AUTHOR'S NOTE:

If you are sensitive to the themes of Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress, Survivor Guilt, Family Abandonment or similar mental traumas and stress, then I advise you to read this story with extreme caution, or to avoid it entirely if you think it could trigger you.

I hope you enjoy my little story, and if you like it please leave a Review or a PM.

Prologue

Night-time is pay time, the criminals knew. In Gotham City, night had always been a time of special meaning. For a year now, it was a time of opportunity. A time when any man or woman with disregard for the law and guts could make something of themselves. For some, the lure of a quick pay out negated all other risks. So long as the shadows kept them hidden, they didn't much care what else was involved. Afterall, they do say that the dark hides all evils. But they also say that dead men tell no tales, that the sea hides the dead, and that you shouldn't run before a storm. A smarter crew, more savvy to these cliches, might have thought twice about an offer for a fat pay-out, one that involved accompanying a lunatic across the sea. A smarter crew would have thought not of how good it would be to avoid prying eyes and make an easy score, but thought instead of the sea and storm. A smarter crew would not have accepted any job, no matter how tempting, from a bright-eyed maniac in a pea-green suit.

The sea heaved and sunk, like the great belly of a slumbering beast. Their faces were cold and pallid, etched with the brine of sea-spray. The criminals eyed the beast around them nervously, the sky black and angry with looming clouds. There was no moon or stars, only the ominous pall of a storm yet to break.

The criminals felt deep unease, more than a few retching over the side, their little boat dwarfed by the sea around them. Only their strange employer, strangely unruffled and unflappable in his garish green suit, had his eyes on something other than the storm or the roiling sea. Edward Nigma stared straight ahead, at the looming form of the Prospero Corp Oil Rig. A thin, cruel smile broke his lips. It was a beginning, of sorts. He looked again, unnecessarily, at the briefcase by his side. Everything was proceeding as expected. He had calculated the exact window of opportunity perfectly. That watch-obsessed maniac Fugit wasn't the only person who could plan and execute with perfect timing.

Still, it had come to something, Nigma knew, that his greatest concern was being compared to other fools with strange criminal obsessions. The last year had been more than just a time of opportunity. It had been painfully quiet, too.

He hefted the briefcase in his slender, well-manicured hands, adjusting his weight and composure as the boat rocked and rolled on the sea surf. Keeping perfect poise even in these conditions was trivial for a mind like his. Yet doubt gnawed at him within. Would any of the dunderheads in the GCPD understand the connections? His great fear, now, was that his genius would be wasted on the gum shoes and dull plodders he had to contend with. Once, he had battled wits with the best. Now where was he? Another victim, assuredly, of that Night of terror, almost exactly a year ago. To die so soon, beaten so easily...It made Nigma angry. He had been robbed, cheated, of any chance to finally, completely prove his superiority over that mind. He had barely begun to deploy his full potential, barely composed the first of hundreds of intricate and exquisite riddles and challenges to exhaust and confound his nemesis.

And now his Nemesis was dead. Killed by some laughing fool with too many chemical weapons and not nearly enough sense.

No, Nigma reflected, as the boat came up on its destination. That was the cruellest joke of all. This...Dark Knight, who had only just begun to make his name known, his legend heard, whose battles with minds as great as Edward's, had fallen just as he was in his ascendancy, just as his enemies were coming to know him.

Gotham was a poorer city, he knew, with a touch of nostalgic sadness. It had found a Hero, but before it could truly know its Villains, that Hero had fallen. And a Year of Night had ensued. A year without hope, a year without anything much but the greed and mindless rage of the vermin and scum that crowded the gutters and alleyways of this fallen city. No one had stepped up to don the cape; the legend was still too new, the idea too radical. And so, sensing that there was no champion to fight, the monsters had faded back into the darkness, and faded away, leaving the city to the mercy of the rats and the cockroaches.

It was almost tragic, really. It was also –boring-.

Tonight, Nigma was going to set this injustice right. Gotham needed someone to step into that vacuum. If the Heroes weren't going to answer the Call, he supposed he'd have to become the Villain instead.

He just hoped that his efforts would be truly appreciated.

He smiled, as he felt the air pressure begin to lessen, and his boat and its cargo bumped against the moorings, the Oil Rig looming overhead. The storm was about to break.

Showtime.

Detective Wills sighed, blinking tired eyes at the dull fuzz of his Lextop computer. He massaged his temples, willing himself to try to focus on the words, which danced in front of him teasingly.

"One of those nights again, Ray?"

The old gumshoe turned, and saw his erstwhile partner, Harvey Bullock coming up with a cardboard tray full of bargain coffee. "The cheap stuff again, Harvey? You know I like Booster Gold Blend."

