DC: A Cop in Gotham

Chapter 48: The forming of an Alliance

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The Gotham City Police Department rarely attempts to kill a villain. There are a few reasons for this. The first is a lack of ability—most officers are simply outmatched. The second is uncertainty—many villains return even after being presumed dead. But the biggest reason is that Gotham has never been short of monsters.

If you kill one, two more will rise to take their place.

No matter how many times criminals are captured or eliminated, as long as Gotham remains the breeding ground for corruption and chaos, new evils will always emerge.

The gang war unfolding before them was a prime example.

Dean had killed Black Mask, sent Falcone to Blackgate Prison, and Scarecrow had been locked away in Arkham. These events left three massive power vacuums in Gotham's underworld. Until someone managed to seize control, the scum at the bottom of the food chain would continue to fight for dominance.

The struggle was inevitable.

Standing amidst the chaos, Dean calmly retrieved his pager. With precise movements, he reported the location of the fire and the number of people involved to the command center.

Not far away, Orm stood with his arms crossed, watching the madness unfold. His sharp gaze scanned the gunfight, unimpressed by the violence.

"The stories I have heard since childhood all speak of the cruelty of land-dwellers," Orm said coldly. "The humans above the waves bring only fear to our people. When I was young, I heard tales of their brutality. I was told how they hunted and slaughtered the creatures of the sea without mercy." His voice darkened. "When I grew older, I saw it for myself. I watched as humans drove their ships across the waters, spears in hand, tearing through the bodies of whales and dolphins as if they were nothing more than sport."

Orm's fists clenched as he continued. "When I became king, I broadened my view to the entire ocean. Every day, reports flooded in—where toxic waste was being dumped, which Atlanteans had been captured or slain, how the seabed was littered with the remnants of human greed. Our world—my world—was drowning in the garbage of your people."

His voice was like ice, heavy with hatred. "And now that I have stepped onto land, what do I see? You do not merely destroy the sea—you kill your own kind just as easily. Tell me, Dean, is there anything you won't do?"

Dean lowered the pager and met Orm's gaze, unshaken by the accusation.

"Orm," he said, his voice even. "You are more suited to be the king of Atlantis than your brother ever was."

Orm's expression faltered for a brief moment, caught off guard by the statement. But before he could question it, Dean smoothly changed the subject.

"You want to prove yourself to Manaphy, don't you?" Dean asked. He gestured toward the battlefield. "Then do it. You can use any method you like to end this conflict."

Orm's sharp instincts immediately warned him—this was a test.

At first, he considered refusing outright, suspecting Dean was simply using him as a tool to clean up Gotham's filth. But he could not deny that this was an opportunity.

An opportunity to demonstrate his power. An opportunity to prove his worth to the very entity whose recognition he sought.

"Very well," Orm said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "A few dozen humans are nothing to me."

Without hesitation, he began walking toward the center of the gunfight.

Dean's voice carried after him, light yet firm. "Just a reminder—Manaphy dislikes unnecessary killing."

Orm's steps slowed slightly.

For a brief moment, the thought of using magic to drain the bodies of his enemies crossed his mind. It would be efficient. Swift. No different than how he had handled traitors in the past.

But Dean was not lying. He had spent enough time observing Manaphy to understand that she had no love for mindless slaughter.

With a quiet sigh, Orm altered his approach. He scanned the battlefield, searching for a water source. But unlike Atlantis, where he was surrounded by the ocean at all times, Gotham provided no such advantage.

Instead, he turned to Manaphy, lowering his head slightly in a rare display of respect.

"Grant me the blessing of the ocean," he said. "Lend me your power, as one who is born of the sea."

Manaphy, who had ascended to the role of Ocean's Will, no longer hesitated when it came to using her abilities. She effortlessly conjured a large sphere of water, nearly half the size of a human, and gently nudged it toward Orm.

The moment he felt the purity of the water, Orm couldn't help but acknowledge its power. This was no ordinary water—this was a gift from the ocean itself.

His fingers flexed as the water responded to his touch, swirling into his grasp. His trident and armor had been confiscated by his brother, but that did not mean he was weak. His power did not come from his weapons—it was in his very blood.

With precise control, Orm split the water sphere into two separate streams, coiling them around his arms. The liquid shimmered, moving as though it were alive.

