Joshua Riddle lurched out of his favorite bar, allowing the rowdy sounds found in a bar on a game night to escape into the otherwise quiet neighborhood. As the door slammed shut, Josh wished he had driven to the bar, it had gotten cold. At least home is close, thought Josh.
He had been walking, or stumbling, whichever you like, for a few blocks, and was almost home when something brought him out of his alcohol induced haze. He frowned, trying to recall what had taken him out of his stupor. He couldn't. He realized he had been standing still as he thought. With a shake of his head he started walk-lurching again. This time he heard it. His head swerved clumsily trying to find the source of the noise. There were footsteps, he was sure of it.
Addressing the seemingly empty street behind him, he slurred out, "Hello?"
Suddenly feeling very foolish, and wanting to get home to his bed, he continued on. He thought he heard something again but he wasn't about to turn around, he knew he was just letting his imagination get the better of him.
###
Four miles away and an hour later a man knew he could hear footsteps. But John Petzko wasn't drunk, and he wasn't walking down a dark street. He was hiding in his closet, having been prompted to go there after a window downstairs had been broken. As he tried to remain quiet he heard his floorboards creaking, and.. a voice? John held his breath and listened. Silence for the longest time it seemed. His lungs were beginning to strain when the sounds resumed. Floorboards. Voice. No, voices. Talking to each other. Before John could discern the conversation, he had to take a breath.
Now he could hear the familiar pattern of creaks his carpeted stairs made as one walked up them. The voices came into focus. One, like sandpaper, the other almost comically low pitched. Their creaking was coming closer. John was frozen in terror. There were only two rooms on the upper floor of his house, his room and the bathroom, and as a creaking door down the hall could attest to, the robbers had just opened the bathroom door. "It's a bathroom," Sandpaper whispered. "Check for meds," low voice responded.
The creaking grew closer. He felt paralyzed, he tried to move his fingers, his head, he couldn't. He didn't dare to try to breathe. The creaks had paused outside his door.
Then, a hideous animal roar, coupled by the shattering of his door killed the silence. John could hear a man grunting in pain. The low voice began to swear but was cut off. Silence. John could've been sitting in his closet, in the dark, tensed up for a few seconds or a few minutes, he would never be able to properly account for the length of the silence.
Then, the low pitched voice screamed, terrified, "WHAT ARE YOU?!" He was answered by a loud thump. Floorboards creaked, quickly now, the stairs moaned as if somebody ran down them.
John sucked in a deep breath, preparing to open his door, terrified of what he might find.
###
An alarm clock, belonging to James Gordon began to sing its unfeeling song. Up at 5:40, James thought sourly, the perks of a Gotham City Detective. He moaned the moan all human beings have at least once, the moan containing all feelings of dread toward waking up, getting out of bed, and facing the day. He blindly pawed around his alarm clock, until he mashed the button. The song stopped. James sighed.
20 minutes later and with a little more enthusiasm, James was headed out. Moving carefully through his dark apartment's shabby living room he pulled his equally shabby coat off his coat rack, and grunted as he swung it over his head and pulled his arms in. His shoulder ached, along with parts of his back. I'm too young to be falling apart, he thought.
20 minutes later and with significantly more enthusiasm, James sat down to his desk, amidst the sounds of a awakening police station, with a coffee in one hand and several papers in front of him. He took one final gulp, tossed the cup into his wastebasket. As he fished for a pencil at the bottom of one of his disorganized drawers, clicking heels made themselves known amongst the sounds of the station. He looked up to see Detective Essen, tall, blonde, and striking as usual. "Morning Essen."
"There's two more in for questioning," she paused, "and one of them says he saw something. He's not making much sense," she cautioned as James stood up purposely, "but at least we've got something."
"Indeed, show me to them."
###
"You saw nothing?" James' puzzlement equaled the embarrassment of John Petzko. "Yes sir," then suddenly, "No sir, I-I mean-," James cut him off with a quick gesture, "I get it." The silence stretched out a little longer than John could stomach. "I'm sorry for wasting your time detec-"
"The voices, describe them again please." John settled slightly, "They were whispering, so you maybe I'm wrong about this.." he trailed off, uncertain now. He felt somewhat foolish for even going to the police about this, the only thing in his house to support his story was a broken window. He sighed and continued, "One sounded kinda gravelly-like sandpaper I'd say, the other guy-well voice I suppose, I mean there, uh really were no-" James leaned forward. "Mr. Petzko, I don't think you're crazy."
"The other voice was very deep, kind of silly how deep it was." James barely paused, "And did you ever hear them talking at the same time?" John looked down for a moment, wanting to be sure, "No sir, they didn't."
James stood up, "Thanks for your time . I need to go talk to somebody right now, but if you'll have us we'd like to take a look at your house?"
###
"I'm tellin' ya man, it was like a shadow tackled me!" James Gordon sat across a table from Joshua Riddle, who seemed oddly excited about the whole affair, especially given that he'd had a rib fractured. "A shadow Mr. Riddle? Do you think perhaps you could give a little more detail?"