Bullock shook his head. "Not on our salary, you god-damned hipster."

Wills shrugged, and took the cup of coffee offered to him, lifting the thin spill lid, and sipping the hot black liquid gently. "Whatever. You make any sense of this shit?"

Bullock sat down in the chair opposite Raymond's, squinting at the screen. "That the Prospero case? Oh man, Commissioner Akins must really hate your guts. You got anyone working with you on that one? I'd help but, I got my plate full." He smirked, leaning back in his chair, indicating his in-tray full of papers and photographs.

Wills shot a death-glare at his smug companion. "Maybe you should cut down on the god damn donuts if you're having trouble clearing your plate." He gestured broadly at Bullock's expanding waistline. "They see you lounging around all day; no wonder they dump all the office work on you."

Bullock grunted, his old friend's taunts sliding off of him. Any other man who made a joke about his weight would get their head rammed into a desk, and both men knew it. "Yeah well, at least I'm getting the juicy stuff. An Oil Rig blowing up doesn't seem much of a case to me." He shrugged, and began to sip his own coffee.

Wills exhaled, forced to agree with his partner. There were all sorts of bizarre loose-ends in this damn report, but as far as he could tell the Prospero Rig really had just blown up of its own accord. The company's PR was running damage control, and rumours of terrorist activity were floating around by the Daily Star. The Gotham Post was running a story on industrial negligence, and frankly they probably had better sources than the GCPD did.

Still, something about this incident had set Wills's itch flaring. After all these years, he had a nose for trouble, and something about this, and the looming anniversary, troubled him. Could they be related?

"Hey Harv, you're big into that...conspiracy theory bullshit. Any chance this Oil Rig thing might be some wacko trying to commemorate the ah...anniversary?" Wills asked, immediately regretting it when he saw Bullock's beady eyes light up.

"Hah! Coming round to my way of thinking at last Ray?"

"No, and shut the fuck up. Just wondering if someone half as crazy as you thought this would be, I dunno, some kinda signal or act of worship or something."

"Man you must really be clutching at straws." Bullock sighed sadly. "It's a damn shame seeing a fine cop like you chasing grey ghos-"

Immediately Harvey knew he'd gone too far. The look on Wills face said it all. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...It wasn't your fault."

"I know that Harvey."

There was an awkward silence, and both men drank their coffee for a while.

"No, I don't think there's any connection." Harvey said at last, more sombrely. "You'd probably know better than me anyway."

Wills nodded, slowly, reluctantly, old wounds throbbing. No, there was nothing...funny about blowing up an Oil Rig. However odd this case was; it had nothing to do with...that night. It just wasn't the right style.

Finishing his coffee, and suddenly sick of trying to make heads or tails of what was probably just an industrial accident, he turned off his computer and began to put on his coat. "Screw this. I've been on duty too many hours already. I'm going home."

Bullock looked at his partner in surprise. The past year, Wills had pulled double overtime constantly, burying himself in work, even busy work like this oil rig case. This was the first time he could remember in a long time of Ray choosing to go home without anyone suggesting it first.

"Yeah, get some sleep, Ray. We'll see you tomorrow. Chief will understand."

Wills didn't respond, simply leaving the police station as quickly as possible, nodding as he passed Montoya on the desk. His head hurt. He didn't want to look at another case-file, another god-damn waste of time.

"You going home?" She exclaimed in surprise. "Its...well, sure. I'll note it in the logbook." Renee Montoya, like Harvey, was one of the old Major Crimes Unit, which Jim Gordon had headed back in the day. All four of them had been Gotham City's rising talent. He sighed. It was sometimes hard for Ray to remember that Renee had been the youngest of them, full of life. She had aged considerably this last year, her eyes bleary and tired, stress-lines clear on her face. He wondered how much shittier he must look.

She, like Harvey, had taken an increasingly back-seat role since that day. They'd been honoured, promoted, and relegated to desk jobs. Wills was the only one still pounding the streets day after day, taking every case that came his way. Even, it seemed, this fucking oil rig business.

Memories threatened to overwhelm Ray, and he ducked out, avoiding Renee's questioning eyes. He didn't have time for this. He just...needed to get away. He got into his car, slamming the throttle on irritably and driving out of there as fast as possible. His apartment was closer to the Narrows, but he wasn't headed that way. On an impulse, he was going to Gordon's. He turned the radio all the way up, drowning out his thoughts. He didn't really know why he was going there. Probably the worst possible place he could go now. He didn't want to think too hard about it, either.

