Rupert Thorne was not a happy man.

It was bad enough that three of Gotham's largest, oldest, and most prestigious crime families had been levelled by some sick freak in clown makeup. Not that Thorne had ever liked Gambol or Maroni- and the Chechen was competition, pure and simple. But he was a man of honor, a man of courage, a man of tradition. The Thorne family had ties to Gotham's underbelly going back to the days of Prohibition, when Ernest Thorne converted his simple grocer's business into a smuggling network, supplying speakeasies across Old Gotham with the finest product available. During the fifties and sixties, John, Paul, and Marko split the family business and switched to drugs and vice, vying for control and bickering in violent shootouts until the family name had all but died out on the streets. It took someone strong, someone with power and connections and charisma to draw the family back together and mend broken relationships. Someone like Rupert Thorne.

For years, he'd worked to unite the Thorne family, build up street rep, and reconstruct the empire. Gotham was a city of rust, and Thorne catered to it in the form of drugs, weapons, and trafficked girls brought in from Mexico, China, Japan, India... Taking a sip of his whisky, Thorne shook his head and stared out over the city. And then Dent had shown up, idealistic and uncorruptable and focused on bringing down all the major crime bosses of Gotham. The psychotic Joker had arrived hard on his heels, crushed the largest three drug dealers and commandeered their operations, and promptly wasted his new power in a senseless, insane, and horrific scheme. In a stroke of business brilliance, Thorne had pulled up his stakes in the narcotics industry and moved into trafficking, bookkeeping, and contract hits. Dent had been unable to pin anything on him during his brief stint as Gotham's White Knight, and the Joker had gone for the more flashy drugs, guns, and explosives.

With the Joker back in Arkham, the Gotham underworld found itself facing a power vacuum- and Thorne found himself the biggest player on the field. The time had never been better for illegal expansions.

Except for the Batman. Thorne swore quietly and set down his glass, turning from the window to the luxurious interior of his thirty-fifth floor office. He hated the vigilante, hated him wholeheartedly. The appearance of the Batman had heralded the age of freaks in masks running wild in Gotham City. And unlike the Joker and Arkham's fear-obsessed former director, Batman remained at large.

A quiet knock shook Thorne from his reverie. He turned towards the ornate oak door and pressed the intercom button.

"Who is it?"

"I-I- I think you should see this, M-Mr. Thorne."

Thorne sighed and rolled his eyes briefly.

"What is it this time, Wesker?" he snapped, only to be answered by incoherent static. Biting back a curse, he strode to the door and flung it open. "Speak, man, or get out! I haven't got all day!"

Wesker, a diminuitive, slightly overweight man in his late thirties, blanched visibly and fell back, clutching his clipboard in front of him. Thorne glared at him.

"Well?"

"I- I, well, not that I'm not grateful for the job and everything, but I-I..." Wesker paused, swallowing several times before blurting out, "I think the police are on to me."

Rupert Thorne closed his eyes and sighed. He'd taken Arnold Wesker in mainly in memory of the man's late father, a contract killer on the Thorne payroll who'd been iced by the Chechen years ago. Arnold had moved out of town and, by all accounts, tried and failed at a long succession of professions. When he turned up on Thorne's doorstep a little over a month ago, dressed in threadbare clothing and miserably nervous, and practically begged for a job, Thorne had taken him on. The Thorne family remembered their friends. Unfortunately, Arnold was nothing like his late father- a walking bundle of neuroses that couldn't stand still long enough to hold a gun, much less fire one.

"Wesker," Thorne growled, adjusting his silver watch with one hand, "the police are not 'on to you.' But if you're getting cold feet..." he eyed the man ominously.

"No, no, it's not that, sir! I just... well, I think they're following me. They were at the club last night, and one of them followed me home."

"Probably because you were shaking so badly he thought you might have a heart attack," grunted Thorne.

"And... and on the," Wesker swallowed painfully. "On the payroll, this Lieutenant Flass..."

"I know Flass. He's a good cop," Thorne said, meaning that the good Lieutenant was not. "If he's following you, Wesker, you haven't got anything to worry about."

"No, he... he sent a message. He wants... w-wants more money."

Thorne's fist came crashing down on his desk.

"More? We're already paying that S.O.B. two grand a month," he growled. "What else did he say?"

"That if y-you didn't pay up, he'd... he'd arrest me," Wesker fairly squeaked.

Thorne sighed and closed his eyes. Yes, it would be just like Flass to intimidate Wesker. It was smart, too. Not only was Wesker spineless enough to cave under the slightest pressure, he was a fair bookkeeper, and Thorne had put him to work fixing accounts and records for one of the legitimate "front" businesses. One night in custody, and Wesker would be singing like a canary. Thorne cursed silently and turned back to Wesker.

"All right. I'll get on it." He would need to arrange a meeting with Flass and either intimidate him into leaving Wesker alone or pay him an extra... however much it was the crooked cop was sticking him for this time. That meant finding a secluded place not prone to ambushes by men who dressed as flying rodents. With a heavy sigh, he turned back to the desk- and saw Wesker still trembling in front of the desk. "Well, why are you still here? Get out!"

