Hello, here it is; I'm starting. First things first; this is the sequel to Crossing the Rubicon, so if you haven't read it, most probably you won't understand this.

The story starts nine months after the finale of Rubicon, so it makes it approx. 14 months after the Dark Knight. At the end of the chapter, I will make a brief timeline to make sure about the time slots.


Predicting a Riot

"A riot is the language of the unheard." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Prologue: "The War Starts"


October, 2009

Two men stood in the darkened alley; true to the oldest game, under cloak and daggers. The older one had his figure covered with a dark trench coat, his collars pulled up against the hard October wind. His eyes were an electrical blue that suggested a keen interest together with a daring vanity, but the rest of his features were hid under his bowler hat. He had concealed his identity well, the old man knew, covered his unease with a décor of aloofness, but still he knew the taciturn man in front of him could read him like an open book.

He had no name, not that he would find out. He, however, had a code name, and the way he acted was suggesting that he would never need anything else. Perhaps there was a time the contract killer had a name for himself, too, but that must be a long time ago. Now, he was simply called—the Wrath.

For a moment, the old man wished they hadn't personally made a contact. Even looking at him made him feel dirty but somehow the man had insisted. He wasn't sure why, and he didn't like that. They had made the first contact at somewhere called in deep web under trusted alias. His partner had directed him, but now he was starting to question his partner's integrity; something he possibly shouldn't do. His partner had showed him a path to fight back. He would never forget that.

The contract killer broke the silence, his voice monotone, and cold, his words spoken with a deliberate, carefully adjusted projection, words were just serving their purpose, and nothing more. "The list, please," he demanded.

He held out a folded paper. "The half of it, as we agreed," the old man said, "The rest of it after the job is done."

With a swift but quick movement, the paper was taken out of his fingers and vanished under his dark long coat. "The target?" he demanded the next.

The old man hesitated, his fingers tightened around the dossier he was holding in his other hand. They had never been close, yes, they had never been truly enemies, either. Sometimes things had gone bad with them, but it wasn't personal. Wayne Enterprises' boards meetings were a hard place conduit business without breaking a few hearts.

But this's a war, he reminded himself, and as his partner said, one must have the courage to do all that was necessary, to win.

The old man held out the dossier.


Part I:

Part I.I — "A New Beginning"


In the deserted parts of the Narrows the night was aging. Crouched motionlessly in his post at the rooftop, Batman watched the three men as they painted a stylized Circle-A over a filthy wall. Their faces were covered with Guy Fawkes masks, only the smiles over the masks were a red one.

Under his cowl, Bruce's eyebrows tightened as his lips turned into a grimmer scowl. One of them started spraying a template under the infamous icon, then they stepped back in order to control their handiwork.

Bruce read the black script, Our voice will be heard. Say no to Act 1010.

His suspicions confirmed, Bruce opened his arms to the sides. The memory cloth energized quickly under his glove. Not wasting any time, Bruce dived in the sky. His trajectory lenses focused on the men, he landed softly behind them.

Closer to his targets, he saw the men weren't exactly men but merely teenagers, high school kids from the slums of Gotham.

The Unheards... The first time Batman had crossed paths with them was a month ago; graffiti over a poster of the Gotham's newly elected Mayor, Rupert Elliot. The man's face was covered with the Circle-A, and it wasn't an uncommon thing in Gotham, the symbol of anarchism had been decorating the Narrows' walls for years. No, what had gained Batman's attention had been the smile over the Mayor's face. It was scarred, running one cheek to another, blood red; the Joker's identical smile.

Below, another phrase was scripted, the way is anarchy, join up. Together we stand, divided we fall. And under the slogan, there was it; the Unheards.

Just school kids...becoming groupies of the Joker like a rock star.

His scowl deepened further. He must be doing something wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Even the behind bars, in his straight jacket, the Clown was stirring up his city. His eyes skipped toward the script over the wall. Say no to Act 1010.

The Act 1010; the act that would enable the Gotham Court of Appeals to pass the capital punishment as penalty. Mostly to condemn the Joker to a death sentence. Mentally, he shook his head, focusing on what was needed to be done. That was politics that Batman couldn't interfere. His duty was to his city.

"Drop the paint," he rasped behind the teenagers but didn't take the action. It was best not to make these young people more furious with the...order of the things. The teenagers swiveled back at the same time, their faces bearing the same expression, eyes wide open, mouths agape.