It was early evening by the time he pulled up outside the drive-way, his throat still wet with stale coffee. He was going to have to get that fat asshole to buy some decent coffee for them some time. For all his griping about salaries, he knew that Harvey was just a cheap bastard.

He left his hat and coat in the car, and walked up the crunching driveway. A fresh collection of bouquets had been laid by the door-step. He felt tightness in his throat. The anniversary really was close. Not everyone had forgotten. Not everyone could move on. Maybe coming here had been a bad idea after all.

He was here now, though, and it would be stupid to leave without saying hello, at least. He swallowed his trepidation, and pushed the doorbell button all the way in, the dim echo of a pleasant tune audible even on this side of the door.

There was a sudden barking, and he could hear Fang scrabbling along the carpet beyond. Damn dog.

The door opened slightly on its latch-chain, and Ray recognised Patricia, the social worker.

"Hello, Pat, is Barb able to take visitors?" He forced himself to smile, though he felt like anything but smiling.

Patricia was a young black woman in blue scrubs, and had looked after Barbara since that night. Ray didn't know much about Patricia beyond that she'd interned at Arkham Asylum, and was one of the best carers the city could offer.

"Detective Wills! A pleasant surprise. I'm sure Miss Gordon would love to see you."

"Please, call me Ray." He said uselessly for the umpteenth time. Patricia was a stickler for politeness, and refused to address him any other way.

After being let into the hallway, he let Fang sniff him, and even gave the old Rottweiler a playful scratch behind the ears. It wasn't the dog's fault that his master was gone, and his mistress was...not entirely there, any more.

The house felt unnaturally quiet, autumnal light slanting through the windows and giving the house a faintly orange hue at times. He trod the stairs up to her room, noting the faded photographs on the wall. He tried not to look too closely at the familiar faces.

He knocked quietly on her door. After waiting a while, and getting no answer, he quietly pushed the door open. "Barbara? Is it Ok if I come in?"

She sat in her bedroom, staring blankly out the window at the garden, the rustle of leaves and nature the only sound. She was facing away from him, not that it would have mattered to him. She was wearing a loose grey shirt and dark jeans, all colour removed from her wardrobe. She'd developed a deep aversion to anything that was too bright, though she seemed to be entranced by the colours of the trees outside, fall leaves and light dappling her.

She was the daughter of his boss, his best friend, and he had made a promise to that friend. As far as he was concerned, despite having never married and never fathering any children of his own, Barbara was his daughter now, too, in a way.

"Hello Barb! It's Ray. Pat said it was ok if I could speak to you? How are you feeling today?" He asked brightly, going through the motions. He knew what she was going to say. What she'd always said. How this routine went. But he kept trying. Kept hoping.

She turned, slowly, idly, her eyes sharp, keen, examining him like a hawk. Her eyes were what gave him that hope. There was intelligence there, understanding. Fear and distrust too, but that was better than the alternative.

Her face locked in a painful rictus grin, a smile that was both goofy and frightening at the same time. Her skin covered in a creamy makeup, patchy in places. Her eyes were dark-rings, sore and inflamed. He could see, however, where the makeup had worn off, patches of corpse-white skin. It was a permanent side-effect of the chemicals that she'd...been exposed to, by that monster, on that Night of terrors. Little had changed in the year since then.

"I'm fine." She said, voice dead and without emotion.

Ray nodded, taking her empty words at face value. "That's good! Uh...how's your occupational therapy going?"

"It's going." She responded blandly. Drool began to form around the corners of her curled-back lips.

"Your mother told me you were refusing your facial treatment again." He said more sternly, like he imagined a concerned father would. "You should take better care of your skin, it'll never get better..." He stopped, as he saw the look in her eyes. A spark of anger, almost, followed by a deeper emptiness than he could fathom.

The wind rustled low outside, autumnal leaves brushing against the window-pane. Jim had always talked about cutting back that old tree. A nuisance at night, he'd said.

No one was going to be pruning any branches this year.

"I'm sorry. I...I'm not sure why I came again so soon." He mumbled, feeling awkward. He'd never been married. Never had kids. The job had been all that ever had mattered to him. He didn't know how to talk to this...woman, he supposed. She looked like a scrawny sixteen-year old, thinner and scrawnier than most, but her eyes held depths of maturity that no teenager should ever have had. Her red hair fell around her corpse-pallid face, its once fiery lustre now a dull and faded brick-like colour. They'd spent months washing the bleach out, the green-blonde that that...creature had favoured in all his moppets, his broken columbines and dark jesters.

He crushed the memories ruthlessly. So many lost souls. And yet, somehow, they'd saved one soul. One person at least had escaped that Night. The fire had taken so many others, and the madness and choking gas the rest. Looking into her eyes now, though, he wondered if maybe they'd been wrong to save her. Or whether they'd saved her at all.