"The strength of an Atlantean does not come from steel," Orm murmured. "It comes from what flows within us."

He took a deep breath, readying himself for the battle ahead.

Rather than charge recklessly into the fray, Orm analyzed the battlefield. The gangs were not fighting mindlessly—each side had taken strategic positions, occupying high ground and using cover to their advantage. If he wanted to turn the tide quickly, he needed to start from above.

With swift, effortless leaps, Orm scaled the side of a crumbling building, reaching the rooftop where a group of armed men had positioned themselves. From their vantage point, they were raining down bullets onto their enemies below.

They never even saw him coming.

Orm struck with the speed of a predator.

Before they could react, the water around his hands surged forward, wrapping around the face of the nearest gunman. The liquid forced its way into his mouth and nose, cutting off his breath. Within seconds, the man collapsed, unconscious.

His companions turned in horror, only to be met with the same fate. One by one, Orm incapacitated them, using the water to suffocate, disarm, and disable. Not a single drop of blood was spilled.

By the time he was finished, the rooftop was silent.

Orm stood at the edge, looking down at the battlefield below. The chaos still raged on, but the tide was about to shift.

He raised his hand, the remaining water forming into a deadly trident.

After cleaning up the others in the same way, Orm stood atop a high vantage point, surveying the gangsters below. The battle continued in the streets, bullets flying as the two factions fought for control. Chaos reigned, but to Orm, it was nothing more than a meaningless struggle between weaklings.

His gaze sharpened as he silently marked the positions of the gang members on the ground. With a wave of his hand, he gathered all the water into a single massive trident. The shape was crude, formed entirely of swirling liquid, but the power within it was undeniable.

"Drown in the sea, sinners."

With all his strength, Orm hurled the trident into the air.

As it reached its peak, it shattered, breaking apart into a storm of countless small water arrows. The deadly projectiles rained down upon the gangsters, piercing through the air with incredible force. But Orm had not aimed for their bodies. Instead, the water arrows struck their weapons with pinpoint accuracy, shattering gun barrels, jamming triggers, and rendering every firearm on the battlefield useless.

The battlefield, once filled with the constant roar of gunfire, fell Into an eerie silence. The only sound that remained was the quiet hiss of steam rising from where the water had struck the overheated barrels.

The gangsters, now unarmed, stared at their ruined weapons in shock.

It was as if a sudden downpour had extinguished the gunpowder smoke that once filled the air.

Then, from above, Orm descended.

Using the water beneath his feet, he walked down as though stepping on invisible stairs, his regal presence undeniable. His piercing gaze swept across the gangsters still standing, their faces twisted in confusion and fear.

"Stop your foolish war! Stop this meaningless slaughter of your own kind!" he commanded, his voice carrying a weight of authority that demanded obedience.

For a moment, there was hesitation—then, a response.

"Who the hell does this guy think he is?!" one of the gangsters shouted, regaining his nerve. "He's just another damn vigilante! Get him!"

The call to attack spread like wildfire, and in the next instant, the unarmed gangsters charged at Orm.

Their weapons were useless, but that didn't stop them. They drew knives, pipes, and even brass knuckles, intent on overwhelming him through sheer numbers.

A heavy fist came down toward Orm's face, the thug putting all his strength into the blow. But the moment his knuckles connected with Orm's skin, it was as if he had punched solid steel. A shockwave of pain shot up his arm, his knuckles instantly bruising.

Orm didn't even flinch.

His cold gaze remained locked on the man, and before the thug could react, Orm struck back.

A single palm to the chest sent him flying, knocking down several others in the process.

The rest of the gangsters hesitated, seeing how easily their comrade had been dealt with. But hesitation lasted only a moment before anger took over, and they surged forward.

"So be it. If you refuse to listen, then I will make you feel the weight of your weakness."

Orm's movements were swift and calculated. Every attack was efficient—no wasted motion, no unnecessary force. He fought like a warrior trained in battle, striking with precision. A sidestep here, a parry there. A powerful elbow to the gut sent one man sprawling, while a well-placed knee strike knocked another unconscious.

Despite the overwhelming numbers, Orm remained untouched. His Atlantean physiology made him far stronger and more durable than any human here, and it showed.

