Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani: Survivor's guilt. Love and loss. Gotham may never be the same again.
Monday, August 19th, 2030
A day that will live in insanity—President Geraldo Calderon, USA
My fellow Americans,
Today, tragedy has befallen us.
The day seemed too normal, too routine for notice. None rushed to hug a spouse or child that were unaccustomed to doing so. None felt compelled to repent for past sins, seek counsel or look to God in thanks. No prophecies of Nostradamus were unearthed and examined. Life in Gotham City went on much as it had for the last year, cars zipping hurriedly through the metropolis like ants through a maze, mindless drones, their pre-established, pre-ordained, organized paths clear and straight before them. But the crossing of so many paths is confusing and beyond mortal comprehension. Only a Deity could know of their countless conclusions.
Perhaps He does know. Perhaps He weeps.
But I can pledge to you that this tragedy will not go overlooked. I promise you that the ineptitude, the violence, and the carelessness that accompanied federal aid after Katrina will NOT be the legacy of this administration. The American people deserve better. The people of Gotham City deserve better.
For every action there is an equal yet opposite reaction. Routine is necessary for the tragic to be truly appreciated. Death came unexpectedly, inescapably, leaving the city of Gotham reeling and crippled in its wake. Hoping to Stop the Violence, the leaders and citizens of Gotham succeeded only in raining down more destruction and death…
As of now, no group has stepped forward to claim responsibility. But I can promise you this: the perpetrators of this act will be discovered. They will be hunted. They will be found. And they WILL be brought to justice. America has been and will remain the home of the free and the brave. We will NOT be bound in fear.
Perhaps we are wrong. Perhaps He laughs.
The crisis in Gotham City is now this government's chief concern. Across our great nation, the terrorist threat level has been raised to red, and all government offices will be following protocol in accordance to these measures. There will be delay. There will be inconveniences. I can only urge you sincerely as my fellow citizens to comply with both grace and patience as we work together to overcome this most desperate of times.
Do not go to churches nor temples, shrines nor mosques. Do not pray and cry for mercy, for hope nor understanding. Do not join hands and sing, ignite no vigil candles. Do not seek to find strength of heart and solidarity in friends, neighbors or community. Do not look to the heavens for Hope. Offer up no prayers of Dona Nobis Pacem. The powers of protection are either dead or deaf. We can no longer afford to worship them.
As your President, I thank you for your cooperation. Good night, and God bless America.
If there is a God who truly is good, He has utterly forsaken us.
23:52 EST
Ground Zero, Gotham City
Ash and smoke belched in rising clouds through the stadium lights. The roar of helicopters thrummed through the air. Sirens screamed, electric blue and incandescent reds flashed like epileptic nightmares. Shadows of dust rained like snow. Seventy-four soreys of glass, concrete, and steel choked an expanse of six city blocks.
Commissioner Jim Gordon blinked, a crust of plaster falling from his trembling eyelids. A helicopter veered overhead and he shielded his eyes…even over the din of the blades he heard a noise, wailing and whimpering, like a baby crying. He stumbled towards the sound.
GCPD K-9 Units. Malanois and German Shepherds whined piteously, panting on their sides, eyes dulled, feet burned and bleeding. A veterinarian offered them food and water, injecting them with antibiotics. "These dogs need rest," she snapped, looking up, not recognizing the Commissioner, his face blank in shock, unheeding. "They're dying of exhaustion!"
A fire fighter staggered by, hauling the charred body of a six-year old girl. "Medic!" he shouted hoarsely. "I need a medic!"
The vet leapt to her feet, helping to lay the child down slowly. Her blackened lips were swollen and dry, her ragged body a mess of blood and burns. "IV fluids! STAT!" she barked. "We need an ambulance-"
"There are no more ambulances-"
"Christ she's going into shock-"
" I don't know what to do just help her please help her-"
"AED!"
The fireman ripped through her canvas bag, but the only medical supplies were cans of dog food, syringes of penicillin, canteens of water, IV bags, ace bandages, tweezers…the vet's arms pumped on the girl's tiny chest, flesh sloughing off in sickly smears. She looked up at the expectant fireman, not bothering to place her stethoscope on the girl's heart. "She's gone." she whispered.
The man burst into sobs, rocking back and forth as the woman closed the child's eyes.
Gordon watched, shell-shocked, the letters GCFD on the man's uniform igniting blue then red with each flashing strobe of sirens. The vet turned away, retching and moaning. The dogs continued to whine, licking at shining, bloated wounds-they grew distant, fading into a white fog…more dust…
Ambulancehelpgodohchristmedicshithelpmedicstatmedi cmedic-
Gordon blinked, staggering.
OhfuckflareupIfoundoneoverherehelpGodohhelpChristJ esusbringabodybagmorphineIVstatmedicmedicIneedamed ic-
"Jesus, GORDON!" The world was spinning, spinning down into whiteness and the haggard face of Detective Aaron Lawless shone for a moment then was lost.
Eighteen hours previously...
06:00 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
Yellow eyes opened impatiently. The man known only as the Joker was awake.
A slow, methodical ticking noise rang from outside the door, growing louder and louder until it paused directly across his cot. A shadow loomed suddenly over him. From under the door his shifting eyes caught a flash of brilliant purple.
That sound—and that color—belonged to a woman's high heels.
Dr. Harleen Quinzel peered in through the security glass, frowning. She coughed loudly, scribbling a short note on her patient, then coughed again. Satisfied, she tucked her clipboard between her hip and shoulder and continued primly down the hall.
Those yellow eyes glittered, narrowed, then shut. Eight hours and counting.
A peaceful, patient smile played upon his ruined lips. He licked them once, in anticipation.
07:00 EST
Sisters of Mercy Convent
Sister Teresa Margaret rose stiffly from the kneeling mat. Finished, at last, with morning prayers. She donned a black habit and a white wimple, covering her hair, her neck, her arms until only her face and hands were visible.
She left the small, dark room, making her way noiselessly down the hall to the Convent's kitchen, the shelves bare and almost empty. The poor you will always have with you… They might not be able to feed all that came through the doors this morning. She would go without-perhaps many of the sisters would join her for a fast…After all, were they not called to feed His lambs and sheep?
Sister Teresa Margaret's face remained docile and passive as she worked. It was Monday. The Charity Pantry had been running low, but there would be a delivery tonight. Inside, deep and forgotten, Maggie Kyle smiled. Mondays were her only tie to her old life. On Mondays, her brother dropped off supplies for the pantry.
In three years, he had never missed a day.
