"Beginning our final descent into Gotham City. Please return seats and trays to their upright position-" the voice of the stewardess came through the speakers in a muffled tone.
It was January 4th, and Bruce Wayne looked out the window and saw the sprawling city below. It had been a long time since he last had laid eyes on it. He was now 27 years old, a far cry from the boy who used to run around in the gardens of Wayne Manor.
Gotham City was built along the shoreline, though it had clearly grown much larger than its original settlers had intended. Along the hills in the west he could see Gotham Heights, and within that he could make out the Palisades, the neighborhood in which old Gotham money had built ancient mansions which still stood today. It overlooked other neighborhoods consisting largely of rundown homes and apartments. As the city stretched eastwards toward the water, the buildings got larger and larger until it hugged the very edge of the ocean and spread off into three major island districts which were the bulk of city. It was like multiple Manhattan islands all connected by a spider web of bridges and tunnels.
From here, Bruce thought as the plane descended, it looks like clean shafts of concrete and snowy roofs. The work of men who died generations ago. From here it looks like an achievement. From the street it looks like a city crumbling into the seaside… and the buildings are like rows of teeth with rotting roots. I should have taken the train. I should be closer. I should see the enemy.
The plane landed smoothly and Bruce picked himself up from his first class chair, taking care to wrap a scarf around himself, and disembarked from the plane. As he left his gate he was met by a bag carrier from the Gotham International Airport who had already stacked his luggage on a cart.
"Where will we be taking these, Mr. Wayne?" the man asked.
"I'm meeting my butler out in the pickup," Bruce said, leading the way. As they passed baggage-claim there was a throng of people, flashing lights, cameras, and handheld recording devices. And then came the barrage of shouts.
"It's Bruce Wayne!"
"Welcome home Mr. Wayne!"
"How's it feel to be back in Gotham?"
"Any plans, Mr. Wayne?"
"Princess Caroline- any truth to the rumors?"
The paparazzi, Bruce lamented. I didn't want this much publicity. I should have had Alfred declare me dead. I was gone long enough. Could have slipped back unnoticed, and conducted my business in peace. I wouldn't have even had to take up residence back at the mansion. Could have just gotten an apartment in the Narrows or something. That's what I should have done.
"Bruce Wayne!" a woman darted out in front of him. Her long, flowing red hair and beaming smile could have been recognized by anyone in Gotham. It was Vicki Vale, probably Gotham's most well known reporter. From gossip to hard-hitting stories, she covered it all with unparalleled eagerness.
"Miss Vale," Bruce nodded.
"Bruce, what can you tell us about your return to Gotham, and any plans or romances you might have in the pipeline while you're here?"
"No comment," Bruce said as he feigned a smile and raised his hand. He passed by briskly and Vicki returned to look into the camera behind her, shrugging with a grin.
"Well there you have it Gotham," she said. "The twenty-seven-year old heir to the Wayne Millions declined comment on rumors of romance in his life, or on his plans on his return to Gotham after around a decade abroad. We'll keep you posted on Gotham's richest – and best looking – native son. Back to you Jack."
"Thank you Vicki," Jack Ryder nodded, back at the GCTV studio, queuing the next story. "Following the disappearance of a key witness, Assistant District Attorney Harvey Dent has withdrawn conspiracy charges against Police Commissioner Loeb-"
"Master Bruce," Alfred said as Bruce approached his limousine. "I trust you've been well."
"Alfred," Bruce extended his hand to shake Alfred's hand, but the butler ignored the gesture entirely and embraced him in a hug. Though it was not the welcome Bruce wanted, and a twinge of annoyance ran through his body, he couldn't help but smile. They loaded the luggage into the car and immediately set off towards Wayne Manor.
"You know Wayne Enterprises has been doing altogether quite well in recent years Master Bruce."
"So I hear."
"Luscious Fox runs its operations, you know," Alfred explained. "He was a good friend of your father's, if you can recall." Bruce barely did recall. Nor did he want to. He didn't come back to integrate himself in the clockwork of Wayne Enterprises. He had other things to take care of.
"Mmm. Good," Bruce said dismissively. Alfred sighed, knowing full well how uninterested Bruce would be in any topic he could come up with.
"How long do you expect to stay in Gotham, Master Bruce?"
"Not long," Bruce answered. I wish I had taken the train…
Gotham City, thought the morose James Gordon. Maybe it's all I deserve now. Maybe it's just my time in hell. He looked around at his fellow train passengers, mostly vagrants and degenerates, and shook his head. He could have sworn someone near him had soiled themselves during the ride. The smell of filth and vile was almost overpowering. Gotham looked like it was rotting from the ground up through the grime caked onto the windows of the train. A hiss from the rails sounded out through the air as the trail started to slow to a halt. The passengers stirred and began standing, readying themselves for the departure.
