To Jim Gordon's surprise, adjusting to the new surroundings took amazingly short time. After all, the most important thing, his job, remained practically unchanged. Oh, surely Barbara was a bit taller and his son proved to be younger – but still named after him.
Other changes took some time to get used to. Montoya, for instance, wore her badge on her collar and got herself an irritating goody-two-shoes boyfriend, but her skill as a nose grew even better. The brute police force was as usual: brute, rock-hewn and dumb, with an accent you could crush rocks with.
But the city. Oh, the city was the same, no matter how they named her. Dangerous, dirty, smelly and cruel, and so utterly, utterly beautiful. Some things never changed.
The high society and assorted celebrities were still as dim-witted and irritating at the balls, which turned to be exactly as boring as before. The formal clothes, the bane of his existence, still made Jim feel uncomfortable and dressed like a pillock.
What came as a biggest surprise, was Bruce. Slightly older, maybe a bit thinner and paler, and certainly not afraid to use his influence. Finally grown into his parents inheritance, a veritable patrician of the city.
At some ungodly hour, so early that in fact it could be very late, Jim stood at attention, rapping out his weekly report, gaze fixed at the point two inches over and three inches left from Wayne's ear. The words flew relentlessly. The Mob, the Guilds, assassins, thieves, beggars, traffic, disturbances, pursuits…
Wayne observed him from behind his stapled fingers, face inscrutable. The litany dragged on.
"Is that all?", he asked calmly.
"Yes, sir."
"In that case don't let me detain you, Commander."
Jim saluted sharply and with a furiously ground "Sir", left the room. The sheer arrogance of this bastard, he thought. Some things never changed.