08:02 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
(GCPD Dual Headquarters)
Detective Aaron Lawless nodded a curt good morning to the receptionist, his face drawn. Late nights, early mornings, weeks of strategic planning and rehearsals…he had stumbled in after midnight both on his eighth anniversary and Ian's third birthday…this Stop the Violence Campaign would be the death of him, he was certain. MCU was handling the logistics…but for an event of this magnitude quite a few officers were on temporary loan from Homicide. The Detective was one of the 'lucky' chosen for this 'honor.' In fact, he had done more work for MCU this last year than he had for his own department.
Can't wait for this Stop the Violence shit to be over, he grumbled to himself as he unlocked the glass door, dropping his briefcase in his cluttered office, winding his way through the crowded floor to the coffee maker.
Commissioner James Gordon himself was in the small galley, pouring a belated cup of coffee.
Even tired, Lawless couldn't resist a playful dig. "What are you shooting these days?" he grinned, leaning against the doorframe.
'Straight, unadulterated espresso," Jim's mild voice lamented. "But don't tell. Barb thinks I'm decaffeinating."
"Yeah, well, tell me how that one goes," Lawless shook his head, helping himself to a deep, full mug of pure black. "We're becoming old men, you know?"
Jim chuckled tiredly, pushing his large glasses further up his nose. "I can't help but feel it beats the alternative."
The door opened again, and a wilted Anna Ramirez stumbled in. "Oooh, Lawless.." she moaned, "You've had better had saved some for me."
"Gotcha," The Detective quickly poured a new cup. "Cream or sugar?"
"I take straight speed if you have it," the Latina gave a guilty grin. "Jus' plain, gracias."
"She-man!" Bradley grunted in passing, pounding his Kevlar vest Tarzan style.
"Yeah, Paltron's the only woman in the department allowed to take it like that," his partner Milton jibed. "and that's only because she can shave the chest hair with her laser vision." Lt. Gwen Paltron had a set of heartless, steely eyes straight out of a sharpshooter flick—and the range record to prove it. SWAT had been trying to woo her for years.
"Don't you two have something more important to do, like checking parking meters?" Lawless growled good-naturedly.
"Righto, Roge-o. We are out of here," The duo one-arm saluted with bravura and left, goose-stepping.
Ramirez had collapsed into the counter, sighing. Switching with Montoya for the night shift and MCU's work on Stop the Violence had both taken their toll on her, her hair lank, face drawn, eyes doleful. It couldn't be easy, Lawless mused, balancing those hours with three small children and a recent divorce…
"Don't let 'em get to you Ramirez," he said lowly, trying to raise her spirits. Fred Milton and Eugene Bradley were great cops…albeit assholes. Their way of whistling in the dark was irreverence and rudeness to everyone and everything. The more offensive, the better. "They're just making that shit up to annoy you. Everyone who's been here long enough knows Paltron just sucks the beans raw."
"She still does that?" Jim asked with a grimace.
Ramirez sputtered and snorted into her coffee. "You, you are just as bad as they are!"
"I was just kiddin' you," Lawless said kindly.
"I wasn't," Gordon stated. "She used to do that. It was disgusting."
The small woman shook her head with a sad smile. "She's speaking today, no? At the Campaign?"
"Yeah," Lawless chuckled, draining his mug. "This damn Stop the Violence thing is going to kill us all, you know?"
Anna smiled again, shaking her head, but the light didn't quite reach her bloodshot eyes. Oh, what the hell, Lawless thought. The poor woman's been up for almost 36 hours…
"Oh, Anna," Jim Gordon's quiet voice pulled her back. "any problems with security on the night shift?"
She turned reluctantly at the door, looking wearily into his eyes. "No, Jim. Everything's went fine."
09:55 EST
Wayne Penthouse
Twenty-seven year old Rebecca James and twenty-five year old Cameron Shaw sat stock still on the very edge of the white lambskin couch, not even daring to uncap their pens. The cameraman, Paul, stood awkwardly in front of the shimmering bay windows, keeping his hands tight around their equipment. Even the effing floor is breakable, they thought, studying the Venetian tile.
Maybe if they had worked for Gotham Galore or the Urban Scene Network they would have chatted candidly, making even their wait into a segment of the story. But Ms. James and Ms. Shaw were reporters from the local Channel 18 News, and their lives did not consist of toadying to celebrities, neither the national nor the local varieties. The highlight of their collective careers, to date, consisted of a personal interview with the governor's wife and a business dinner that had the Gotham City Knights also in attendance.
But here?
Dressed even in their newest, best professional suits and polished Prada shoes they felt strangely girlish and out of place. This penthouse was unreal, a fairy castle, and neither could fight down the feeling of excitement, turned nervousness, that they were actually here.
Rebecca fought a quick smirk. The Wayne Penthouse. If only her mother knew.
Cameron folded her notebook professionally, smoothing the sheet paper and fighting back the urge to even consider calling her former best friend, who was now dating her (former) fiancé, and asking the two of them to guess where she was. That snotty little daddy's girl princess, she thought. I bet she's been trying to get a peek at this place for years…
The butler strode briskly back into the room, breaking both women from their thoughts. "Forgive me," he said with a slight bow. "Master Wayne will see you shortly." He hurriedly walked on, expertly balancing a heavy, food-laden tray in one arm. Remembering her college days as a night-shift waitress, Rebecca James watched with amusement—and some awe-as the water in the narrow rose vase did not slosh a drop, not even when the butler disappeared quickly around the corner.
Damn, was he good.
"Master Wayne," Alfred called through the oak-paneled doors. "I have two very anxious reporters in the drawing room. Apparently they have a ten o'clock appointment?"
There was no answer. Sighing, Alfred juggled the breakfast tray to rap on the door again. "Master Wayne?"
No answer, no flurry of movement. He really should not have expected it. He himself had already been asleep in the parlor for hours when Bruce stumbled off the Penthouse elevator the previous night…or early this morning. When this Batman nonsense had first begun, he had stayed up, all night, waiting anxiously for his employer's arrival. Their relationship went a lot deeper than mere family servant, he thought of young (but getting older) Bruce as not necessarily a son, but perhaps an erring nephew he had raised from childhood. He was still worried, of course—Bruce's work as Batman was as dangerous and as deadly as ever before, but the fact of the matter was that he himself was now closer to seventy than sixty, and his body just could not take the strain.
Not that he liked to admit it.
"You could've just gone to bed," Bruce had chided. "It would've been easier."
"Nonsense." He retorted. "And miss you coming in after curfew?" His body might be tiring, but his mind was as still as sharp as ever-something he prided himself on. Sodoku and crosswords, nearly every morning with the paper-Bruce had laughed at him, but didn't argue.