Twelve hours, he recounted. My stomach has been eating itself for the last five. So hungry… Barbara and Babs are flying in. I don't care how much it costs. And I don't care that you're not supposed to fly when you're pregnant. The train is no way to come to Gotham. In an airplane, from above, all you'd see are the streets and buildings. Fool you into thinking it's civilized. He couldn't believe he had to transfer here from Chicago, wiping his glasses off as he lamented. Of all the places for a police officer to be sent, Gotham City likely topped the lists of places least desired. At least it was for the good cops.
James Gordon was good cop. He had tried to be, at any rate. It was becoming harder and harder to keep one's morality in this business, or so Gordon believed. He had noticed a steady increase in corruption in his last station, and had tried to do what he could to take it apart. A few bad cops were taken down, and he received a minor promotion for it, but in the end he had tried to take down the wrong man. Whether or not that man was innocent or guilty with enough good connections, Gordon had never found out. It had been humiliating. And beyond that, the threats on his family's safety were growing. At least he felt so. What was the point of trying to do so much good only to have entirely stagnant progress? He had wondered this many times until finally he requested a transfer. But there was only one force that requested him. The GCPD, Gotham City Police Department. He hoped everything would be ok, but thus far Gotham had not looked like the sort of city one would want to bring their family.
Gordon very much loved his family. He and his wife, Barbara, had been married for fifteen years, and they had been mostly great until recently. The stress of his job had heightened, as had the stress in his relationship. Which was a serious shame. And it had gotten all the worse a few months back when Barbara had realized that she was pregnant. They hadn't planned on a baby. In fact, James didn't think Barbara could have another baby. Their last child had been through a complicated birth, and that was nearly thirteen years ago. Either way, she'd grown up fairly effortlessly. They named her after her mother, Barbara, though James liked to call her Babs. He had called his wife Babs when they were dating.
"Gordon," a voice shouted from across the bustling train station. "Lieutenant James Gordon!" The voice had come from a tall blonde man, well-built, wearing a long coat. Gordon had been told someone from the force was coming out to meet him, so he just waved his hand and the man came closer.
"Hello," Gordon said, offering his hand. The tall man just completely ignored it and wrapped his arm over Gordon's shoulder, pulling him in like a friend.
"Name's Flass," he said. "Detective Flass. Commissioner Loeb sent me to make sure you didn't miss your appointment with him. I like the mustache, Jimmy! Hope you don't mind if I call you Jimmy. Never could grow one myself."
"Well I-" Gordon did mind, and he was really pretty tired of hearing wise-cracks from other cops about his mustache.
"Welcome to Gotham, Jimmy. Its not as bad as it looks. Especially if you're a cop. Cops got it made in Gotham."
So I've heard, Gordon thought to himself.
Flass drove like a maniac, acting as if he owned the road. Gordon held on for dear life, and hoped that he would at least get along with the Commissioner. He didn't think he could handle working with someone like Flass every single day.
I keep telling myself it's either this or pumping gas, he thought. Then I tell myself I'm doing it for Barbara… Suddenly the car slammed to a halt. Gordon looked out the window, but didn't see the GCPD building. He did, however, see a group of teenagers loitering around on a street corner. Flass was getting out of the car, purposefully staring at them.
"Flass, what's-"
"Nothing I can't handle solo, Jimmy," Flass said dismissively as he turned his attention to the boys who all suddenly seemed to be standing on-edge. "Mother know you're here, Stevie?"
"Oh man…" one of the boys said. "Look Flass, I'm not doing anyth-" And Gordon watched in shock as Flass hit the boy across the jaw with a particularly nasty right hook, and then slammed him up against a dumpster.
You had better know your facts, Jim, Gordon told himself. Get all the facts straight this time. Before you try to bring own another cop. Especially in public. Flass has had Green Beret training. I can tell. And he knows how to use his size. I'll watch this time, not do a thing about it, but I'll need to memorize his every move. Just in case. For future reference. Crooked cops weren't anything new to James Gordon.
"Was that necessary?" Gordon asked as Flass slumped back into the car.
"Had this little beauty in his pocket," Flass said as he tossed Gordon what appeared to be a pocket knife. But it wasn't. Gordon opened it up and revealed it to be a portable comb.
"It's a comb Flass."
"Heh, I'm only human Jimmy. Gotta keep those punks on their toes you know?"
It makes me sick to admit it, Gordon thought, but I wish Barbara would have a miscarriage. This is no place to raise a baby.
They continued on their way, and when they arrived, Gordon had to admit he was fairly impressed. The GCPD building was enormous and elaborate, at least from ground level. They walked up stairs and passed numerous offices until coming to one labeled "Gillian B. Loeb."