The cans of their paints dropped on the concrete pavement, scattering along the road, then the panic faded as the understanding grew in their eyes. With a fleeting look at each other, they turned and started running away.

Bruce looked at their backs, his eyes darkening more. This would be a problem. "Alfred—" he called his former guardian, turning to walk away into the alley where he had parked the Batpod, "Call Valerie," he ordered. Tonight she had said she had a survey to make and Bruce knew she was out again for a date to collect data...for her new...look. She had been in Gotham two months, after her operation nine months ago, but she was still collecting data to prove that no one would think her as Cameron Reese.

Though, her results weren't making her feel any better, either. When no one recognized her, she also grew...hard to deal. A couple of times, he had assured her she hadn't changed that much, that they couldn't recognize her because Cameron in manners and looks didn't look anything like Valerie even before the operation, and she still looked same, but his words had only frustrated her further.

But he hadn't lied. The changes weren't big; her sharp features had just softened a bit more, her nose a bit more rounded, but to him, she was still the same woman he had been with in a backseat—he abruptly stopped his thoughts.

"I want to know how many graffiti like this are being made in the city," he rasped stiffly, climbing to the Batpod, "Start a search throughout all Gotham streets via satellite."

"Yes, sir," Alfred answered, "I'm passing her a cable."

He ran the Batpod's motor, but then heard the sirens, from the north, just how Gordon had warned him before.

The new SRT that was set to catch Batman; a joint-up effort between FBI, ATF, and GCPD. A month ago, the task force had been finally ordered, and Gordon couldn't drag his feet any longer. The Mayor had made two promises in his campaign in the elections; first, sending the Joker to gallows, and second, catching the Batman.

And, apparently, both of those promises were going to be a problem.

He listened to the sirens for a fraction, then leaning down over the bike, he launched into darkened streets, toward the closest bridge. Better to pass the bridge before the Air Cavalry arrived to the scene.

Tonight was going to be a long one.


In the Irish pub she chose for her...date, the talks were the same like in the others; the small talks in Gotham weren't about weather, super bowl, or the last episode of Lost anymore, but the protesters at the streets, Say No to Act 1010 Campaign, and the general unease the city had been having since the Joker's Reign of Terror.

Valerie wasn't surprised, the Joker had left his marks deeply. No one would know that better than her. Her eyes skid toward the mirror at the opposite side of the bar where she sat sipping through her club soda. "The new her"-softened features, her darkened hair cropped just over neck, barely touching her shoulders. Yes, she had cut her hair, too, why she didn't know. She thought it would have gone better with her new look but she had already started regretting her decision. She couldn't even remember the last time she had hair this short.

But Christian, gentle hands, delicate fingers had done his job well. There wasn't any scar over her skin, not at the places anyone would see, herself included. The change was subtle, more like her demeanor, the air of her, something that hadn't gotten neither Bruce nor Alfred bat an eye yet looking at her, but to the man sitting next to her, she was a total stranger. Had she really changed that much that the man with who she had spent five months in the same office didn't even have at least the courtesy to say that she looked—familiar from somewhere? He had asked her out for a drink once, for god's sake!

Pissed, her eyes shifted to him, and she shot at him a dark look, but he didn't say anything, because he was busy laughing to something the man next to him had said. God, her night possibly wouldn't get any worse.

Letting out a silent sigh, she brought back the soda to her lips, and took a little sip, her eyes suddenly drawing toward the liquor over the bar. She snapped her eyes away, grimacing. She knew she shouldn't be bothered by it, shouldn't let it bother her, that was her plan after all, becoming someone that no one would recognize, and she had drawn Cameron Reese very different from her street smart self, strategically had made Cameron always vanishing in the background, but still...

She shook her head. She was a new person now, with a surname and all; Valerie West, after the Wicked Witch of West, her own inner joke, something only Bruce had gotten.

As her thoughts turned to him, his date suddenly exclaimed beside her, shaking his head at the TV. "That prick!" he bellowed, taking his sip from his beer, "I can't take this guy," he grunted.

Valerie lifted her head at TV and looked at the activist over the screen, a lawyer from the Anti-Dent Platform, Derrick Malkin. The man had already entered in the Bruce's radar, as well as he was also rumored to be a mob lawyer, but Valerie had her doubts. "Well, Vicki," Malkin told to the hostess of the nighttime talk show, "You know the way to get rid of gnats isn't killing them, but drying off the swamp," he said, "Even when the Joker is dead, this city's problem won't end. The Dent Act isn't doing any good—"

"Tea party claims different," Vicki said, with a sneer, "States the statics are dropping since the last year."