"Please don't ground me. Promise I won't do it again." Bruce had yawned and stretched, slicking back sweat-soaked hair with a devilish grin. It had been good to see him smile—at home. To the papers and the paparazzi he was still shallow playboy Bruce Wayne, squandering his riches away nearly as fast as he could make them. The real Bruce, the pensive, thoughtful, kind man he knew, had been silent and shadowed for nearly a year.
Rachel's death had been hard to bear. The healing would take time…
"Master Wayne? Reporters?" Alfred raised the timbre of his voice. "Master Wayne?"
And with that, the gold-gilt, double doors swung suddenly and dramatically open, shining sunlight streaming through as a white-robed, Armani boxer-clad celebrity billionaire Bruce Wayne strode out to general worship with great aplomb. "Ladies, ladies!" he called suavely to the awe-struck reporters, all thoughts of notepads and former boyfriends forgotten. "So sorry to keep you waiting!"
Alfred sighed deeply, straightening the tray in his arms and replacing the spilt rose back into its vase, following the blushing, awe-struck women and their cameraman for an interview in Bruce's very bedroom, mentally preparing himself to act the part of the doting, father-like servant.
After he rang the cook for three more trays, of course.
10:06 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
(GCPD Dual Headquarters)
Detective Aaron Lawless glanced up at the clock again. The Kid was now two hours late…and MCU's Lt. Paltron-his former partner—was pissed.
"You know, if he ever does show up," she said, slamming yet another thick file into a dilapidated metal filing cabinet. "just ask him to put his badge in my mailbox because I. Am. Firing. His. Ass. Oh, damn!" The drawer broke under the increasing weight, landing on her toes. "Piece of shit!" She kicked the drawer, spewing papers across the linoleum. "Call him again. And tell Stacy I've got some papers for her to file..."
Tempers, Lawless mused, were running short. What with the planning for Stop the Violence and the clearing of the buildings surrounding Gotham City Plaza, no one had gotten enough sleep for the last several weeks. But the detective was suspicious that perhaps his old partner's bitchiness might have something to do with the fact that as a speaker for the event she was wearing heels and panty hose.
11:14 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
Stony faces set, the two security guards lifted the laughing inmate by the armpits and dragged him from the mess hall. A jumpsuit clad corpse lay twitching and jumping on the floor under a pool of trays and slimed food. Only an inch of the fork handle could still be seen poking from under the right eye-lid. The face was covered in scarlet.
"C'mon, c'mon let's fight let's fight!" the Joker rushed the padded door, throwing himself against the walls, tearing at the door seam where his captors disappeared.
"Batmaaaaan! Come on, give me the baddie batty Batman!"
11:23 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
(GCPD Dual Headquarters)
The Kid's cell wasn't on. Every message went straight to voice mail. "It's Jimmy!" It was the thirtieth time he'd heard the beaming tones in the last three hours.
Shit.
Connolly was a rookie cop. Young. Inexperienced. In no ways inept but in many, naïve…it might have been three years since Fear Night, over a year since the Joker's imprisonment, but this was still goddamn Gotham City. Jesus, Jimmy, Lawless thought, where the Hell are you?
But the phone was either off or dead. Dead meant water. He tried to distract himself, laugh it off. The Kid probably dropped it in the toilet, he thought with a brief grin.
But the waterlogged, decaying body of District Attorney Carl Finch floated to the surface of his mind and would not sink away.
Incident Report
Patient #666 (Joker)
Mess Hall, 11:30 AM
Lunchtime brawl ending in unusual violence. Patient Gregory 'Madcap' Morrison air evacuated to Gotham Methodist Hospital, condition labeled critical, presenting with complete right enucleation and hemorrhaging. Witnesses say Joker responsible (More information on so called 'magic fork trick?' pending results of further investigation.). Fourteenth episode of violent outburst resulting in patient or caretaker injury documented in the past three days. Patient is believed to have suffered a minor relapse to habits of self-harm, hostility, and aggression. Removal to private care ward urgent. Recommended therapy: appeasement.
All staff are reminded to use extreme precaution when approaching this patient. In light of future investigation, only doctors under supervision by security will be permitted to treat or enter patient room.
Additional note: Patient Gregory Morrison was pronounced dead upon arrival to Gotham Methodist at 11:37 AM. Police informed, official investigation of staff negligence to be opened by District Attorney. All staff are to be fully cooperative with law officials. This incident is not to be discussed with members of the media.
Signed: Dr. Harleen Quinzel
11:39 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
(GCPD Dual Headquarters)
The door swung open and Aaron Lawless jumped up, expectant and hopeful.
"Ames," he said, his face and heart falling at the sight of his young wife, already dressed in burgundy scrubs. But he was a man, he was her goddamned husband, he was supposed to be strong. He kissed her cheek, feigning normalcy. "Babe, what are you doing here?"
Smiling, she plunked down a glass baking dish filled with caramelized onions and two loaves of French bread. It was one of her husband's favorite meals, and his partner absolutely raved about it…
"Well, I figured you guys would be so busy with the campaign you'd forget to eat, so I just came by…" Amy Lawless' voice trailed off as she looked into her husband's eyes. "Aaron, what's wrong?" she laid a gentle hand on his arm. Something was wrong, off, missing…Suddenly it struck her.
"Aaron, where's Jimmy?" there was an edge of panic in her voice.
He sighed heavily. "That's just it, babe…no one knows."
11:47 EST
Wayne Penthouse
"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne," Rebecca James concluded, offering her hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you."
"No, the pleasure was all mine," Bruce assured her. "And you should call me Bruce. Or sugar. I also answer to honey."
The reporter laughed, rolling her eyes. Damn, what a chauvinistic pig, but didn't it feel good? "Perhaps some other time."
"Thanks again," Cameron Shaw offered her hand in turn. Wayne took the proffered palm and made as though to shake it, but at the last second raised it to his lips and kissed it, staring directly into her eyes.
All froze.
For a moment, both women were completely silent in disbelief.
Seconds wore on. Wayne's mouth twitched. Rebecca bit her lips. Shaw burst into a fit of girlish giggles. Wayne began to chuckle, and Shaw's giggles turned into all out laughter as her face flushed bright a hot, bright pink.
Twenty-seven year old Rebecca James threw her curly head back and snorted hysterically until tears streamed down her face.
"You two should stay for lunch."
"Oh, we couldn't—" Rebecca began.
