I wasn't sure where exactly to place this story - in the comic section, or the movie category. I'm trying to pick up where the graphic novel, Batman: Year One, left off and follow an independent trajectory. But since I really enjoyed Christopher Nolan's depiction of the Batman series, and I liked where he took Bruce Wayne's character (regarding his origins etc.) I've opted to put this story up here instead.
It's not much to fawn over, but I'm writing this for 3 reasons.
One: despite the existence of Catwoman, Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn (and some others I'm probably forgetting) I feel that Batman's world is a largely male-dominated one. Now don't get me wrong, almost all of the characters are fantastic - I'm most fond of Commissioner Gordon and Alfred - but I would like for there to be a reasonably sane, and independent female voice among them as well.
Two: Bruce Wayne idolized his father. Ra's al Ghul and The League of Shadows has taught Batman much in the way of combat, but you gotta admit, Bruce Wayne has also learned a lot for himself. What seems to be missing - on the occasion - is the mentoring voice. Part of that is provided by Alfred, but when it comes to more warrior-like speak, Bruce pays no heed to poor Alfred's advice. (Which, most of the time, is pretty good advice too!)
Three: I know I have no authority to dedicate a story that's part of a copyrighted franchise to anyone, but I kinda wanna dedicate the OC here to my grandmother, Helen, who passed away in 2007. She was a heckuva woman.
So there you have it. This is my scrap of a story to add to the masses. I enjoyed writing it, and I'm daring to hope that a few of you out there will as well.
This is really her town. It's always been her town. Down from the red-light district to Szu-Chi's China Buffet. Of course thirty years ago, the streets weren't layered with a kaleidoscope of litter and grime. Let alone the seemingly indelible goombahs that paroled it. No, it used to be nice. And she meant nice without an accentuation. It used to be nice in the sense that a couple could walk down Hooper Street at nine o'clock at night without being jumped by a mugger. A family didn't have to worry about their kid being grabbed by a pedophile five feet away from them.
But things changed. Things plummet.
The problem therein lay whether she wanted to plummet along with it. Her parents were travelers, writers, adventurers. Her mother, a botanist, had found a kindred spirit in her father, the biologist. Their decision to reside in Gotham was one that tugged invitingly at their more audacious nature. Thirty years ago, America was a tempting place – it was bold and daring. London, by contrast, felt like a pair of comfortable old shoes. To them, at least. They were a wealthy enough couple to afford a costly relocation, and their child was only four at the time. Young enough not to miss any new faces she'd been acquainted with at the day care center near King's Cross. So they crossed the great expanse of the North Atlantic, journeyed patiently through trains and cars and subways, and finally arrived happily – if a little worn - into their two-storey apartment on Gotham's east side.
And, for the next sixteen years, Gotham remained their home. In a sense, of course. Her parents had conferences to attend, acquaintances to establish; they did everything and anything that could elevate themselves amongst the social elite. Far from attaining the status of snobbery amid convivial highbrows, their main purpose of such gallivanting lay in the garnering of funding for their research. In their line of work, it wouldn't do to hole oneself up in the laboratory, slaving over the bench. It didn't bring home the bacon, and it certainly didn't accommodate their enterprising lifestyle.
So twice every year, for the first few years, they would jet off to Munich or Geneva, leaving her in the somewhat capable – but cold – hands of Ms. Auburn, a perpetual neurotic, hypochondriac and overall obsessive compulsive when it came to the vast domain of the household bacterium. The woman was alright, really. And to be fair to Mrs. Auburn's memory, she did have a tendency to revert to outlandish hyperbole when it came to her, but it was hard not to. In the beginning, she missed her parents – but her nostalgic pangs only lasted for a day or two. Despite her mentally maladjusted flaws, Ms. Auburn did have a way of enabling fresher interests. Interests that distracted her from the absence of her parents. She would teach her things – such that she could survive quite well and quite independently for a child of her age. Really, she owed Ms. Auburn a lot.
A police siren wails in the distance, wrenching her out of this sullen reverie. Perched on the wet and darkened brick rooftop that is Mel's Hardware Store, she slips on her hood, then the elbow armour, the knee guards and finally the arthritic wrap on her dodgy right wrist. She is forty-five, after all. But despite her proximity towards a geriatric state of mind and body, her motions are all fluid and efficient – the work of skilled hands. Gotta use it while it lasts.
She glances down at herself, studying the black garb – meant to be reminiscent of the unorthodox attire of the shinobi, or ninja, and her mouth widens into an ironic grin. The whole get-up is quite hilarious really, seeing as how it's mostly associated with tarnished Hollywood-esque representations of such stealthy assassins. If she wanted to be historically accurate, she'd look like Mrs. Jones next door. She'd dress as a civilian, and more importantly, she'd blend in. But common wasn't quite the vibe she was going for anyway.