Malkin shook his head, "Look at the trends, they're already started rising again, life always adapts, and marks are adding up with no parole. Now it might look like an improvement, but after ten years, when most of these guys are out, and with no hope for a normal life anymore, and a stigma blended on their forehead, Gotham will have it even worse."

Valerie knew the man was right; the Dent Act wasn't drying off the swamp, but only killing off the—gnats. But the problems were still there; the Pareto analysis of the city was rocketed in the sky, the ninety of Gotham's wealth was being held by the privileged ten percent of the populace, and the crème da le crème, one percent of the ten was holding the seventy percent of the total wealth, despite the fact that one percent had Bruce Wayne among them.

The inequality of wealth among the citizen, toppled by the fact the ghettos of the city harbored the forty percent of the populace, despite geographically covering only the ten percent of the Gotham's soil, created the simple fact that everyone knew; Gotham was a buzzing hive of scum and vileness that spawned its own criminals on the most basic conditions.

"Well, I don't see anything wrong in what he says," she told to her date.

The man's expression soured as if he had eaten something rotten. "Oh, please, don't tell me you're one of them—" he said with frustration, driving his head backward.

Her eyes narrowed, as she looked at him coldly. "One of what?" she rasped.

He looked at her, understanding that he was pissing her a great deal, and perhaps because he realized he was being a prick, or perhaps because he was hoping for some action tonight, he quickly relented, and smiled at her. "Never mind," he said, and moved closer, "Are you sure you don't want anything—harder?" he asked, his look skipping toward her glass then back at her eyes.

She almost rolled her eyes. She brought the glass to her lips, "No, I'm fine. I'm having my smooth days." She took another sip, her eyes drawing toward the mirror again, and she looked at her smoothed features. She really didn't look that different, and she wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not.

"That's a pity," the man murmured under his breath, and she decided she was already bored with him.

Her PI Exam was scheduled tomorrow afternoon. Instead of wasting time with the idiot here, she'd better go and study Bruce's notes. If she flunked another time... she chased the thought away. She was going to pass. The first time was one time failure. It was understandable she had gotten stressed. She had never taken a test to attain anything all in her life before. She had just faked things when she needed something. Well, not this time. This time, for the first time in her life, she was going to get something like the other people did. This was a new her, and a new life; and in this new life she had decided to be a private detective, and she was not going to goddamn fake it.

It had seemed to her like a good plan. She had thought it first in Bolivia after the operation, when Bruce had come to her for a quick visit after her bandages had taken off, and her face had become something—decent to look at, and they had discussed about the cover identities for her eventual return, but nothing had seemed good enough.

Bruce had suggested that she might have tried again to be a lawyer in the Wayne Enterprises, but she had declined. First, it was a bit too dangerous, second, she didn't like being a lawyer, and third, she hated pencil skirts.

Bruce then had suggested to being his secretary, and she had only looked at him, but hadn't dignified the suggestion with an answer.

No, it had to be something else. Something else that made would make her connected to him in the daily life, but still wouldn't make her feel alienating from herself, something she would really like to be... Then it hit her, like a crystal bullet.

A private detective...she could be her own, doing researches Bruce asked from her with a good pretense, and also hired by Wayne Enterprises so that she would have a good reason to hang around Bruce Wayne, being his PI.

Certainly better than being his PA. Only she hadn't passed the test for the license the first time.

With a mental sigh, she jumped off from her stool, placing a bill under her glass. "Well, I'm off," she said, "good night."

"Wait—" he called after her. She turned. "Can I have your number?" he asked.

She clicked her tongue, and shook her head, apologetically, "That's not a very good idea," she said, then smiled, "You see, my boyfriend—"

The man gaped at her. "You have a boyfriend?"

Well, she didn't, but who cares? She wasn't still going to sleep with him. Another thing this new her was trying not to do... She opened her mouth, but before she could say something, Derrick Malkin and Vicki Vale vanished off the TV in front of her, and in their place came—

Suddenly out of breath, her heart in her throat, she looked at the TV— "After a long while, Batman sighted again in the Narrows tonight—" She started at the screen as Bruce over the Batpod led a long and crowded cortege on the road, sirens screeching, the Air Cav. flying over the top of his head in the air that was painted red and blue with the police lights.