"Come on," Wayne wheedled pleasantly, "I've already got the cook working on it…he'd be broken hearted if you two stood him up."
The two women exchanged glances. They really shouldn't, they really shouldn't even consider…but this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, for God's sake! Neither wanted to back down. Friends though they were, neither wanted the other to stay…and yet as nervous as they were, neither wanted the other to leave.
"Well," Cameron began reluctantly, but Wayne cut her off.
"Excellent! Now I can give you ladies the grand tour…" And with that, he was off, explaining the history behind the Baroque masterpiece on the wall above their heads. Finishing that, he grabbed their arms, leading them onto the next exhibit. With one more helpless, bemused glance, the two women tore their eyes away from each other and listened with rapt attention.
Oh, what the hell… It couldn't hurt, could it?
In that moment, neither Bruce Wayne, Rebecca James nor Cameron Shaw could possibly know that this one small, selfish decision would save their lives.
12:00 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
"Well," the psychiatric intern said, sitting down across from her disfigured patient, spreading out his multiple files on the tabletop. Quinzel was busy dealing with the DA, and the Joker (no one referred to him as #666, even though official policy was never to use his chosen alias—it gave his sociopath personality too much control over the situation, working contradictory to the rehabilitation process) had been left to her. She wished he was in restraints…or that security was actually in the room instead of outside the door. Victor Zsasz had strangled one of her predecessors through the bars of a holding cell, after all…while handcuffed.
But again, heightening security over routine basal measures would only give the Joker the illusion of control. Either way, they were fucked.
"You've certainly made a mess of things. Gregory Morrison is dead."
"Now ain't that tragic, dollface?" The Joker leered.
"Your behavior is completely unacceptable, and your lack of respect for human life atrocious. I am putting you in solitary confinement-"
"Aw, come on dollface!" he wheedled. "You uh, you can do better than that! Confinement is so, uh, pre-dic-ta-ble and uh, boring…and I don't like being bored. Cause, uh, ya know, ya know what's gonna happen: I'll uh, throw a fit, and I'll hurt myself. Some high-minded do-gooder will see fit to come in and uh, stop me and in my uh,…volatile and so vul-ner-ab-le stat-tuh I'll uh…maim him. Then-oh, and here's the real uh, kicker: you'll try to uh, restrain me-again!" he petered off into a fit of giggles.
"And then the grand finale!" he shouted, making sizzling noises and gesturing fireworks with his excited hands. "By the time it's uh, finished I'll be drugged on the floor and three members or your security will uh, resign, and the rest will demand raises."
The psychiatrist blinked.
"Big. Fat. Raises," he enunciated, peering at her owlishly from under his furrowed brows. "Do ya really got the grant money for all that, dollface? I've uh, I've heard the taxpayers are getting pretty uh, pretty pre-ti-cu-lar about paying for your uh, hospitality. Wouldn't it just be easier to give me a uh, TV? With uh, cable?" he smacked his lips, leaning forward across the table towards her. "That way I uh, won't be…bored?"
"You want a TV?" she asked, numbed.
"I uh, I heard there was uh, a parade. And gee, Doc, I just love a parade. I like the balloons, ya see? I like it when they go uh, pop."
A minor relapse…fourteen violent episodes in three days…removal urgent. Therapy: appeasement. Quinzel had signed the orders herself. The intern gulped slowly. The Joker wanted a TV with cable? The staff were terrified, the patients restless. The gates to Arkham were swarmed every morning with angry protesters calling for the Joker's blood. But the Joker was insane. Couldn't be held accountable for his actions.
Still, no one deserved to die with a stainless steel fork stuck through their eye socket…
He wanted a TV to watch the parade?
He would get one.
12:03 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
(GCPD Dual Headquarters)
"Dude, man, you have to talk to him," Bradley sat on Lawless' desk, interrupting the Detective's worried vigil. "One, I feel my manhood shrinking just being classified as the same gender…" he crammed his mouth with Amy's homemade onion dip. "and two, he's fucking lucky not to be dead."
"He's here?" Lawless asked in surprise, hurling his chair back and standing abruptly.
"Yeah," Milton said, helping himself in turn. "Just explain that Gay Pride was last week, but this week we're supposed to be wearing our Stop the Violence T-shirts-"
"Jesus Kid, where the Hell have you been?" Lawless barked, finally catching sight of his young partner across the crowded atrium. "You're almost four hours late, no call, no message-I thought you were fucking dead."
He pulled him into a rough embrace, breathing a silent thanks to whatever powers that had kept the Kid safe.
"No. Just half-drowned," Jimmy Connolly's small mouth gave a frustrated, half-hearted smile. "And maybe a bit scalded."
"Christ," Aaron said, holding him at arm's length and taking a better look. Yes. The Kid's shirt was…appalling. He was still in his street clothes and Chuck Taylor's, his uniform in a suit bag over his shoulder, his dripping dress shoes tied together and dangling from one boyish hand. But mostly he was wet: soaking wet and stained with what looked like terribly cheap coffee. "What happened?"
"Just a social experiment gone a little awry, that's all."
"Social experiment?"
"No call because coffee," Jimmy tossed him the dead phone, "and coffee because T-shirt," he nodded downwards to the brilliantly purple shirt emblazoned with a cartoon gorilla and the words Grape Ape. "And coffee ruined uniform, which I had just picked up from the dry-cleaners…to which I returned, ago the lateness, and thusly no calling, and hence; my appearance."
He took a deep, dramatic bow. "Sorry I'm late."
"Jimmy!" Amy Lawless' voice rang. "Jimmy!" Aaron's wife flung her arms around her husband's young partner, planting a kiss on his flushing face. "Thank God you're all right-we were so worried—you're soaking wet!"
He sighed, "Long story."
Lawless clapped a hand on the Kid's head, messing his dark, matted hair. "Next time, call, for Christ's sake, okay? And don't ever wear that stupid shirt again. You're lucky coffee's the worst that happened."
"Why?" the Kid asked, blinking and wiping wet locks and drops of coffee out of his eyes.
"Number one," Milton said, unable to resist, "It makes you look like a flamboyant homosexual-"
"Ignore him," Aaron sent a glare over the Kid's shoulder. "He's an asshole. But Kid, honestly, do you know who you look like? There's a reason that was on the clearance rack, Kid. No one wears purple in Gotham anymore," Aaron said lowly, his gravelly tones darkening. "Not since last year."
"There was a girl in the clinic last April that got beat up on her way home from school by a neighbor's mother just for wearing a bright purple sweatshirt," Amy Lawless cut in quietly. "It's not a good idea."