"You know, we're delighted to have you on the team Lieutenant," Loeb would say once they were in his office. Loeb was pudgy, and wrinkled in the face. His bald head wasn't smooth and shiny like most bald heads, but rather resembled the skin of a hairless cat. And he was constantly popping cough drops into his mouth, over and over and over again.
"You'll get my best work, sir. I promise," Gordon told him.
"And we are a team," Loeb said, ignoring Gordon's promise. "And a team needs team spirit, wouldn't you say? Yes it does! And your record shows that you've got what it takes."
"I've made my mistakes sir," Gordon responded. "But I'm grateful for this chance to prove myself."
"What mistakes have you made, Gordon?" Loeb laughed, with a look on his face as if they were all in on the same inside joke. "Whatever mistakes you've made you kept the media away from it! That's the bottom line, isn't it?"
"I swear you won't have to worry about my honesty Commissioner."
"That is the last thing on my mind. Last thing. We'll have to pair you up with a partner soon, I suppose. I was thinking you and Detective Flass would make a good team." Gordon tried his best to keep a straight face and not show is disdain.
I guess it's just my time in hell, he reminded himself.
Wayne Manor. Built as a fortress, generations past, to protect a fading line of royalty from an age of Equals. It's good to be back. Bruce looked up at the great majestic façade of the house as he and Alfred entered its now mostly empty halls.
"It's been a long time since you've been here, hasn't it Master Wayne?"
"It has Alfred. Not since I was a teenager."
"I've prepared the master bedroom, for your arrival."
"No. My room will be fine."
"With all due respect, Sir, Wayne Manor is your house."
"No, Alfred, it's my father's house."
"Your father is dead, Master Wayne."
"And this place is a mausoleum. If I had my way, I'd pull the damn thing down brick by brick."
"This house, Master Wayne, has sheltered over six generations of your family. I don't see-"
"Why do you give a damn, Alfred? It's not your family."
"I give a damn, because a good man once made me responsible for what was most precious to him in the whole world. I have cared for you since your cries first echoed in these very halls, and you are as precious to me as you were to your own mother and father." Bruce felt his own guilt condemning him for how he had treated Alfred much of his life. He was right. He had cared for Bruce since infancy.
"I'm sorry Alfred," Bruce said. "You're as much my family as anybody else, if not more so. Sometimes I just don't know what to do with… the past."
"Master Bruce, I wouldn't presume to tell you what to do with your past, sir. Just know that there are those of us who care about what you do with your future."
"You haven't given up on me yet?"
"Never," Alfred smiled as he moved the luggage into the master bedroom. Bruce followed behind, looking at the walls of the room in which he had so often seen his parents as a child.
"It really has been a long time, hasn't it?"
"You left Gotham when you were around sixteen, wasn't it?" It was.
The night of his parent's funeral, Bruce found purpose within himself. He began applying all of his energies to his mission. He read as many books as he could in the following years, learning whatever he could as an armchair detective. But there was only so much he could learn at Gotham Heights Academy or in the libraries of the manor or county. He needed more knowledge, and skills, and he couldn't get that living at Wayne Manor.
And there were other reasons for leaving the manor too. There was Alfred and Leslie. They cared, and wanted to steer him down the path of a normal boy. But he wasn't normal. He was not like any other boy. He had to thwart all those well meaning people that wanted to care for him. And for all those who wanted to care for his fortune. He was the heir to Wayne Enterprises, and there were a lot of greedy people tied up in that business. Good people too. But either way, this was all a life that Bruce had been chained to that he was simply not interested in. Not anymore. He had to get away.
So he wrote letters. Letters that weren't exactly forgeries but that weren't exactly anything else. They enabled him to leave Gotham at age sixteen and begin a global quest to reach his goals. He visited prestigious campuses all over the East Coast, learning under the tutelage of some of the best professors in all of the entire United States of America. But he learned in other places as well. He learned with the homeless, gathered around fires in trashcans. He talked to kids on the streets who roved in gangs.
But wherever he went, he never stayed long.
"It's a pity you never found yourself concerned enough to finish your education at any of the Universities you enrolled in," Alfred said. Bruce shrugged. Alfred never knew the purpose of his travels. And quite honestly, he was used to hearing criticisms about his college career.
"That Wayne boy's bright," his professors would say. "But he's got no discipline. He skips around and won't decide on a major."
"Why are you leaving?" a beautiful classmate once asked when he was about to move on. She was tall, thin, and had a gorgeous head of flowing, silky blonde hair. But she also had a boyfriend, and Bruce knew the life he had chosen was never going to be conducive to romance.
"Because frankly," he would reply, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I'm bored." He turned his back and began to walk away only to here her mutter under her breath, "Rich snot." He turned away, pretending he hadn't heard. But he quickly looked back, sneaking a glance as she turned to kiss her boyfriend, and the ache he felt seemed to fill his entire building.