How...? She asked herself blankly... How they could find him? He had the whole Gotham Police Department tracking with his donation of cell phones. How he could not notice a task force this massive coming to him? It made no sense.

There must be some logical explanation, because even Bruce Wayne wouldn't be that stupid. Letting out a frustrated grunt, she stormed out of the pub.

As she ran to her Honda, she called Bruce. "What happened—?" she asked in as soon as he opened up their radio link, her ears full with the interference as he possibly drove at a maddening speed. Her tone took a notch on frustration, "Why the hell the whole GCPD is after you?"

"Valerie—" he breathed out over the interference, "That's not—"

"Why didn't you see them?" she asked, cutting him off, starting the motor, "What happened to the trackers?"

"They don't have any tracker," came the answer in a rasped breath.

"What do you mean they don't have any tracker?" she cried back, taking the car out of the curb.

"They're not GCPD," he responded matter-of-factly, "FBI and ATF—" his voice vanished under a sudden a booming sound, as he probably had made himself a new road, blowing up stuff on his way, then she heard him again, "Gordon couldn't hold them back anymore."

Driving at the top speed toward the high road, it took a second to digest what he had told her. The next second, she screamed, "You KNEW they were out?!" The silence answered her. "Bruce Wayne, are you fucking insane?"

Again silence, then another booming sound exploded in her ears, and she picked up the sirens, coming from to her left side. "I'm coming to you," she hissed out.

"No," he ordered quickly, "Stay on the route," he ordered, "Go to the bunker."

"Bunker?" she asked, "What the hell I'm going to do in the bunker?"

Another boom followed before he rasped, "I am going to bunker."

Oh. "The manor is too far away," he explained fast, the interference even louder this time, "The protesters were gathering at the south entrance of the Central Park tonight, and the police were setting the perimeters."

And the protesters would start rioting as soon as they saw a task force, coming to them. Cunning bastard. He was a damn strategist, and ever the precautious one, but still... He had made a promise. Releasing a sneer, she pressed on the brake, and pulled up the hand brake to get the car to make U-turn that looked like more as a V, and drove toward the south.

They had made rules. It wasn't right that at the first opportunity he started breaking them. No, he started breaking that particular one. With her other rule, he was just fine. She gritted her teeth, her hands tightened around the wheel.

It took ten minutes to drive to the bunker, but the spare time didn't make anything to blow off her anger, or her worry. She knew he was approaching to the bunker from the dubbed voice in her ears, as he managed to dodge his company around the Central Park.

She passed through the old fenced doors, and parked the car in front of the hidden parkway. She opened the rusted padlock of the metal door, and walked into the empty warehouse. Directly, she went to the wall at the farthest north corner and pushed her hand on the mechanism at the wall. The floor under her feet moved, and started its smooth descended toward the hidden level below.

Being here, at the place she had spent her first three weeks when she had come to Bruce, had made her nerves even tenser, as the whiteness assaulted her senses. Pissed, she crossed the length of the hall, zigzagging over the long forgotten old equipment, and stepped inside the infirmary.

She sat on the armchair, crossed her legs, then waited.

Two minutes later, the platform lift hummed softly outside, and seconds later, Bruce entered into the infirmary, his cowl in his hand. He was limping slightly on his right leg, and his suit had a tear over his left upper arm, blood dripping over the rest of his arm.

For a moment, the scene stole her breath away, like each time she saw him in his armor, returning from the fight, battered and bloodied, eyes haunted. During the last two months, the scene had become a more frequent one, yes, but the effects were still the same. She couldn't help herself. A shudder passed through her body.

Though, it was odd to see him under the fluorescent, as he suited more with shadows and with his dear brethren in his cave. Under the bright light, the special fabric of his suit had turned to a dark gray, the matte Kevlar of his armor absorbing the light, like a black hole.

Without a word, he vanished into the bathroom. When he came out of it with his civil clothes after five minutes, it felt like a blessing. This Bruce Wayne she knew how to deal with.

He walked to counter, took the first-aid kid, and walked back to the stretcher. He started to stich himself up, his eyes trained on his new wound. The bike was causing him too much damage, she realized, watching him as he tended himself. The Tumbler, he needed to build another Tumbler.

His split was running over the length of his bicep, and he was having troubling to reach the backside. For a moment, she thought of going over to him, and help, but the next second, she decided a little bit nuisances would serve him just right. How he could be that stupid? She started gnawing her lips in order not to scream at him.

"Valerie," he called at her, his eyes still fixed on his wound, "Say it," he ordered.