"What, you want to stop wearing a color just because the Joker wore it?" A few nervous heads turned in their direction. Amy looked around warily.
"It's not about what I want, it's about staying safe," Lawless said darkly.
"Can you really blame people, Jimmy?" Amy asked nervously. "After all he did, do you really want to remind people of that? There's hardly anyone in Gotham that didn't lose somebody or know someone who lost somebody…why would you want to purposefully bring that up?"
"That's insane," Jimmy argued, juggling his shoes awkwardly as he gestured. "You guys are completely missing the point. You can't make a decision on what color to wear just because some crazy madman wore it…I mean, that's just giving him control. It's caving in. Today's Stop the Violence, right? "
Lawless raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly.
"So supposedly we're launching this whole city-wide campaign against crime, violence, drugs, and stuff, essentially we're banding together to tell people like the Joker they can't mess with us…"
"Jimmy—" Amy began worriedly. Aaron's partner was around the house enough that the thirty year old RN considered him almost like an erring, awkward little brother. Not that Jimmy ever did anything necessarily bad…he was just…naïve. And now he sounded like Brian, Brian what's-his-name. She had walked in on Aaron viewing that terrible tape, and the image still haunted her.
We don't have to be afraid of people like you.
But you do, Brian. You really do…
"But if I can't wear purple down the street safely with him locked away, doesn't that just mean people like him have already won? If we have to give up a whole region of the spectrum so our lives can go back to normal, they really haven't gone back to normal at all. It only proves we're so afraid of them, so used to the violence, that all we've really done is become numb. Stop the Violence isn't going to work unless people are willing to admit it's there. That's all I'm saying," He shrugged, dropping the shoes and bending to pick them up. "And I guess that's why I wore this stupid shirt. Just to see."
There was silence. Aaron Lawless nodded slowly, Amy's eyes darting nervously between her husband and his partner.
Even Milton and Bradley had nothing to say.
12:05 EST
Gotham City Plaza
One hour, fifty-five minutes and counting. Just enough time to grab lunch with the family….
"Tanaka! What are you doing here?" Jenkins the new network boss shouted from the back of the Channel 18 News van. "You're supposed to be out covering the streets!"
"My shift ended five minutes ago! James is supposed to be up!" Trisha Tanaka cried back, sliding out of her heels and massaging her toes. Her shift was done. They had agreed on that. She would get the afternoon off, get to see her six year-old niece Gracie say the pledge of allegiance for Governor Richards. The rest of the family were sitting with her proudly, went out to breakfast, showered her with congratulations, kisses, hugs and gifts…Trisha's parents immigrated from Japan eighteen years ago, and had adopted their new culture as their own, changing their names and insisting on English only, even in the house. To see their only grandchild receive such a privilege had been an honor in deed.
Harsh words had been spoken when Trisha announced reluctantly she couldn't be there. In frustrated tears she related the story to James and Shaw…to not show up would be to shame her family. But to take the day off, she would lose her job.
"What time's Gracie's thing?" Rebecca had asked.
"Two, or about two. Whenever the Governor gets there-"
"Then don't sweat it." She said with a winning smile. "I've got an interview that morning, but I can be there before then. Say…noon? Don't worry. I'll cover for you."
But James never came. For ten minutes Trisha looked for her bouncing red curls through the crowd, hoping that it had been a hold up with the traffic, a minor delay…
In another two, she was back in her heels, standing in front of the camera wearing her famous, winning smile. She had again become Good morning, Gotham!'s 'vivacious little Trisha Tanaka' of channel 18 news.
On the outside.
On the inside, child immigrant, afraid of her family's harsh reaction, worried what Gracie, what her sister would think…afraid her fiancé off in grad school in California had already forgotten her, disappointed, let down and crying with her studio make-up running in tracks down her blotchy face Trisha Tanaka stood surrounded by a sea of thousands of people…
She had never felt so alone in her life.
12:10 EST
Wayne Penthouse
"Master Wayne!" Alfred said in surprise, finding Bruce hurriedly dressing. "I beg your pardon, I had thought you'd left—"
Bruce grinned. "Not while guests are still over, Alfred. Sudoku's not working as well as you'd thought."
The Butler frowned. Master Wayne was due to make an appearance in twenty minutes at the Legacy. He had scheduled the appointment himself…Thomas' foundation built the Gotham Public Transit twenty years ago. Gave grants to Inner City schools. Funded kidney, heart, and liver transplants…
"You are, I assume, asking the guests to leave so as to arrive to the Legacy on time?" He asked lightly. Surely, surely for the Legacy he could give up this playboy façade….
Bruce shook his head, slicking gel through his wiry hair. "Nope," he grinned at the Butler's reflection in the lighted mirror. "I've just found a fantastic and very visual excuse to be fashionably late."
"Master Wayne, I would think that on a day of this significance you would at least shelve this arrogance and pay respect to your father—"
"Whoa, Alfred!" Bruce said, turning from tying his tie in the mirror. "I'm not being arrogant-"
Frustration. Anger. Alfred's voice shook like his clenched, whitening hands. "The Foundation was important to your father, sir. The transit, the surgeries…the least you could do is oblige his memory by showing up at the Legacy!"
Bruce snapped his cufflinks in silence, averting his eyes from Alfred's pale, twisted face. He sighed deeply, still staring down, folding down the ends of his shirtsleeves. "You know," he began, his voice dropping low. "I didn't know how to tell you this…but I've wanted to. I just…didn't know how to say it."
He turned, and looked into the eyes of the man who had raised him and who loved him like a father. Anger he could bear, but he could not stand to see disappointment in those eyes.
"I am not my father, Alfred, and I won't pretend to be. But if Rachel's death taught me anything it's that his work, that the Foundation…is the most important thing that Wayne Enterprises will ever give Gotham, that I can give Gotham…it's tangible, it's hope. "
The butler was silent, his eyes wet.
"Someday Gotham won't need Batman—and I, I'll have to be willing to accept that. But She'll always need the Foundation, the Legacy. So don't confuse this, this mask-this disguise-with who I am. Gotham can't know me for who I am…they have to believe I'm the drunken billionaire who burned down his own house, remember?"
The Butler had spent seven long years waiting to hear word from his young charge, seven years in solidarity, seven years where he alone in the world had not given up on Bruce Wayne as a lost cause. "You never gave up on me, did you?" Bruce had asked.
"Never," had been his response then. It still was.
"I understand, sir," Alfred said lightly, "And what better way than to show up two hours late to every social function, even your own?" It was an apology, of sorts.