One by one, the gangsters fell.

It didn't take long before the last of them collapsed to the ground, groaning in pain, their weapons scattered and broken.

Five minutes. That was all it took.

Orm exhaled, shaking off the dust from his hands. He then turned and grabbed the two strongest gang leaders, dragging them by the collars like a pair of defeated dogs. With a flick of his wrist, the water collected the rest of the weapons, lifting them into the air like an offering.

"Here. Every weapon has been seized. None of them escaped. And not a single one of them died. I also brought you their so-called leaders."

Dean, who had been watching from a distance, casually tore off a piece of his donut and fed it to Manaphy. He nodded in approval but then smirked.

"Not bad," Dean said. "But… you caught the wrong guys."

Orm's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Dean dusted off his hands, his expression unreadable. "I never doubted your strength. After all, you've fought the Justice League before. Two small gangs are nothing to you."

Orm's grip on the gang leaders tightened. "Then what are you trying to say?"

Dean folded his arms. "I wanted to see how you would handle the situation. The way you took the high ground first—that shows you're not reckless. And the fact that you found the two strongest fighters in this group? That tells me you have good instincts."

Orm felt a strange sense of unease. He had done everything efficiently—so why did it feel like he had still failed?

"But unfortunately," Dean continued, his voice calm, "these two aren't the actual leaders of the gangs. They're just thugs with a bit more muscle."

Orm's grip on the men loosened slightly.

Dean smirked. "That's the difference between land and sea. In Atlantis, strength determines status. But here in Gotham? The real leaders aren't the strongest fighters. They're the ones who know how to hide the best."

A flicker of realization crossed Orm's face.

"In Gotham," Dean went on, "the hardest part of fighting crime isn't taking down the bad guys. It's finding the ones actually pulling the strings. The ones who hide behind the chaos, manipulating it for their own gain. People like the Joker, Two-Face, the Penguin… they don't need to be on the front lines. Because they know that as long as they stay in the shadows, they can't be stopped."

Orm clenched his fists. He hated this feeling—the feeling of being outplayed, of missing something crucial. He had always prided himself on his strength, but here, that wasn't enough.

His eyes flickered toward Manaphy, who was still perched on Dean's shoulder, happily munching on a donut.

His stomach twisted. Had he just made a fool of himself in front of the very entity he was trying to gain recognition from?

"I'll bring their real bosses here," Orm said through gritted teeth.

But before he could turn to leave, Dean raised a hand.

"No need."

Dean nudged the two gangsters with his foot. "Since you dragged them here, that means they're in charge now."

Orm blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

Before he could process what was happening, the two gangsters—who had been lying limp on the ground—suddenly sprang up.

"You two," Dean said, his tone light but firm, "do you think this guy is powerful?"

The two thugs exchanged glances. One of them winced at the pain in his swollen face.

"Powerful? Are you kidding?" the first thug groaned. "I hit him with everything I had, and he didn't even flinch!"

The second thug nodded quickly. "Yeah, no joke. He's like Superman!"

Dean smirked. Not quite.

"Good," Dean said. "Then from now on, you two work for him."

The thugs hesitated for only a second before nodding enthusiastically.

"Yes, boss!"

Orm could only stare in stunned silence as Dean effortlessly turned a chaotic street fight into an alliance. His eyes darkened as he turned toward Dean, his voice carrying a sharp edge.

"What exactly are you trying to do? I came to the surface to gain recognition from Manaphy, not to rule over mankind."

Dean leaned against a police car, his expression unreadable. He sighed, rubbing his temples as if speaking to someone who just wasn't getting the point.

"You really should do some research on human society," Dean remarked dryly.

Orm narrowed his eyes. He hated being treated like he didn't understand something. He had ruled Atlantis. He had led armies. He knew power, politics, and war better than most surface-dwellers.

And yet, as he stared at Dean, something clicked.

"You're trying to integrate me into this city," Orm muttered, realization dawning. "You want me to understand humans, to immerse myself in their ways. And in doing so, you think I'll eventually let go of my hatred."

His fists clenched.

"I'll tell you right now—that won't happen. I will never change my mind about humans."

