my cheekbones slightly, lowered my brow ridge so I didn't look so angry, and raised the bridge of my nose. Then I squared my jaw, reworked my teeth, and gave myself deep dimples.
It was uncanny. Like looking at a stranger — a handsome stranger, sure, but a stranger nonetheless. I tested my new face for a while — smiling, frowning, cycling through the full range of emotions.
It seemed a touch too symmetrical, but I supposed that was a side-effect of manually editing your face. The process took all night. By the time I was done, morning had broken. I pulled out the hair dye I'd bought a lifetime ago and slathered it through my hair and eyebrows.
It turned my hair black. I left the motel after changing clothes while the manager was in the back.
I took a taxi across town and bought several pairs of contact lenses and more hair dye, so future morphs would be easier. It also let me finally ditch the shades I'd been rocking since Canada and focus on more pressing concerns.
Getting new papers.
I'd gotten a spare back in Gotham — one that Shelim didn't know existed — but it had my old face. I needed a new one and a new name to blend into Detroit and the rest of America.
And I knew just how to find it. But that would have to wait until nighttime.
In the meantime, I went shopping.
Food came first. After my recent involuntary incarceration and evolution, I'd be insane not to stock up on enough food to last years — especially since I had the space.
I went broad: fast food, deliveries from high-ticket restaurants, Chinese, street food, groceries, trail mixes, water, and enough high-calorie bars to give me diabetes.
Next came clothes. I built a new wardrobe from a mix of thrift shops and retail stores — shirts, belts, shoes, and jackets for every occasion.
By the time the spree ended, it was nightfall. I'd switched cabs more than a few times and spent close to five grand.
I went to an upscale hotel that my driver mentioned. High-end escorts camped by the bar. They were a mix of local women and victims trafficked from the darkest corners of the world. They'd been arrested more than once, always sprung. They had legal identities, at least on paper. I figured one of them might know someone who could help me.
I wore one of my best suits and dropped a hundred at the bar.
"Surprise me," I told the older bartender, who gave me an assessing look before nodding. He poured me something called a Negroni. I took a sip and suppressed a dry cough.
"Best I ever had," I said, though I had no real frame of reference. I didn't like Alcohol. The stuff dulled the senses — which, in my line of work, was like walking into a robbery without a gun.
"You new in town?" the bartender asked, eyes flicking toward a woman who had settled on a chair at the edge of the bar.
"Just visiting, actually."
"Business or pleasure?"
"Business. Though I'm not opposed to pleasure. Pitching something at a conference tomorrow. Could use the distraction," I said lightly, fingers toying with my half-empty glass.
He nodded sagely. His nametag read Jeff.
"Hold that thought — need to talk to a customer," he said, walking over to the woman. Jeff ducked under the counter and produced a martini glass. He mixed alcohol into the shaker, swished it with practiced grace, and poured it out, topping it with an olive.
"You take such good care of me, Jeff," the woman said, smiling — perfect teeth behind red lips.
"Only because you tip so well," Jeff replied.
"Who's your friend?" she asked, taking a long sip and shooting me a bashful glance. "He's not bad."
"Never got his name," Jeff said, glancing my way.
"David. David Collins." I slid closer, offering my hand.
She was stunning up close — bright green eyes, flawless skin, her blue dress cinched at the waist and plunging below the neckline.
"So, what brings you to the Atlantic?" she asked.
"Nerves," I confessed with a slightly awkward smile.
"He's got a big presentation tomorrow," Jeff chimed in. "Needs help cooling down."
Natalie arched a brow. "Oh? Well, I can help with that."
"What did you have in mind?" I asked.
She nudged my leg and leaned in. "How about you get us a room, and I'll show you," she whispered.
Huh. Nothing incriminating yet, but I was impressed by the routine. I wondered how she'd extract her fee — maybe a gift, an anonymous crypto deposit, or something more clandestine.
I made a show of looking flushed. "The hundred should cover our drinks. We're taking the party upstairs."
The woman at the front desk took my cash without a glance — clearly used to it. I ordered a mid-level suite. Natalie wanted room service and a few other things to get the night going. I agreed eagerly, still playing the part of the nervous businessman.
We started kissing in the hallway.
It was like sticking my finger in an outlet. Something in me woke up — something I'd buried since Artemis. Before I knew it, I was kissing her back, and I hated myself for it.
That hate gave way to anger. Anger at Artisan, anger at myself for not killing Gina and Priya when I had the chance. I knew leaving had been the right call — but it didn't make it easier.
Natalie caught on quickly. She looked into my eyes, cradling my face. "Something wrong?"
I forced a smile — easier now that I had control over every muscle. My eyes and mouth played along. I kissed her again. "Just a bit skittish about PDA. What if somebody sees us?"
"Well, let's get to the room then," she smirked, tugging the keycard from my hand and dragging me down the hall.
She slid the card into the reader, and the door popped open. I shut it behind us, my demeanor flipping in an instant. A notification blinked at the edge of my perception.
You've learned Deception – Level 1.
Huh. I wondered what kind of bonus getting that to Level 10 would give me.
"You play Natalie well," I said, calm, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
She froze. "Jeff knows I'm up here. He's going to call any second now. If I don't say the right code, he'll come up — and believe me, you don't want to get on Jeff's bad side."
"It was the hard sell for me," I said, ignoring the threat. "Really broke the illusion. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm a great-looking guy — but not that great-looking."
Natalie watched me, tense. "Nobody comes to the Atlantic for the booze and company, no offense to Jeff."
I chuckled. "Speak for yourself. The Negroni wasn't half bad."
"How many Negronis have you had?" she pressed.
"Not a lot," I admitted. "Never developed a taste for it."
"I'd like to leave, Dave," Natalie said, voice firm.
"Alright," I said, unlocking the door and stepping aside. I gestured to it.
"You're free to go. But for the record, I'm not a cop or a crazy person — just someone looking for something that's a bit off your menu."
I saw the conflict flash in her eyes — caution fighting greed.
"What is it?"
"I need a new identity."
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