"Especially my own," Bruce laughed, breaking the tension with a sad smile. "And where would I be without my obligatory arm candy?"
"Arm candy, sir?" Alfred asked, bewildered.
"Babes, Alfred," Bruce straightened his silk tie with an impish grin. "Babes."
12:13 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
(GCPD Dual Headquarters)
Aaron was damn proud of him. He really shouldn't be all that surprised-with what the Kid had confided in him about his family life and growing up…. He wasn't as naïve or stupid as he appeared with his soft, boyishly innocent features and smile…
But the no calling had worried him. Scared him. Sickened him. Over the last year Jimmy had become more than a partner, more than a friend, he was, was almost like-
Like a son.
If Jess had wanted kids when the first got married, they would be Jimmy's age by now. Aaron had wanted them. But she was young, a college graduate, ready to start her career and wait on the family…he was starting his first year of medical school, had a long road ahead, wouldn't be there for her, for kids…Years dragged on, then things got rough…and Aaron's only consolation through the long, ugly divorce was thank god there had been no kids involved. Kids and divorce just didn't belong together.
The Detective was twenty-three when he was first married, thirty-two when he divorced…
He met Amy three years later, and married her the next. He had a young son at home, Ian, three years old. He had resigned himself to being nearly sixty when Ian went to college…
But Jimmy was, well, Jimmy was Amy. Forgiveness. A second chance, a new start.
After years of questioning, drinking, wondering where the hell it had all gone wrong, if he could ever make it right, if there was a God and if He cared or could forgive, Amy found him, and he knew instantly he had been given another chance at life and love. And again with Jimmy. The DUI that took his medical licensure so long ago also took the lives a family of four…yet the pressing weight of guilt, the questions, the wondering all disappeared in those dark, wet, smiling eyes. Answers. Vindication. Forgiveness.
"I'm….I'm impressed, Kid," Lawless finally said, as Milton and Bradley reluctantly nodded their heads in agreement. "But next time you decide to make a stand on something, consider doing it in a way that might not kill you."
"Please?" Amy's timid voice put in.
Jimmy shrugged again, giving a tiny laugh. "I figured people'd just yell at me. I had no idea women would be like, dumping coffee on my head."
"Yeah, well, another one's about to if you don't get changed quick," Bradley mumbled. "Paltron's on a roll today and she's already pissed at you."
"Which isn't a fun situation given the fact you two are driving to the Legacy together." Milton stated casually, mouth stuffed with bread. "Or had you forgotten?"
Jimmy paled. "Right."
12:20 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
It was a beautiful day in Gotham City: sunny, balmy, just a hint of wind. A more perfect day couldn't have been picked for the opening of Gotham's Stop the Violence Campaign, a new youth-oriented program for inner city schools targeting the rising crime rate and teen homicide. The youth of Gotham were its shining stars, its hope for a better future. With better education funds, anger management counseling, vocational training and college scholarships offered through the Wayne Legacy Foundation, Stop the Violence would give Gotham's future a viable chance of making their future a peaceful, prosperous one, bringing them together across their differences to form a closer-knit community build on respect and tolerance…
Or so newscasters said, over and over and over again as he flipped through the channels, trying to find the right camera angle. That wasn't what interested him, the respect and community and tolerance psychobabble-he had heard enough of that at Arkham. But the enthusiasm did interest him, oh yes. The program would uh, bring them together. And Channel 18 had uh, such a nice view of the Foundation's glass and steel spire…
A bored grin stole over his scarred features as he smacked his fleshy, disfigured lips. "Afternoon, officers," He addressed the statue-like guards standing outside his cell. They said nothing, not even bothering to turn their heads. For over a year now the guards had stood outside his door. At first they had been jumpy, willing playthings, easy to startle and scare, but he had long grown bored of their indifference.
And he would have newer, better toys soon enough. He smiled devilishly, then turned back to the television, dark eyes narrowing in anticipation.
So far, the campaign—and the plan—were working.
Stop the Violence had already brought them together. Now thirty-five thousand teachers, parents, community workers, ordinary citizens and students lined the streets and sidewalks leading to the Plaza, shouting themselves hoarse as the parade led by marching bands from local high schools wound its way to the Wayne Legacy Foundation's Community Center, a seventy-four storey spire spiraling gracefully into Gotham's skyline. The cheering grew louder through the speakers as the front of the parade came into view.
One hour, forty minutes. And Counting.
12:23 EST
Rachel D. Dawes Municipal Building
(GCPD Dual Headquarters)
"Alright kiddos, play nice now," Aaron Lawless chuckled. "Be home by curfew. Any later and you're grounded."
Gwen Paltron rolled her eyes at her former partner, opening the driver's side door of the squad car. "Keys," she barked, and Lawless' young partner tossed them to her, cowed.
"No drugs, no sex, no R rated movies," Bradley chorused. "It's a first date, remember?"
"No sex?" Paltron asked, surprising all present by trading her take-no-shit-one-eyebrow-raised expression for feigned disappointment. "Damn. I'm sorry kid. But this just isn't gonna work out. I'm so lonely, and your daddy's got so many rules…I just don't want to get hurt again."
Bradley bust up laughing as Jimmy Connolly sputtered and shot Lawless one last, desperate look across the parking lot. The Detective waved grimly, and the Kid buckled his seatbelt, head falling back against the seat in resignation.
Doors slammed and the sleek black cruiser pealed out of the lot with only an hour and thirty-seven minutes to spare, an identical grin plastered on both the officers' faces. "Dude, that was fucking hilarious. I didn't expect her to join in."
"Yeah, well, there's just one problem," On closer inspection, Lawless' grin was forced. "I think the Kid's got a major crush on her."
"Oh, fuck," Bradley said after a moment.
The detective shrugged. "It's probably for the best-"
"No, it's just that…damn. That slick little shit. And to think we just gave him a hundred bucks to ask her out."
Lawless looked at him almost pityingly. "I wasn't joking."
Bradley grinned. "Neither was I." It was a long-standing unit tradition. And the best waste of a hundred dollars you could ask for. The Lt. must've discovered time travel because Shakespeare, Bradley had long ago decided, wrote the Taming of the Shrew only after being spurned by her for high school prom.
12:47 EST
Gotham City Plaza
"Going live, Trish," the camera swung to face her as the smile froze on her handsome Asian features. "Five, four, three, two-"
"Good afternoon Gotham!" Trisha Tanaka's bright voice came through the microphone. "I'm Trisha Tanaka and we're here at Gotham Plaza where the Governor is scheduled to appear for the opening of Gotham's new Stop the Violence campaign, just seven days before Gotham City Public Schools will open." Behind her, the cheering swelled as the white government limo pulled into view, flanked, followed, and led by dozens of GCPD mopeds and cruisers. Their sirens were blazing a happy note, blending with the deafening roar of the gathered throng, while a thousand pounds of confetti were released from the skyscrapers surrounding the Plaza.