Orm's hatred for humanity had been ingrained in him since childhood. It was not something that could be undone easily, nor did he want it to be. He had witnessed too much destruction, too much cruelty at their hands. Even if he spent a lifetime among them, he would never see them in a different light.

Dean remained calm, unfazed by Orm's outburst.

"Honestly," Dean admitted, "Gotham is probably the worst place for a redemption story." He gestured toward the city around them. "This place is a living testament to the absolute worst of humanity. If anything, staying here will probably just reinforce your hatred."

Orm scoffed. "Then why waste your time?"

Dean's gaze sharpened.

"Because if I can change this city—if I can turn Gotham from a cesspool of crime into something better—will that shake your beliefs at all?"

Orm didn't answer. He simply stood there, staring at Dean with an unreadable expression. The question lingered between them, heavy and unspoken.

Dean didn't press the issue. Instead, he turned away, heading toward the police car.

"Come on, Manaphy," Dean said, tossing a final glance at Orm. "We have a report to file."

Manaphy followed without hesitation, her small form bobbing in the air as she trailed behind Dean. Orm remained where he stood, watching them leave.

His fingers curled slightly, his thoughts a tangled mess.

"Transforming filth into purity… Is that why Manaphy follows him?"

Was such a thing even possible?

Could a place as vile as Gotham truly change?

Orm exhaled sharply, shaking the thought from his mind. It didn't matter. Such idealistic nonsense wasn't his concern.

What was his concern was the gangsters still sprawled on the ground before him. He took a step forward, raising his voice.

"All of you—get up." His command rang through the air, laced with authority. "From this moment forward, you will obey my orders."

The gang members groaned as they slowly stirred, their battered bodies struggling to rise. They exchanged uncertain glances before looking up at the man who had so effortlessly defeated them.

Orm's next words left no room for argument.

"I am Orm. I am the Ocean Lord. And you now belong to me."

There was no hesitation. No protest.

The men lowered their heads in submission.

And just like that, the two small gangs that had been fighting for scraps in Gotham's underworld ceased to exist.

In their place, a new force was born.

A new name would soon spread through the streets, whispered in the shadows.

The Seven Seas Gang.

Gotham was no stranger to the rise and fall of criminal organizations. New factions emerged and disappeared like clockwork, their influence fleeting.

For now, the Seven Seas Gang was nothing more than another drop in the ocean.

And that was exactly what Dean wanted.

A foothold.

A nail driven deep into Gotham's underworld.

Dean sat in the police car, reviewing his mental blueprint, his eyes burning with determination. He glanced down at the names he had scrawled onto the back of a report.

Poison Ivy.

The Penguin.

Orm.

Three names, now connected by a single purpose.

If Gotham's criminal empire was destined to be divided, then why shouldn't he be the one to divide it?

Dean had studied Batman for long enough to understand his methods. While Superman and the rest of the Justice League focused on protecting the world, Batman operated differently. He built networks, gathered intelligence, and wielded information as a weapon.

Dean was merely taking that strategy and twisting it in his own way.

If Batman gathered heroes to form the Justice League, then Dean would gather villains.

Not as allies.

Not as pawns.

But as informants.

The fundamental difference between heroes and villains was simple.

Heroes were altruistic.

Villains were self-serving.

There was no true loyalty among criminals. The only thing that connected them was self-interest.

Dean knew he was playing a dangerous game.

He was forging an alliance out of people who would stab him in the back the moment they saw an opportunity. It was like taming a pack of wild beasts—if they sensed weakness, they would tear him apart without hesitation.

But that was a risk he was willing to take.

Because if he could pull it off…

If he could control them…

Then he wouldn't just be dealing with criminals.

He would be using them.

He leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly. His lips curled into a smirk.

"There needs to be a name for this," he mused. "Too bad 'Justice League Dark' is already taken."

He tapped his fingers against the dashboard, thinking.

"Well… since they're all my informants anyway…"

A name flickered in his mind, bringing an amused glint to his eyes.

"The Informant League, nah that sounds plain. How about... The Nightborne Cabal, yeah that has a nice ring to it."

And with that, the pieces began to fall into place.

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Informant League(or Informant Alliance) is the original name, i changed it into Nightborne Cabal after selecting many suggestions from gpt and combining few. What do you think, what's better. Or you can suggest something and i might think about it.

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