But in time, he learned to ignore the ache, and the pain of loss and isolation. They were the conditions of his life, and he accepted them. There was always another plane, or train or bus. There was always another city, and another teacher. And to do that, he had to keep other people at bay.
"You know," Alfred said. "I mean this with all due respect, I cannot judge your decisions with schooling. Though I had hoped you had at least found your niche when you were with the FBI."
"I did too," Bruce said quietly. "But it didn't really pan out."
When he was twenty, Bruce decided to settle in the nation's capital, Washington DC. Once there, he had tirelessly sought out a recruiting officer for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and begged him to be able to test for hiring.
"Well bruce, these test scores are impressive, to say the least," the officer had told him. "All except for your target shooting, but between you and me a Federal Officer doesn't pull his piece very often." For all of the skills Bruce had tried to acquire, shooting was never one of them. He truly despised guns, and could scarcely squeeze a trigger without seeing the murder of his parents right before his eyes. He never really wanted to use one. But the officer continued, "Of course, we prefer College grads… usually people a bit older… maturity… and of course we like a law degree. But honestly, in your case, we can waive the academic requirements." And as the two shook hands, Bruce entered FBI training.
He trained six weeks and during that time he'd learned much about writing reports, obeying regulations, analyzing statistics, and dressing neatly, but nothing else. The experience confirmed a suspicion he'd long had. He could not operate within a system. The people who caused other people harm did not recognize the system. The people who stepped out of shadows and murdered innocents did not recognize systems, and neither could he. He left the country that night, traveling the entire globe learning everything he could about combat, self discipline, and honing every skill he had, only on occasion letting Alfred know he was still alive and doing ok. And though he felt he had to remain alone to accomplish his mission, perhaps that part was wrong.
"I'm sorry Alfred," he said, looking his friend in the eyes.
"Master Wayne?"
"I'm sorry I haven't let you into my life as much as I should have."
"Don't worry about that," Alfred said. "We can put all of that behind us now. You're back, for the time. Let bygones be bygones." Alfred's kindness really only made Bruce feel worse, but he smiled back all the same.
Flass was driving again, and once again Gordon was hanging on for dear life. It had been three weeks since Gordon first came to Gotham and met his new partner. And in those three weeks he had quickly learned what was expected of the cops in Gotham, and Flass may have been the worst.
"So, uh, Jimmy," Flass said. "The boys… they've been asking me to talk to you, Jimmy. Though maybe I could get a word in, knowing how tight we are. They're worried about you."
"I'm touched Flass," Gordon said dismissively. "But right now I'm worried about getting home safely. Turn left."
"You'll never make it in this business if you don't learn to relax, Jimmy. I mean, we've got our own way of doing things, here in Gotham."
"Please call me Lieutenant," Gordon grunted.
"I mean, you came down pretty hard on some of us the other day… I mean, you with a baby on the way and all, I just-"
"Are you threatening me, Detective?"
"No, no, it's just… you're so uptight. Just makes some of us guys nervous."
"I'm not a rat, Flass," Gordon hissed. "In a town this bent, who's there to rat to anyway?" Flass laughed as he pulled the car to a stop in front of a worn-down boardinghouse.
"Well, just think about it, Jimmy," Flass said. "I'll be by in the morning?"
"I'm driving myself tomorrow," Gordon said as he stepped out of the car. "Thanks for the ride." He shut the door and walked around the driveway to the backdoor and saw his family waiting for him inside. But he could hardly look them in the face. They used to live in a nice small house, and now they were in this rundown apartment. His pregnant wife and his daughter. He just walked past them and sat down at the table.
"Dad," his daughter said. "How was work?"
"It was ok Babs, how was your day?"
"It was good," she said. "But dad, there is something I kind of want to talk to you about."
"Oh?" Gordon looked up at his wife worriedly but she didn't return the glance.
"Yeah," she continued. "I just… I think I'm a little old to be called Babs still. I want to go by Barb."
"Barb?" Gordon sighed out in relief that the matter wasn't any more serious. "I think I could get used to that. Well, Barb, is school treating you ok?"
"Yup!" she said excitedly. "I think I'm a little ahead though. The kids here are learning things I learned like… probably four years ago? Five years ago? Some of them still have a really hard time reading."
"Well maybe we can look at getting you in some sort of advanced programs, or skipping a grade or something," Gordon said.
"Jim!" his wife interjected. "Can't she just have a normal life without you pushing her in all directions?"
"Calm down," he replied. "She can do whatever she wants. I'm just letting her know the option is there should she choose to take it."