"Maybe you shouldn't have come." She said, and her knuckles whitened with effort, as she clung to the sides of her chair.

"Maybe you should never have come at all."

He looked at her with sorrow in his eyes, and felt the war of guilt and shame raging in him, hot sick feelings coursing through his veins like poison. What the hell had he been thinking anyway? Why –was- he here?

"Barbara...I guess...I want to know you'll be ok. At the weekend I mean. You don't have to go through this alone." He said, and he tried to reach out, offering his age-worn hand to hers. She looked at him with eyes filled with pure hatred.

"Alone? A...ha...Alone...A..Ack...A..." She began to cough, her fingernails digging deep into her chair. She threw her head back, her hair limp as her face began to sweat. Her coughing grew worse. No. Laughing. She was...laughing. He grew concerned.

"Pat! I think she's about to have one of her fits again!" He called urgently.

Barbara laughed at him, an unhealthy, maniacal cackle. It sent chills through his spine.

"Alone! Hahahaha! I –wish- I was alone. You never leave me alone! Always someone there! Watching! Why can't I be alone?" Her eyes streamed tears, even as she choked back insane laughter. She tried to rise from her chair, but she was too weak. It hadn't been long since her legs had healed, and walking was still difficult for her. Wills watched in rapt horror.

"Even when I...hah...sleep...aaha...I'm not alone. You're all...hack...still there. Faces, voices. It's like...a night that never ends." Sickly yellow tears ran from her eyes, running along well-worn dark tracks in her face. She had cried much these past few months, almost as much as she had laughed.

Wills felt...hopelessly inadequate. His instincts were to protect her, to try to comfort her, to act like he thought a father or a foster parent should act. But he couldn't be that to her. All he seemed to do was bring up her old pain. His presence reminded her of who wasn't here in his place.

Patricia came in, giving him a stern but sympathetic look, before she took hold of Barbara's hands, forcing them away from the sides of chair, her finger-nails already worn and chipped from how hard she had pressed them into the wood.

"Get the medicine, it's in the cabinet." Patricia said, even as she tried to soothe the tormented teenager.

Wills dumbly nodded, and went to fetch the bottle. Was this how it was always going to be, from now on? He remembered how grim things had felt, before that Night. How it had felt like the breaking of the storm. They had braced for the worst, but even they couldn't have imagined it would have gone that badly. He could still hear the screams, the helpless, maniacal laughter.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. An old, worn down man with thinning grey hair and hollow cheeks stared back, thin stubble lining a pock-marked chin. His bloodshot eyes were rimy with the threat of tears. God, he was fucking pathetic now.

He slammed his fist painfully into the wall. A dramatic gesture, but it was the pain he wanted. The physical pain helped wake him up. Get angry. He gritted his teeth, snarling at himself. Always, no matter how bad it had gotten, he had channelled his feelings into rage, into anger. Anger that could be used, tempered. A sword that he could wield, white-hot, to strike down his enemies.

But all his enemies were dead. It was his friends he needed to help now. How?

He took the pills back to the bedroom, where Barbara had stopped her struggles, lolling her head back as Patricia patiently and calmly restrained her in her chair, stopping her hands from flailing about.

"I got the pills." He said gruffly. No, he knew why he had come now. He was sick of burying it, sick of distracting himself on pointless goose chases. He was going to fight his demons.

When Barbara had swallowed the pills, and Patricia had left again, he sat by the troubled girl, and looked in her somewhat sleepy, half-closed eyes. Not with sorrow or shame or imagined paternal concern, but with rage.

"You're wasting your time here, girl. You're Jim Gordon's daughter, for Christ sake. It's probably too fucking late for me and Harv and Renee, but you're still young. Fight it. Fight. I don't know how to be a father but goddamnit, if I was your partner I'd tell you to stop feeling so god damn sorry for yourself, and go out there and raise some hell."

His words were harsh, biting, and they were as much for himself as for the young woman. No doubt a Therapist would be horrified at his approach. He didn't care.

"Take all that sadness and turn it into rage. Make a fist of your pain. I'll be back at the weekend. We'll ride that anniversary out, and neither of us will cry."

He turned and left, not waiting for her to try to respond. She was probably too hazy to have understood half of what he'd said anyway.

"Sleep now. It's nearly night-time." He smiled to himself, though he wasn't sure why.

He left the house, without saying goodbye to Patricia. It was a long drive back.

Barbara stared at the space where he had stood for a long time, before finally closing her eyes. Sleep came, and with it the usual nightmares. She awoke later that night, sweating, shaking. But something was different this time.

She was no longer smiling.