Josh paused, a little put off over the fact that the detective hadn't been impressed by his story. "Well.. it looked like he was wearing some kinda dark cloth, and maybe some kinda helmet with horns, I guess? I don't know man I'll admit I was kinda drunk."
James glanced up at the two-way mirror, "This horned man say anything?" Josh responded with a quick no. James stood up, heading for the door, unable to keep his frustration down, he said, "Thanks Mr. Riddle, you've been a huge help to this investigation."
Somewhat surprised, Josh asked, "Really?" The detective paused under the doorway, thought twice about it, and walked out, letting the door slam shut.
###
Detectives Gordon and Essen were careful to avoid the glass littered across Mr. Petzko's kitchen tile. James cast a critical eye to the window, and around the room. As per usual, the silence began to make John uncomfortable. Wishing to break the silence, "Ahm, maybe you guys would like some coffee?" Noticing Gordon's detachment, responded, "Yeah we'll both have one, thanks."
After a few more moments of thought and silence, James asked, "Mr. Petzko, you didn't find anything like a brick in here did you?"
"A brick? No sir." James nodded thoughtfully and kneeled down, inspecting the surface of the white tile. Essen began asking John questions about the previous night, though James hardly noticed. What he did notice though were what seemed like a set of footprints, evidenced by the powderized glass in the form of a foot. Casting his gaze from the powderized glass, he could see a little dirt in the form of a foot, its impression extremely faint.
"Coffee's getting cold Sherlock!" said Essen. James stood up with a grunt, and slowly descended to his seat at John's small wooden table, coffee waiting in front of him. He took a sip, and nodded appreciatively, "Very good John, thanks."
Essen said, "John seems to think this happened sometime between 10 and 11, based on the TV he was watching." As John nodded in affirmation James said, "Mind if I go see the upstairs?"
###
Upstairs, James was finding things conducive with his findings in the kitchen. Not many footprints, and the frequency with which he found them seemed to suggest that only one person had been present.
James looked at the busted door. It's white frame still remained attached to the door, though it now jutted off at an awkward angle, hanging limply. He scanned the doorway carefully, looking for any fabric that may bring them a lead. Nothing, as far as James could tell.
The floor groaned quietly as the detective walked over to the bathroom, door open. Looking at the carpeted floor, he could see no shoe prints. The groans continued, this time issued from the stairs as James headed back down, returning to the kitchen. He walked closer to the busted window, which was just over the kitchen sink. His feet crunched some of the glass as he drew near, but James didn't care, it wasn't like he'd forget what he saw in the glass. As he closely inspected the glass, he asked John, "Any of your meds taken?"
John balked, realizing he had no idea. "One minute detectives!" Dashing up from his chair, the detectives were left alone. Essen asked, "What're you thinking Gordon?" For a moment he didn't answer, too fixated on pulling off the quarter or so inch of black cloth he'd found on a jagged piece of glass. Turning around he responded, "Well Essen, based on the number of footprints I've been finding, and this black cloth," he paused, handing it to her, "We've got ourselves a lone intruder wearing black. Possibly Mr. Riddle's lone black-clad assailant."
The conversation halted as John came back down from the stairs, "Well detectives," he paused nervously, hoping this wasn't bad news, "I don't think any of the medicine I keep in there was taken."
James began making his way for the door, "Interesting. Thanks for the coffee Mr. Petzko."
Back out in the brisk winter air, Essen continued to pick James' head, "What do you think about the multiple voices? One said take the meds, no meds were taken, and there aren't a lot of footprints."
"I'm not really sure yet, footprints are hardly conclusive," he held open the door for Essen and then went around the drivers side, "It seems like we'll have to wait for this guy to strike again."
###
Hours later, Gordon was at home, frustrated by everything. For years after his wife and son died, he had let his job as a Chicago Police Detective be his life. It was work he had never enjoyed, but he needed something. Even if that something was a job where you didn't stop bad things from happening, you just cleaned up afterward.
But now things were even worse. After a mental breakdown, and subsequent treatment, he'd been transferred over to Gotham PD, as if he was an embarrassment Chicago PD didn't want around. And now I'm chasing down a person who doesn't even exist. James snorted derisively as he sat down in his empty living room. So empty. They didn't even have a name for this 'person'. Just called him the Attacker. A couple people were beat up and they made a case out of it, and gave it to me, coincidence?No..
He sat down, looking over at the coffee table in front of the TV. There sat a Batman comic, his son's favorite. James took it out weeks ago, knowing it'd hurt, but doing it anyway. A tear made its way down James' face. He knew he shouldn't torture himself with these old memories..
###
Jeremy Flass' wife had him out fetching a couple things from the grocery store down the street, and Jeremy had decided to cut through a couple alleys to speed up the trip. Both of his arms are full with a the paper bag, stuffed full with milk and assorted meats. The bag crinkled and shifted with every step he took, so when Jeremy thought he heard a footstep that wasn't his, he dismissed it as his exposure to alleyway stereotypes affecting his imagination.