"Thanks dad," Barb said. "I'll think about it. I might like that actually." Gordon smiled. He couldn't believe she was as old as she was. She seemed so grown up, more advanced that many her age, but it also felt like only yesterday that she was just a little girl. She admired him a lot, which worried his wife. The life of a cop was hardly what her mother had wanted for her. It wasn't what he wanted for her either, especially in Gotham, but he strived to let her make her own choices as much as possible. He hoped he could be enough of a confident parent to let his child be her own manager. Still, the idea of young Barbara interacting with people like Flass and Loeb was one that made him sick. And in fact, back at the GCPD, Flass and Loeb were meeting in the commissioner's office.
"So Father Donelley, he slips Gordon a fifty with the handshake," Flass said as he slapped his hand down on Loeb's desk. "And Gordon, he just looks at it like his hand's got a disease. Then he throws the fifty in the Padre's face! He gave the squad a two-hour lecture. Put Schell on probation. He's just not fitting in, Gill!"
"I had such high hopes for that boy," Loeb said as he rubbed his palm over his forehead.
"I could get the boys together and uh… soften him up a bit," Flass said, leaning in so close that Loeb could feel his breath.
"No," Loeb shot back. "No, not while I'm in town. There's enough heat on me as it is. That friggin' Assistant District Attorney, Dent, nearly had me about a month ago. If Falcone hadn't put his money to good use, I'd be outta here. No, you'll have to wait until I'm at the conference in Washington… two weeks Flass… Two weeks. Then teach him a lesson." Flass smiled back, relishing the thought. This, Flass thought, is what bein' a cop in Gotham City is all about.
I requested this night shift off four times now, Gordon thought to himself as he walked down the driveway to his car. It's Valentine's Day and Barbara had the whole evening planned… She needs me now, what with the baby on the way. But geez, four times and no reply. I'm not making friends in this department…
"Goin to work, Lieutenant?" a voice called out from around the corner of the driveway fence. Gordon looked over as four men all in ski masks and holding baseballs bats jumped out and began to attack him. He was immediately struck on the back of the head and knocked to the ground, being hit repeatedly all over his body. He eventually felt his entire person turn into one dull pain. Somewhere in the middle of the beating, he heard them tell him it was just a warning, reminding him of his wife, daughter, and baby on the way. But toward the end, as he laid there bruising over the cold pavement, he heard a familiar chuckle. It was Flass. His body hurt so badly that he might have just laid on the cement until somebody found him, feeling the frigid air numb his pain, but after hearing that chuckle and realizing what had just happened, he could do nothing else beside standing up. This had to end.
Elsewhere, at that exact moment, Bruce Wayne sat in a darkened car parked near the East End of Gotham City. In the darkness the lights glittered. He winced, knowing that to some, Gotham looked like it would be a treat to visit. Down there, teaming on the streets, he knew his enemy was waiting.
Everything is set, Bruce thought to himself, going over the details of his plan one more time. The attendant was even obliging enough to ask for my autograph. My alibi is set. Bruce Wayne has been sighted at the same hotel as a visiting Hollywood sex queen. That should generate sufficient rumors to account for my whereabouts for the next few hours. This is a reconnaissance mission. I must avoid too much conflict tonight. My anonymity is an obvious priority. The murder of my parents is a matter of public record. All it requires is this change of clothing. He was dressed in a grubby coat , and had matted his hair as to blend in with the nighttime street-crowds.
And a single, memorable, distracting detail, he thought as he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a tiny makeup kit. Using the rearview mirror he quickly went to work, fabricating a long scar down the left side of his face. It looked good. It looked extremely good.
Pulling a cap over his head, and stepped out of the car and left the lot. With his hands in his pockets and trying his best to keep his head down, at least when others were looking, he began a long twenty block walk across Gotham. What he hoped to find, he wasn't sure. To see the filth. To see someone who deserved punishment. Maybe the man who killed his parents, maybe not.
If I found him, Bruce thought, what would I do? It haunts me to think he is still out there, and I might run into him. What I might do. Regardless, I have devoted everything to stopping that criminal, no matter what faces he may wear. It's been an educational walk so far. I was sized up like a piece of meat by the boys in Robinson Park. I waded through pleas and half-hearted threats from junkies at the Finger Memorial. I stepped across a field of human rubble that lay sleeping in front of the overcrowded Sprang Mission. But finally I am at the worst of it. The East End. Hard to believe it's gotten worse.
And, indeed, it had gotten worse. Rows of strip clubs and peep shows lined the streets, bathing the road in an eerie red glow. And between the buildings, crawling all over the sidewalks, were a throng of suppliers, pushers, pimps and prostitutes all selling their filth in the name of a fun evening. He must have seen nearly half a dozen cop cars in the neighborhood, but none of them were lifting a finger to stop any of it. And how could they? Taking down an entire district would be like taking on an army. Still though, Bruce thought, something else must be at work. Druglords, powerful gangs, even crime families and mobs must be controlling much of the illegal activity and paying off the cops to keep out of it. The theory made sense but Bruce had known himself to be a bit paranoid before. He's have to wait until more evidence was gathered.