Her eyes narrowed. "Say what?"

Still, he didn't look at her. "Whatever kind words you're thinking to shout at me," he answered simply. She frowned. "I can hear you thinking."

The bastard, the bastard, making fun of her after what he had done. She fixed at him a pissed look. "Oh, I was just thinking if you can be that stupid to go out knowing that there is a task force with an kill order on the spot after you," she had started rather well, but as she continued, her voice had started rising as well, "a force that you have no means to track—" She raised her hands in the air, "But who I am kidding?" she faked a laugh, smiling, "You are Bruce Wayne."

He finally decided to look at her after her tirade, giving her a fleeting look, before he took the bandages from the counter, and started wrapping it around his arm.

Feeling herself a bit satisfied after the yelling, she finally stood up, and went to help him. She took the bandage from him, and started turning it around his bicep. "The Unheards—" he then said, lifting his eyes up at her under his slightly bowed head, "I went to look for them."

Then she understood. "Couldn't it wait?" she still asked though.

"No—it might get out of the control," he explained, "Alfred sent you a cable tonight. Didn't you see it?" he asked, frowning.

"No," she answered, running her eyes, "I didn't check my pager yet."

Bruce nodded, understanding she hadn't because she had been on the date. Her eyes skipped to catch a look at his face, but it was expressionless. "They were just kids, Valerie," he said after a while, as she wrapped the bandage the last time, "All this business with the Act 1010—" He shook his head, "I need to do something before this thing spirals out of control, and they turn the Joker a cult leader of sorts."

Pulling her hands, she nodded. "I checked the police report today," she remarked, her tone losing the fire in it after his declaration, "It was stated more than five videos claiming solidarity with the Joker being posted each day."

Bruce nodded. He had never talked how it made him feel—knowing that the Court might very well order his arch-nemesis's life to an end, a life he had chosen to save, despite himself. The words came to the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't ask. "You should have told me about it," she said instead, stepping back, "I could help."

"Doing what?" he asked, lowering his shirt over his bandaged arm.

She frowned at his tone. "Well, for starters," she hissed, "I would have stayed in the cave," her eyes turned to a glare, "instead of wasting time with an idiot."

His eyes snapped up at her, and a half of smile suddenly appeared over his lips. "He was that bad, huh?"

Her eyes narrowed more. "Don't change the subject," she warned, pointing a finger.

Understanding she wasn't buying his maneuver tactics, he turned back to the topic. "I didn't think they would find me," he explained.

"Bullshit," she shot back fast, "You knew they would, you even prepared an escape route, but you didn't tell me because you knew I would opposite."

A fire lit in his eyes, he sprang up at his feet, and stood hovering above her. "I didn't know I need to ask your permission to do what I have to."

She shook her head with frustration. God, how much more stupid he could be, she didn't know. "You don't need to ask me to do anything, Bruce."

He took a step closer to her. "Then what the hell is the problem?"

"The problem is—we made rules," she shouted, "and you promised not to act like I'm a sort of damsel in the distress under your protection. You promised me you won't keep me out—" She threw her hands out, "but just two months, just two months, and you've already started breaking them."

Looking at her as if she was mad, he shook his head. "I'm not!"

She tilted her head aside, looking back at him. "Did Alfred know?" she asked, "Did you tell him?"

He looked at her in silence, and his silence again was her answer. "I didn't return for this shit, Bruce," she told him, her voice stern but still hurt, because she really hadn't stepped out of the lift nine months ago and walked to him to be treated like a lesser person. "I returned because you made me believe I have a place here," She looked at him straight in the eyes, "with you. But if you keep me out—" She shook her head, before she turned and walked out, "This won't work."


So, as far as I understood from the movies; I made my timeline like this:

Batman Begins: Bruce was partying his 30 at the end. I place it as being late October, like in the canon. Some says it's Feb, but in this story, it's October. October 2007.

Between BB and TDK: I believe appro. nine monts passed between Batman Begins and the Dark Knight, because at the first robbing of the Joker, there was a date on the security camera's image; July 2008

The Joker threatens Valerie: August 2008

Valerie escapes from the safe house after Harvey Dent's death: September 2008

Valerie calls Bruce again five months later: January 2009

They go to North Ireland: Toward the end of January 2009; and turn back in somewhere in February 2009

Valerie leaves for Bolivia: At the end of the February 2009.

Valerie returns to Gotham after her operation: Toward the end of August 2009