The ear-piercing alarms grow steadily louder as she jogs furtively along the roof-tops. In a swift motion, she swings down off the rafters of a building under construction, and slides into the leather seat of a small bike. Before she cranks the engine into gear, she flicks on a rudimentary excuse for a CB radio, mounted to the base of her steering handles. She turns a small knob clockwise, and then anti-clockwise, her ears searching for the correct frequency. Following the passing of a minute or so, she latches onto what she's listening for and waits.
"Officer Mitchell calling in to reports of a ten-thirty-three in Rawles Avenue, over."
A brief hiss of static, before: "Copy that, Mitchell. We got reports of a broken window on the...west entrance of the house. Over."
"Mitchell to dispatch. I'm gonna see what the fuss is all about."
She sighs to herself, her shoulders and arms relaxing underneath her two layers of clothing. A ten-thirty-three meant that some careless wally must have tripped an alarm. She had found that often enough, the noisome ruse was innocent in its emergence. A stray ball through a window, a drunkard forgetting his pass-code into his own home. They'll tag you as paranoid delusional, Helen, she tells herself, letting out a deep breath. But she grips the bars of her motorbike nonetheless.
The minutes tick by in the dank alleyway, and it isn't long before the lull of oncoming sleep begins to tug away all thought. But its hypnotic calm is suddenly shattered when her radio crackles to life, the tinny voice urgent and alarmed.
"Mitchell to dispatch. We have a ten-fifty-four, I repeat: a ten-fifty-four,"
"Copy that, Mitchell," came the steady but detached voice of the female dispatcher. "We're sending an ambulance on the way now."
" – need a goddamn ambulance, dammit!" cried out the man on the other end, apparently missing the dispatcher's acknowledgement. "The man's dead. There may be more, but I need to check upstairs – "
"Copy that. We've got an ambulance from St. Mark's heading your way, plus two squad cars. I'd advise you to hold your position, Mitchell."
"Mitchell to dispatch," issued the harried voice again, "I need you to send in an EMS. Get the paramedics in. This guy's down and he's losing blood. Do you copy?"
He isn't getting through, realizes Helen. For some reason he isn't getting through.
"Mitchell, this is dispatch," the woman's voice came through slower this time around. "Do you have an eleven-fifty-eight?"
Of course all radio traffic is being monitored, recognizes Helen in mounting frustration. Who was training the dispatchers these days? Five-year-olds? As the woman on the frequency tried unsuccessfully to communicate with the officer, Helen scowls – the expressive sign of displeasure hidden beneath her hood – and guns the small engine to life.
She weaves in and out of Gotham's nightlife, inciting rude gestures and colourful remarks from drivers and pedestrians alike. She smiles sardonically. It was funny really, how they could be stirred into a rage through her less-than-perfect maneuvering, but how her masked get-up elicited nothing more than a fleeting glance. Just another one of Gotham's freaks out and about. Nothing to make a fuss over.
She drives past the monument at Gotham's center, past Wayne Tower, and finally into its suburbs. The taller, more industrial buildings, gradually give way to cookie-cutter houses with pastel-coloured siding. This side of Gotham was a little easier on the eyes – street lamps illuminated many a corner, and it looked like the neighbourhood folk actually gave a damn about upkeep.
Pulling her thoughts back into the now, she cranks up the volume on her CB. The anxious dispatcher has now called two squad cars to Officer Mitchell's location. Communication from his end has died for over ten minutes now.
Ten years ago, she would've hoped for the best. She would've allowed room for optimism. But this was Gotham, and Helen was...well, Helen.
Times were changing – especially for old-timers like herself and that other do-gooder up on the north side. What was his name? Her eyes spark in recognition. The Flame. He was a good kid, really. Well, not a kid anymore, but definitely a good sort. He'd managed to thaw an icy relationship between two of the more dominant mafiosa in Gotham; the Esteban and Falcone lot. For a while there, it looked as if all hell would break lose, civvies would be caught in their bloody crossfire; the whole situation was too hot to handle. But The Flame was smart. He knew how to appeal to their egos – how to play to their pride, their actions, their honour. Here, Helen grunts in irony. Honour. It used to count for something, even amongst Gotham's most ruthless and powerful families. There were occasions where their conscience would conveniently take an extended leave of absence, such as when Billy the Barracuda refused to let the Falcone family invest in his growing casino franchise. Billy never really stood a chance. But then there were times when the Falcone family would make a promise, for good or ill, and hell would've frozen over before they broke that oath.
But now, now things were different. Something more amoral than avariciousness and power-lust was sweeping into Gotham. To her, it almost seemed like a new breed of criminal was on the ascent. Conscience? Forget conscience. Some of the murders she'd heard about from the Flame and other crime-fighters seemed so senseless. So unnecessarily painful. And honour? Pfeh. You might as well chuck that in the middle of the Pacific. The old alliances were crumbling, shattering; its former marbled slate a little more than dust in the wind. Gotham's mob lords were feeling it too. Sure, they all had enough of the mighty dollar to buy many a protective goon, but their fresh henchmen were unreliable. Tainted. Tainted by this new breed. See, the problem was that this contemporary form of dynamic invasion brought down the whole concept of a family enterprise. These new desperados were horribly limited to short-term perspectives, ties and familial bonds of kinship meant nothing. And, wondered Helen sadly and with considerable unease, that was the only thing she had on them. Everything else: the disconnected murders, the kidnappings without ransoms, the muggings of miscreants even poorer than themselves – it made no sense.