"Cheer you up?" a voice cooed from behind. Bruce turned to see a girl staring up him. She looked young, probably a teenager. Blonde hair, grubby makeup, one of the shortest skirts Bruce had seen all night and a loose silky top.
"I doubt it," Bruce said. "How old are you?"
"Young as you want me to be," she said ethereally, obviously trying to seduce him.
"No stupid girl," a man shouted in a white overcoat and brimmed hat, approaching the girl at a brisk pace. "That's all wrong, Holly!"
"Did what you said," Holly replied, taking fast. "Just like- ow!" The man grabbed her arm tightly.
"That's right, Honey" he hissed. "But you got to pick the types. Got to know what ones want what you got! This one's not-"
"I haven't said, have I?" Bruce growled. The man turned over his shoulder and glared.
"That vice I smell? That crazy vet bit? That's old, man."
"I'm not the police," Bruce said. "Believe me." The man rolled his eyes and looked back at Holly.
"You still here? Told you to go, Holly."
"Yeah but, he hadn't said."
"We'll talk this over later, Sweet Cheeks," the man growled as he grabbed her by the hair and began forcibly moving her out of the way. Bruce watched it unfold as if it was in slow motion and breathed in deeply through his nostrils.
This is it. Years of waiting, and of patience. It begins.
"No," Bruce growled. "I think you're finished with her."
"Man, you're pushin'. You're lookin for a new scar there? That's right. Just tell me where!" The man pulled a knife from his pocket, brandishing it, and Bruce tensed his own body, as if he were coming in tune with every muscle, ready to use them each for precisely what he needed in the forthcoming fight.
Meanwhile, in a second story apartment above, a woman named Selina Kyle had heard the commotion building on the street. Selina had lived in the East End for much of her life. She knew how the streets of Gotham worked. She had tried to make it on her own. But it was hard.
"In Gotham," she would often say. "The rich get richer and poor get poorer." And she hated that fact. She hated everything about it. She hated the scum on the streets that made girls like Holly Robinson grow up thinking they were only worth as much as the sex they were willing to have. She hated the piles of druggies that lined the pavement. She hated the cops who picked on those too unfortunate to get out of their circumstances. She hated the wealthy who acted like nothing was wrong. She hated the wealthy who thought they were philandering but really amounting to absolutely nothing. And she hated most of all the wealthy who were continually pushing everybody else down. The elite who paid off cops and shipped drugs from overseas. She hated most things. Gotham City was a disease, and it was well overdue for a cure.
But Selina lived amongst the disease. There wasn't much she could do about it. So she was often a victim, having to make due in the circumstances she had. She was forced to play the game. And to keep from starving, she had to live here, in Gotham's worst district, playing the part of a dominatrix. There was no pleasure in it for her though. It was all about tuning in the rage she felt. She carried a lot of hate.
Walking over to the window, she looked down and saw the man with the scar taking on the pimp.
"Oh jeez," she grumbled. "Can't be vice. We're paid up… Probably just some idiot out to get himself killed." She recalled the multiple times she too had attempted suicide. It just never seemed to take.
"Selina," a man, drugged out of his mind and tied to a nearby bed called. "Selina, come back. Don't stop now."
"Shut up, Skunk," she hissed.
"Please Selina. Come back. Tell me why you hate us so much. Oh please."
"You know what I hate most about men?" she frowned. "I've never met one."
Down on the street the pimp continued lashing out toward Bruce, but he remained calm. Keeping his hands in his pockets he side stepped over and over, dodging ever strike.
His eyes keep flickering away from the girls to me. He always turns away for a split-second. A dead giveaway. He's fast, I'll give him that. Doesn't stand a chance, but he's fast. Better wrap it up.
Bruce stepped to the side as the man swiped at him, and grabbed him by the wrist, quickly twisting it as he used his other arm to elbow him in the stomach. The pimp gasped and stepped back only for Bruce to spin around and deliver a kick into the man's jaw. He went sprawling backward, landing cold on the pavement. Pleased with himself, Bruce looked down on the man, when suddenly a sharp pain hit him right in his left thigh.
"Aaah!" he shouted, glancing down.
"Come on you guys, I got him," shouted Holly Robinson, who was latched onto his leg, sinking a tiny knife deeper and deeper into his leg. He couldn't believe it, as he stared down at the young girl. He had tried to save her, but she didn't want it. She was protecting the man who abused her as if he owned her like a piece of unwanted property. Why? And why would she take him on after seeing how he fought. She wasn't scared or impressed on anything. It had been without impact.