The second time though, Jeremy began to worry, but he wasn't about to admit he was scared by turning around, so instead he sped up, trying to get out of the alley and onto the sidewalk on the other end without actually breaking into a run.
In a flurry of sounds and flesh, Jeremy Flass was brought to the ground by a man whose features he couldn't discern in the dark. All that he could discern was a pair of horns, and a dark cape enveloping them. Fists rained down on Jeremy, bringing pain with them.
Darkness. The cape covered his face, and he felt hands clench his neck. A voice growled, "Where are they? Where are they Joker?!" Jeremy Flass felt like he was breathing through a straw. He struggled, trying to break free, becoming weaker by the moment. Oh God it's all going black! Is it the cape? Is it...
###
Next Jeremy Flass felt two things. A pounding headache, and the cool winter breeze, giving his cheeks a pleasant, crisp kiss.
The next thing Jeremy Flass saw was far less pleasant. "AHHHHHHHHHH-" The ground rushed forward towards Flass, "AHHHHHHH-" ZIP! Flass let out a sob of relief as he felt his leg tug, and his face stop feet from dirty alley pavement. His leg tugged again and he was pulled back up, as the hard concrete rushed away. Wait.. what? Wh-Oh no no no! Now at least 50 feet from the ground, a hand clamped down on his ankle, yanking him up, throwing his world around. Pavement, building, sky-sky?! THUD. Flass moaned as blood oozed out of his chin, which had been cut in its brutal impact with the gravel roof. Still extremely disoriented, Flass tried to get up, but was immediately pushed down by a boot. Before he could survey his surroundings beyond the bloody gravel in front of him, everything went black again.
Flass thought he had fallen unconscious until a hand grabbed his pinky. "Again. Where are they?" Flass sobbed, "Please-PLEASE! I don't know what the hell you're talking ab-AHHHH!" The cracking of Jeremy Flass' pinky finger was heard by no one, smothered as it was by his screams of pain.
###
Eventually Flass' screams of pain brought someone up to the roof, but not before sunrise, not before the Attacker had left, and not before all ten of Jeremy Flass' fingers were shattered, and his left leg broken.
###
Hours earlier, the Attacker lept out of a second story window, landing on a suburban lawn. He vaulted the fence adjacent to the house from which he had come, thinking himself unseen. He was wrong.
###
The next day James Gordon was back at his desk. He was merely going through the motions, mind stuck in other times, when Detective Essen told him the good news. We've got a location.
###
Trenton Licht related his story from the back seat of James' car to the Detectives as they took directions from him. As James pulled out of the GCPD parking lot, the hobo began his story, "I was out looking for a place to stay the night when I saw a giant bat leap out of a window of a house. Swear on my mother's life I saw it clear as day! He-oh take a left right here offi-uh detective, yeah almost there. Anyhow.. oh yeah! Leaped right over the fence in front of him he did, and that's all I saw of him."
Essen responded, notepad and pen in hand, "What time was this?" The hobo responded unashamedly, "Don't rightly know ma'am, I got no watch ya see. It was just after the sun fell though. Oh right here detectives! This is it, the blue one!"
Detective Essen looks over at the Attacker, but he does not look at her. All he sees is his house, and the Batman comic book he knows is inside, along with a hidden part of him.
Almost in a trance, James Gordon's hand went for the door handle. Essen, perplexed, "Gordon, what the hell is this, Gordon? Gord-" She was cut off as James slammed the car door, sprinting across the street, up to his house.
###
Batman sat crouched, behind the coat rack, waiting. Shrouded as he was in the darkest part of the room, James had no chance of seeing him when he put his shoulder to the door. The explosion from the door was followed by a tense silence, punctuated by James' soft steps. He passed right by Batman, who noted the gun in Gordon's hands, clearly framed against the light coming from the windows in the room adjacent. Gordon passed by, heading for the light switch. "Come out damnit! If you're in here show yourself!" Gordon turned to flip on the light, Batman made his move.
Too late! Too late! both men thought, as they tumbled to the ground. The light flickered on as Batman knocked the gun out of Gordon's hand before he could draw a bead on him. As the gun went flying under a couch, James threw a quick left hook into Batman's side.
His foes presence weakened, James drew his legs up under his chest and pushed, sending him flying up against a wall. Not bothering to hunt for the gun James followed up his advantage, raining down vicious blows on Batman. Batman brought his hands up, holding off the vicious tide of blows.
A black-clad leg shot out, kicking Gordon's knee out, bringing him down. Batman followed his advantage, shooting forward, pouncing on top of Gordon, pressing his leg into Gordon's face. He resisted Gordon's weakening blows to his face and body as his weight slowly cut off Gordon's access to air. The blows eventually weakened into little more than half-hearted taps, and eventually ceased.
The sharp clicking of heels brought Batman out of the intensity of the moment. He looked up swiftly, scanning for options. His eyes caught the light switch. A black-clad hand returned the room to darkness.
Detective Essen would find nobody in the house of James Gordon, nothing but a busted door, a gun under the couch, and an open Batman comic book.