The metamorphosizing violence is something that eludes her grasp. As she drives along the empty roads, she feels pressured, collared into a corner. Gotham's underworld will soon have no room for the likes of her, and she soon finds herself wishing for days of old. Where she could crack down on illegal betting joints, brothels, and the occasional Tony whacking Johnny 'cos Johnny never paid his dues. But life isn't static, at least not in Gotham.
Adapt to survive.
She doesn't think she'll last for much longer.
As soon as she pulls up to the end of the block, she sees the darkened lights of a police car up in the distance. Her eyes scrutinize the sides of the road for unusual activity, but the sleeping Toyotas, Hondas and Fords give her a bare nothing to go on. Of course, to her trained eye, that didn't mean much. There was no cause for alarm nor relief. The night – even with the dull and sporadic illumination of street lamps – gives off shadows, and shadows give off cover. She quickly parks her bike in the midst of the bushes, and walks around the back of the resting quiet of suburbia.
She sees the house at which the officer had reported to, and catches the glow of light, muted through opaque curtains. The back door, which leads to an open yard, is open.
Fantastic, thinks Helen.
Her rubber-soled shoes – she'd got 'em on sale for $9.99 too, in the granny's aisle, no less – make no sound on the soft, trimmed grass. They're quiet as she ascends the wooden porch as well. The back door remains slightly ajar, and as she steps into what is the kitchen, an inviting aroma of roast chicken wafts its way up her nostrils. Her stomach growls at her. It never ceases to amaze her how her hunger always took precedence, even when juxtaposed against danger.
Helen moves gingerly into the kitchen, checking her corners diligently, and sees nothing of interest in the room save for the meal that's lying pitifully alone on the kitchen counter.
Later, she tells herself.
Her short trek into the living room reveals an inanimate figure on the floor, a small congealed mess of blood soaking into the carpet beneath the coffee table. This must be the guy the cop was talking about, thinks Helen. She does a quick sweep of the downstairs – checking underneath tables, in closets, in the bathroom. Everything seems clean.
Where's Mitchell then?
A floorboard creaks above her and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She gives a sharp glance towards the ceiling.
Good Lord, are they still here?
Depends who 'they' are, she answers herself. The goody or the baddie?
As quietly and stealthily as she can enable her feet to move, she begins the painfully laborious ascent to the second storey of the house. Laborious because she can't risk alerting them to her presence - she doesn't yet know what she's up against - and being furtive is hard. Especially in this creaky old house. Painful because the damned anti-inflammatory drugs her doctor gave her aren't working again. Her wrist is beginning to throb.
"Shove it then. Let's get out." issues a male voice; a gravelly baritone of one. It seems to be coming from the landing across the hallway.
"Are you shittin' me?" comes out the second. "Man – we didn't even look properly. And we hit the cop. Don't tell me we hit him for nothin',"
"You're really pretty dumb, aren't you?" The first voice is losing its patience. "Doesn't it even cross your mind that backup's probably on the way for this guy? Huh?"
"Man, no one ain't seen us yet. We're cool. Just chill, a'ight? I got everything under control."
Helens smiles in relief. They sound like a bunch of drugged up, amateur gangbangers. She can take 'em. No sweat.
With a newfound confidence, she charges up the stairs – opting for the element of surprise – and tackles the first, subduing him by bringing his arm around his back. The second looks on in awe, and this is his turning point. Is his incredulity going to morph into anger, or fear? Gotta give the boy something to go on. Helen howls; the sound eerie and raspy – the cry is something she's borrowed from a television documentary on feudal Japan. The second lad's eyes widen. Good, it's fear then. She nails him with a quick kick to his trachea, allowing for him to stumble backwards, gasping for air, while she deals with the first. The man in her hands is beginning to fight back. With a hackneyed eye-roll, she knocks his crown against the radiator. His now-unconscious body slumps to the floor. At this point number two is up, not prepared to wave the white flag just yet. But he is waving a .22 her way. Where'd he pick up that relic from?
A crack echoes in the room, the sound is obscenely loud in her ears. Irritated now, she dives for his quaking knees and brings him crashing to the floor. Following a few moments of a messy scuffle – these kids never fight fair – he lies as still as his compatriot, and she's up against the wall, panting.
Helen feels her left shoulder sting, and knowing what that means, she rises awkwardly from her confined position between a computer desk and wall. Cop. Gotta find the cop.
And find him, she does, just as motionless as the other two hotshots, neatly hidden inside a bathtub downstairs. Bending over, she checks for a pulse, and a few tense moments follow before she detects a faint throb beneath her fingertips. At the same instant, she hears familiar sirens in the distance.
About time.
She gives one last look at poor Officer Mitchell, and then exits through the bathroom window and into the night.