Two more prostitutes, both much burlier and older than Holly, pounced on his, clawing, kicking and grabbing. Thinking fast, Bruce kicked one of them away, while simultaneously reaching down, grabbing Holly's wrist, and yanking her and the knife away from him.
"Aaah," Holly winced as she bounced away on the pavement. "My wrist! I think he broke my wrist!"
"No!" Selina shouted from her window vantage point. "Nobody hurts Holly!" In one fluid motion she slipped out of the window, grabbed the fire escape railing, and launched herself down to the street below, landing on all fours to absorb the blow.
Bruce picked up the third assailant and tossed her into the side of the building, turning quickly to block a kick from Selina.
This one's good, Bruce thought. Hissing like an animal, but she's had karate training. But probably only karate. Blocking a few more strikes from her, he landed a punch across her jaw, knocking her to the floor.
"Selina!" Holly shouted, crawling over to her unconscious friend. "Get up Selina!" The sound of sirens rang in the air, getting closer. Bruce could see the red and blue lights approaching around the corner.
No! No! No! If I'm caught it's over! It's all over!
The car screeched to a halt and two men in uniform jumped out, guns drawn, shouting various orders at Bruce.
How can I explain this? Should have brought some tools. Flash pellets or something. There's a fire escape to the right. If I jump up to it, maybe I can-
A gunshot sounded, and Bruce felt it hit him in the left shoulder. The force was incredible, knocking him to the ground. Just like his parents, he had been felled. But he wasn't dead.
"Hey, he didn't even move, man," one of the cops said.
"He was going to."
"He needs a doctor. Look at all that blood. Think you hit an artery?"
"Maybe. We can get him help after he's booked. We're low on our quota this month."
"Pfft. How can they expect so much? Too many people pay up for us to make arrests."
Bruce felt the blood soaking his jacket, and he was fading in and out of blackness. He felt the cuffs go around his wrists, but then the pain seared as they lifted him up and pushed him into the backseat of their car. He blacked out. For how long, he didn't know. But he was out for a while, coming to as the car was moving.
"Any cash?" one of the cops asked.
"Couple bucks, I'd- ugh, look man, he's still bleeding," the other cop up in front said. "All over the seat, too. Sure you wanna skip the hospital"
"Look, I'm not registering that I took a shot at this guy. If he dies, he dies. I've run in a thousand like him. Drifters. Who needs them. Nobody cares."
I can't let them take me in. Have to stop them.
Struggling to sit up, Bruce breathed, "You two. Stop the car. Get out."
"What the-"
"Don't mind him. Probably hopped up on something fast, you know?" Carefully, Bruce slid the cuffs down his back and under his legs, bringing them out in front of him.
"I warned you," he coughed as he threw them over the passenger's seat and used them to choke the officer.
"Whoa hey man stop!" the over cop swerved the car which promptly bounced into two other vehicles and them slammed into the trailer of a semi truck parked on the side of the road. Blood flew in all directions along with glass and other pieces of rubble. Bruce shook his head, knowing if he let himself go under, he might die. Then he realized what was going on.
Fire. There's a fire. It'll only take seconds to reach the gas tank.
Using all his might he kicked the door of the car open, and began trying to drag the unconscious cops free of the wreckage. The sound of sirens were gathering in the distance.
Sirens. More cops, and firemen. Tank will go before they get here. These men, they probably have families.
He pulled them out and dragged them away. The pain was getting worse and his head was getting lighter. The bleeding hadn't stopped. He had to get home immediately.
"Smoke from the blazing police cruiser can be seen for blocks," Vicki Vale reported, live. "And, oh, this just in, the two officers who were operating the vehicle have been found unconscious thirty feet away. They are safe, which means nobody had died in this strange accident. More details, as they arrive."
Made it… somehow… to the car…
Bruce felt his thoughts slipping as he leaned his head against the steering wheel of his car in the parking garage. Desperately, he tried to get his blood stained fingers to grip onto the key and turn it. He needed the car to start as quickly as possible. He didn't have much time left.
Start. Turn… the key… Bruce, it isn't difficult… just a little slippery… they weren't scared of me. I failed… start… I saved her… why did she have to stab me… start!
"Detective Flass?" a voice said over the radio in Gordon's car as he sped along the road. "Yeah he's off duty Leiutenant. You know that. Probably at the poker party over at Chute's, with the guys."
"Thank you, just checking," Gordon responded, trying to sound as polite as possible as he hung up the receiver.
The guys... They did just enough to keep me out of the hospital, but still… can't let Barbara see me like this.
Covered in bruises and dried blood, Gordon had pulled himself together and was on his way to Bray Ridge where he knew Flass was. A baseball bat of his own sat in his passenger's seat. He meant to end this sort of behavior.