"It looks like New Year's Eve in New York City!" she gushed. "The excitement is that contagious—" here she shoved the microphone into the face of a fifteen-year-old girl. "You've got a great view from here! What can you tell our audience stuck at home?"
"Oh, my god!" The girl jumped up and down in excitement, a wide, white grin on her dark face. "I can't believe I'm actually here! I'm on Good Morning Gotham! I'm on TV!"
"What's your name?"
"Shania Gibbets! And I'm a youth ambassador from Big Brothers Big Sisters!"
Trisha turned to what could only be the girl's mother. "You must be very proud."
"Oh, I am," the woman said loudly, over calls of Hi mom shrieks of Trisha I love you. "And I'm so glad to have a daughter who's interested in doin' things, makin' a difference." Shania leaned her braided and beaded head back into her mom's shoulder, grinning. "Not every parent gets blessed tha' way, ya know?" the middle-aged mother kissed the back of her daughter's head, squeezing her shoulders. "I be very proud of this here girl."
13:25 EST
Wayne Penthouse
Cameron Shaw had never been so amazed in her life. A seven-course meal-for lunch? She knew Wayne was ridiculously rich…but the thought of having a gourmet chef specializing in nearly any regional cuisine in the world only one phone call away was simply mind blowing.
Rebecca James set her glass down carefully. She recognized Waterford crystal when she saw it, and knew there would be no way in hell she'd ever be able to replace this glass. How odd, how fickle was it, she thought, staring into it's sparkling facets, that some men could afford meaningless trifles for more than she made in a month's time, while in the same city there were families that didn't always have food on the table…
It was unfair. Churlish. Arbitrary.
"…and if you enjoyed this you really must cover our third quarter business luncheon. We've just closed a deal with Nataki Industries, and in celebration we're having Mamoru Chiba himself prepare the food-onsite—we're still working on installing the kitchen—and it's the most amazing Japanese cuisine you'll taste in the US…and I should know. Last year I took him up on a bet and flew to LA, New York, Frisco and Chicago, and in the end I had to forfeit a case of excellent Bordeaux. Somewhat of a loss, but an educational experience well worth it."
Shaw laughed pleasantly. She had a glass of wine with lunch, and was relaxing and enjoying the atmosphere quite nicely. Why not? This was the only day she would be sitting with People Magazine's #1 richest and most eligible bachelor, eating outside a hundred and four storeys above the ground on a marble veranda overlooking Gotham City. She could even make a story out of it, perhaps sending it to Gotham Galore or even People itself…
"Have you always been such a connoisseur of traditional Japanese cuisine, Mr. Wayne," James asked with mock interest, leaning across the white linen tablecloth. "Or would you consider your extensive knowledge a more recent acquisition?" She asked lightly, but her eyes held just a hint of irony…and perhaps anger?
Touché. Bruce toasted her with his glass, continuing his discussion. Inside, he was secretly impressed. James had a good head on her shoulders and just a little grit,something he had missed this last year. Rachel had-
He leaned his head back and drained the glass, forcing the memories from his mind.
"It's too bad Trisha couldn't be here," Shaw said. "She'd be able to tell you a thing or two about Japanese cooking."
"Trisha?" Bruce asked.
"As in Trisha Tanaka," Shaw flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I'm sure you're familiar. She's another reporter friend of ours-"
The Waterford glass slipped through James' slender fingers, shattering on the marble tile. "Oh, shit! Oh, I'm sorry!" She said, flushing and standing quickly.
Bruce waved her off. "It's nothing, really. Nothing."
"No, we, well, I have to go. I told Trish I'd cover for her—"
She looked desperately at Wayne. "What time is it?"
He rolled back his sleeve, checking his Rolex. "One thirty," He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry if I've kept your ladies too long. Please, if you have a prior engagement.."
"Beck, there's no point in going now," Cameron said timidly. "Gracie's thing's at two. There's no way you'd get there in time—"
"Gracie?" Wayne asked.
"Her niece"" James snapped. "She's saying the pledge or something for Governor Richards and the whole family's supposed to be there. God, I feel like such an ass-!"
"You have to be there by two, correct?" Wayne asked, standing suddenly and very businesslike. "I might be able to accommodate you-"
James rolled her green eyes, in no mood for anymore playboy bullshit. "Sorry. But I don't think even the 'incredible Mr. Bruce Wayne ' can do anything to fix this."
A clever smile twitched on his thin lips and he raised an eyebrow. "We'll see. I have a phone call to make."
13:32 EST
Gotham City Plaza
"And there you have it, folks. Randy Roberts, retired history teacher," Trisha finished her brief interview with the grey-haired man with a sweep of her bangs behind her ears. Her fingers brushed the headset, and the diamond earrings Micheal had sent for her birthday-
"Trish-" she heard in her earpiece. "The real story, if you please…" The voice of Jenkins the network boss droned in a bored tone. She rolled her wide, slanted eyes and turned away from the gathered crowd towards the school of motorcycles and cruisers getting nearer and nearer. The real story was these people, this hope…not this display of firepower and security put on by Gotham's finest.
But the network paid the bills…and the bills paid Micheal's tuition, and the faster he got through school they could get married…
And she could actually stand up and say no to this job that made her miss Gracie's speech. Trisha loved TV 18, loved her boss, Chris Holden, fiercely…but she'd wanted to be a journalist, not a celebrity, damnit! Her family would understand someday…but Gracie wouldn't. Gracie only would know that Aunt Trisha loved her job more than Aunt Trisha loved her…and she'd be right. Trisha wanted Micheal, wanted to married and have kids of her own—
She blinked back tears, and began improvising chattily about the Governor's arrival.
13:40 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
"Everything going fine?" the gruff growl of Aaron Lawless' voice came in his ear.
Commissioner Gordon turned to face him, a strained look on his weathered face. "So far. Did you ever get a hold of your partner?" The Commissioner had left the office for the Tracking Room around nine.
"Yeah. He showed up around twelve or so. Funny story, really. You'd like it."
"Twelve?" the Commissioner's eyes widened. "Is he in the habit of running late?" He asked weakly. The problem with hiring younger officers was you took your risks. Fresh blood in the system stood well against the corruption, it was true, but for many rookies it was the first time they had to be responsible for themselves or their time…and not all of them made it through. And Connolly was young.