"Y-yes sir!"

And Arnold Wesker beat a hasty retreat.

"Don't get me wrong, Jim, I'm sure Detective Harper is a great cop, really great. But he's just not what we need any longer. Times are changing- you saw the horrors the Joker visited on Gotham."

"We're not dealing with the Joker." Commissioner James Gordon leaned back in his chair and regarded Mayor Anthony Garcia with what he hoped was a respectful, un-exasperated stare. "And while I agree with you that the force could use some... new blood... I don't like the look of this Coleman's file. Suspected of taking a bribe, police brutality-"

"The charges were dropped, Jim! And if you don't like Coleman, pick another detective- you've got a whole stack of files to choose from."

"You'll excuse my saying, Mayor, that choosing our 'new blood' from Chicago and LAPD transfers is-"

"Our last option," Garcia said bluntly. "With full respect to you, Commissioner, the Gotham Police Department is one of the most corrupt in the nation. I looked over these profiles personally- each of the officers is highly trained in his or her field of expertise. Take this, uh, Harvey Bullock, from New York. One of the highest turnover rates on the force- Jim, you have to admit that counts for something."

"Yes," Gordon muttered. "So he's either brilliant or crooked."

The Mayor sighed.

"I know," he admitted. "But what other choice do we have? There isn't exactly a line forming to transfer to Gotham. The way I see it, we can take the transfers, like Bullock, and hope they aren't corrupt, or we can stick with our own, like Harper, and be sure of it. If you have any other ideas, I'm open to suggestion."

Slowly, regretfully, James Gordon shook his head.

"Let me see those files again."

With an angry growl, Rupert Thorne flipped his cell phone open and punched in a number. If Flass put him on hold, so help him, Thorne wouldn't be responsible for his actions.

"Hello, Flass here."

"Flass," Thorne snapped. "We need to talk."

"Oh really? Look, honey, I'm busy right now. Can you call me back later?"

Thorne rolled his eyes and stifled a growl of irritation.

"Fine. Meet me at the usual place. Ten o'clock. Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Buh-bye."

Gordon let the manila envelope fall to the desk and sighed, rubbing his temples wearily. Twenty-four transfer requests, and not a one of them without internal affairs investigations, some ongoing. But, loath as he was to admit it, the mayor had a point. Gordon loved the Gotham City Police Department dearly, wouldn't leave it for the world, but had to admit it was about as clean as a prostitute's unwashed laundry. And with Gotham's White Knight- no, he wouldn't even go there. Dent's "death" at the hands of the Batman was still too fresh, too raw to think about.

Gordon glanced down at the open file and reached for his phone.

"Yeah, what is it?" The voice on the other hand rivaled Batman's for raspiness, with a strong New York accent to boot. Gordon instinctively cringed.

"Yes, hello, this is Police Commissioner James Gordon calling from Gotham City."

There was a brief pause.

"Commish? Harvey Bullock. I was sorta hopin' you'd call back." The man sounded like he had a cement truck stuck in his throat. Even without looking at the pixelated grey snapshot in the file, Gordon could clearly picture Bullock as a gritty, slightly overweight beat cop turned detective after too many violent run-ins with local criminals. He knew the type. Heck, with a litte less luck, he could have been the type.

"Yes, well, we're interested in your transfer application and-"

"That's peachy keen. When can I come down there?" Bullock interrupted. "I mean, for th' interview. I flew down- visitin' my sister's kids and all."

"Ah... well... if you're in town, we've got an open slot at four," Gordon replied. "But I really can't-"

"You got it. Thanks for the call, Commish. I won't disappoint."

CLICK. The call ended. James Gordon looked at his cell phone, sighed again, and pressed the redial button.

"Hello? Detective O'Flannery? This is Police Commissioner James Gordon..."

Bruce Wayne sighed and turned away from the window. Wayne Manor was conveniently located on a hill overlooking the Palisades on one side and the affluent, ever-busy Historic Gotham Downtown District on the other. He should be happy- happy that the Manor's "refurbishment" was complete, the ancient mansion restored to its former glory, the cave fitted out with state-of-the-art electronic equipment, including a giant, undetectable supercomputer, compliments of Lucius Fox... but it all seemed wrong somehow. He stared moodily out over Old Gotham and watched as chain lightning flickered ominously over distant thunderclouds.

"Brooding again, sir? I was under the impression you had hoped to kick the habit after Ra's al Ghul. Or was it the Joker? Or Dr. Crane?" Alfred Pennyworth's clipped British accent intruded on Bruce's thoughts, and he turned away from the window.

"It doesn't matter, Alfred," he said. "As long as there are criminals in Gotham, the Batman must rise up to stop them."

"Mmm," the butler replied. "But the Joker is gone- to Arkham, I understand."

"But will he stay there?" Bruce turned back to the window. "He's brilliant. A deranged, psychotic, homicidal sociopath with no morals or concept of human empathy... but brilliant nonetheless. Though I hate to say it... I seriously doubt he'll stay there long."