Chute's house looked cozy, surrounded in February snow. The bruises on Gordon's spine were forming when the first guests started to leave the party.
Wilson is the first to leave. Of course he is. Doesn't want to make his wife stay up too late waiting for him. Spent the night with the guys rather than his wife. Plus, he still has his girlfriend to see before he goes home… It's Valentine's Day for goodness sake…
Gordon's stakeout continued. Twenty minutes rolled by before more started to leave.
Stannsen next. He's stumbling out like he just lost his life savings. Then Renny. I can let them both go. Oh! And there he is, finally. Flass.
Flass staggered out, pretty drunk from the look of things. He was wearing his Gotham High letterman jacket. Gordon didn't expect any less. Slowly, he swaggered over to his station wagon. It took two tries to get in, but he finally accomplished it. The engine revved up, and he peeled out of the driveway, nearly flattening the mailbox on his way out. Keeping his lights off, Gordon followed behind. There was a stretch of road Gordon noticed along the way where nearly four minutes passed without seeing an houses. That is where Gordon would strike.
He's ten over the limit, Gordon thought as they approached the wooded area. It was time. Gordon pressed his foot down on the pedal and sped his car up, swerving alongside Flass's car. It only took two nudges, but Gordon finally ran Flass off the road, sending the station wagon careening off into a snow bank.
Flass was bewildered at first, but then angry. Drawing his gun, he stumbled angrily out of his car, but Gordon was already there, waiting, with his gun drawn and aimed.
"Jimmy," Flass smiled as he tossed the gun back in the car and raised his hands. Gordon didn't say anything in return. He simply glared, and raised the baseball bat he had brought with him. Flass stared him down, knowing that a fight was coming. Slowly, Gordon lowered his gun, and then tossed the bat at Flass's feet.
He didn't even try to hide his lack of surprise. He's big. Green Beret training at some point. But he deserves the handicap. Because this can't just hurt physically. It has to be embarrassing. I won't crack a skull. I won't crush his larynx. I won't break his ribs or punch his hand through his chest. I'll do just enough to keep him out of the hospital.
Flass smiled, picking up the bat. But he was too drunk to fight really well, even with the handicap. He never landed a single blow, but Gordon did. A lot. Until finally Godon landed his knee in Flass' stomach, doubling him over, and then kicked him in the jaw, and punched him once more in the face as he went down.
He tossed Flass' gun off into the woods, hoping it would be rusty and ruined by morning. Then he cuffed him in his own cuffs by the side of the road.
He'll never report it. Not Flass. He'll make up some story that involves at least ten attackers and never admit I did it. But he'll know. And he'll stay away from Barbara. Thanks, Flass. You've shown me what it takes to be a cop in Gotham City.
Looking back at his fallen foe, Gordon started his car and drove off.
The black car was crashed out in front of Wayne Manor, a pool of blood trailing from its open door up into the mansion. And in the darkened study of Thomas Wayne, Bruce sat in an armchair, bleeding all over himself.
I failed. I'm afraid. I'm afraid I will die tonight. I've tried to be patient. I tried to wait. I failed. The problem is, it's not just rogue criminals. Gotham fosters them. That's the problem. Gotham has allowed crime to take over, the cops and politicians have all gone corrupt and caught up in it. Even the people on the streets defend that status quo rather than rise up and take back their city.
Bruce looked down and at the tiny bell sitting on his desk next to them. His father had rang that bell so many times to call Alfred. Now it was a lifeline. Bruce's voice couldn't carry out. This bell is what stood between him and death.
If I ring this bell, Alfred will come. He can stop the bleeding in time. But I'd rather die if I cannot continue the mission. If I have to fail. I have waited years… so many years. So many years since the opera. Since the walk that night. And the man with frightened, hollow eyes and a voice like glass being crushed. Since all sense left my life. What can I do? How can I fulfill my promise?
And then, as he slipped off into darkness he heard it. The tiniest blip, like a squeak. Slowly he let his head roll to the side and peer out the window. And there is was. A swarm of bats, rising up out of their caves on the grounds, flying out for the hunt. And then, without warning, it came.
Crashing through the window of the study, one great bat went sprawling through the air and landed on a stone bust of his father across the room. And it stared at him. It stared, wanting. Bruce saw before his eyes the day he had fallen into their pit, the day the attacked, the man with the gun who had scared him just as badly, and the people whom he had not frightened in the East End. And then, as he locked eyes with the little frightening creature, he knew what he must do.
Yes. Yes, I shall become a bat. It's time my enemies shared my dread.
Quickly, he clasped the tiny bell in his hands and began shaking it. Elsewhere in the house, Alfred heard it's ringing, and hurried to the study.
I shall become a bat.