"Indeed?" Alfred came to stand beside Bruce, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I hear Arkham's security measures are state-of-the-art. It's practically a fortress."

Bruce narrowed his eyes and stared at distant stormclouds, watching lightning jump from cloud bank to cloud bank. There was a distant, muted roll of thunder.

"That wasn't what I meant."

"Thorne, good buddy! Good to see you!"

Lieutenant Flass, a strapping blond ex-Marine with a perpetually cheerful smile and over three hundred pounds of solid muscle to back it up, slapped Rupert Thorne heavily on the back. The mob boss shot Flass an evil look and reached for his cup of coffee, sipping it and staring balefully at the police officer over the cup.

"Flass," he said at last, keeping his voice low and even. "I hear you want a raise."

Flass nearly choked on his own coffee, snorting loudly and sprewing dark liquid across the table. He turned the cough into an easy laugh and set down the coffee mug, wiping cappacino deluxe from his uniform front.

"C'mon, Rupert," he said, flashing Thorne a good-natured grin and somehow avoiding eye contact. "We're old friends here. What's a few hundred a month between friends?"

"Friends don't threaten friends' workers," Thorne snapped. "At least not when they're dealing with spineless little bookies like Wesker."

"Hey, be cool," Flass said. "I didn't know he was that important to you. I'd be glad to lay off him... for a fee."

Thorne heaved a deep sigh.

"How much is it this time?"

"Not much. Cynthia's splitting, and..." Flass rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulder. "You know what a pain in the neck that is. Wants to split the furniture and everything. A guy's got to get by, and-"

"Skip the excuses and tell me how much."

"Five hundred. But," Flass amended, seeing the scowl on Thorne's face darken considerably, "I could probably make do on four hundred."

"Two hundred."

"What? You can't be serious! The cost of living's going up. Four hundred at least."

"Three hundred fifty, and that's my last offer."

Flass shook his head and took a long drink from his cup of coffee to hide a smile. He would have been more than happy with three hundred, but Thorne didn't need to know that.

"Fine. Three hundred fifty. Trust me, Thorne, you won't regret this decision."

"Too late," Thorne grumbled under his breath.

"So you're Commissioner Gordon."

Commissioner Gordon looked up from his cup of coffee to see a large, hulking man in a dirty trenchcoat and battered fedora standing over him. He didn't know whether to laugh or raise an eyebrow at the condition of said clothing, so he merely held out a hand and nodded politely.

"Detective Bullock, I take it?"

"You got it. Hey, babe, can I get your biggest cup of coffee, black, with two doughnuts if ya have any?" Bullock motioned to a passing waitress. "Thanks. You're a doll."

Gordon winced. If the press got wind of him using the word 'doll,' he'd be slapped with a sexual harassment case faster than he could imagine.

"So you're from New York," he said.

"That's right, Commish."

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you looking to transfer to Gotham?" No use wasting questions. Gordon cut straight to the point.

Bullock shifted in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"You saw my file," he said defensively. "I made a mistake. Arrested the wrong guy. Okay, so maybe he was my sister's ex. And maybe I wasn't exactly gentle with the guy either. But I swear, Commish, I did not withhold that evidence. I had everything in bags, all ready ta go, and it ain't none of my fault one of 'em went missing."

"Hmph." Gordon turned back to his cup of coffee. "Any idea where it did go?"

Again, a sheepish, almost embarrassed look crossed the burly detective's face.

"I had a partner," he muttered. "The pipe- I mean, the missing evidence- well, it would have put away a, uh, big player, and..."

"I understand," Gordon nodded. He'd checked it out himself- Bullock might or might not be crooked, but his former partner had certainly been on the take. "I'll be blunt with you, Detective. Gotham is a dark city. We're dealing with more than your run-of-the-mill crooks now- I'm sure you saw the news broadcasts- and our police force is as corrupt as hell. If, and I say if, I bring you on board, I won't tolerate any deals. None. Zero. The first sign of favoritism or backhand deals, and you'll be slapped with an investigation so fast it will make your head spin. Understand?"

Bullock nodded, his expression serious.

"I'm with ya a hundred percent, Commish. Ya won't regret this decision."

"I hope not," sighed Gordon.

"Whatever you meant, sir, you must admit that Gotham City has been surprisingly quiet as of late," Alfred replied. "Perhaps it is time to refocus your efforts. The Batman-"

"Is a wanted felon, a murderer," Bruce said. "Gordon's men are still scouring the streets for him. For me."

"I was going to say, the Batman may not be needed in Gotham," said Alfred. "At least, not for the time being. It may be time for Bruce Wayne to step up to the plate, so to speak, and lead the effort in rebuilding Gotham." Gently, Alfred placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "The Joker came near to destroying us all. Perhaps now... now is the time to heal."

Bruce sighed. Tearing his eyes off the darkening sky over Gotham, he turned to face Alfred.

"Perhaps you're right," he said quietly.

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