Almost too young.
"Nah. He's usually damn punctual. That's what had me worried. Turns out he spent the morning at the dry cleaners trying to get his uniform re-cleaned," Lawless chuckled. "Some YWCA support group got a hold of him and drenched him in Starbucks. Twice."
"Do I even want to ask?" Jim said, watching the parade unfold on the surveillance screens, glaring like some grotesque, black and white, flickering compound eye.
Lawless pulled up a chair next to him, sitting down backwards with his arms crossed over the backrest. "Kid decides it's Stop the Violence day, right? So he walks to work wearing a goddamn purple shirt just to see how people would react...
13:42 EST
Wayne Penthouse
"Oh my God," James cried. "Oh my God!" She pressed her long fingers over her gaping mouth, laughing in girlish excitement as the Hellride descended down towards her. The helicopter's blades whirred overhead, sending her long red curls furling back, her skirt whipping tight as pantyhose against her slim legs.
Cameron Shaw wiped wind-whipped tears from her amazed, open eyes, her mouth hanging open and slack as the sleek, black chopper landed noiselessly on the pad in front of them.
"Ladies," Wayne called over the rush of wind and the whirring, clacking motor, "I'd like to introduce you to a good friend of mine-" The sliding door let out a pneumonic PSSST, revealing a spacious, black leather interior. "All aboard!" Wayne cried gallantly, climbing into the cabin, reaching back to aid the two laughing, gaping friends aboard with a strong arm.
"Mind if I come along?" Paul Binkowski ran across the pad, carrying the heavy camera. "For some aerial shots?"
"Sure thing!" Wayne called, unbuckling his belt to aid the bumbling, aging cameraman into the cabin. "All set?" he turned to the Captain, an excited, boyish grin etched across his features. Eighteen minutes, and counting. "And here. We. GO!"
From the Parlor, Alfred watched through the open bay windows as the Hellride lifted gracefully off, veering down and South across the city's Skyline. He shook his white head with a small smile. Arm candy, indeed…
Even without the women, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne was about to make the entrance of a lifetime.
13:45 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
"C'mon, c'mon let's go let's go…" the guards looked at each other curiously, watching their charge's newest antics. Ashen faced, trembling, wide eyed and muttering the inmate known as the Joker paced desperately, eyes darting back and forth between the wall clock and the TV. Fifteen minutes and counting.
A caged animal. Trapped. Pacing.
Waiting to be loosed.
13:49 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
" 'And I guess that's why I wore this shirt. Just to see,'" Lawless finished his story, smiling grimly.
Gordon set his coffee down, a smug, sincere smile stretching across his strained face, easing the lines of worry away. He shook his head, chuckling silently, the grin growing broader and broader. He brought a hand to his mouth, still shaking his head. It had been over a year since the Batman's disappearance, a year since the Commissioner had felt so…
So understood.
"He gets it," Jim Gordon said after a short silence. "He really gets it."
"Yeah," Lawless conceded. "He can be a bit…naive, at times. But once you get down to it, he's a damn good Kid."
Gordon smiled. "I was nervous hiring him, you know? One hundred and sixty-seven positions open and he applies for all of them. I couldn't not give him an interview…" his voice trailed away, eyes drawn back to the activity on the monitors. "I'm glad you told me. Remind me to buy him dinner sometime."
Lawless chuckled, his eyes wandering over the surveillance of Stop the Violence. The crowd was waving enthusiastically, confetti falling past the cameras…but something was still off. Wrong. He thought again of Jimmy, remembering his own panic from this morning: it might have been three years since Fear Night, over a year since the Joker's imprisonment, but this was still goddamn Gotham City
"I don't like it," Lawless mused aloud, leaning in to study the television closely. "The people are excited, but the cops are nervous," he pointed to the screen. "Look."
Gordon nodded in agreement. "We all knew it would be a risk. But it's a risk worth taking, Detective," he smiled, the image of a coffee-soaked, baby-faced cop stumbling across the marble GCPD shield of the entryway, four hours late…Connolly had understood. They couldn't back down, couldn't live their lives in fear. This parade was a slap in the face to the remaining criminals skulking leaderless and powerless in the drains and rot of Gotham. He gestured to the excitement of the throng. "For the first time in years, this city has something to root for, something to give them hope."
"Other than the Batman, you mean," Lawless said lowly.
"Well, yes," Gordon agreed, maybe too quickly. "We can only hope this doesn't end up like that fiasco."
"It's been what, a year?" the detective mused. "And we still haven't caught him?"
"Yes," Gordon sighed, spirits falling. A year since the disappearance of the Dark Knight. Never in contact, perhaps sighted sporadically, but never confirmed."A year. We're working on—"
Lawless cut him off. "Say what you will in front of the press, Commissioner. A lot of us have been thinking, and we have our own theory of how Dent may have died."
For a moment, Gordon stared at him, completely emotionless. " I have no idea what you're talking about," he began. "But it would be amusing to hear those theories…at a later time." Under a calm exterior, his heart had quickened. A rough, gravelly voice, the right height, right build…
Was it just possible-? he wondered. Could the Batman be one of their own?
Lawless nodded slowly, one eyebrow raised, then returned his gaze to the screen. TV 18, Gotham City News, vivacious little Trisha Tanaka standing in Gotham Plaza, positively beaming.
13:51 EST
Gotham City Plaza
Nine minutes and counting. She threw herself into the job, mustering all the cheer and animation she could, fighting back thoughts of Gracie's disappointed, crying eyes. To the audience, she had never been more charming.
"Alright, well there you have it," Trisha turned back towards the camera, standing next to the small Latina. "One of Gotham's future stars, Consuela Chavez!" She looked over her shoulder, still gauging the distance between her camera shot and the Governor's slowly approaching cavalcade. She returned to the crowd. There: a large group of city cops, standing almost at attention in military formation, probably about to be decorated….This would make a great segment, a human-interest side about Gotham's civil service workers.
And there. There in the front row. A face no one in Gotham could ever mistake.
"And how do you feel about the Stop the Violence campaign?" She thrust the microphone and a small hand into the startled face of a young officer at the front of the ranks.
"Who, me?" He squinted dark eyes at her, trying to hear and be heard over the deafening roar of the crowd. "I think it's a great idea!"
"What's your name, officer?" she was practically shouting now.
"Jimmy," his mild voice was distorted by the yelling, "Jimmy Connolly!"
"Connolly!" a sharp voice barked, "You can flirt with the reporter later!" The blonde pixie to his left stepped forward, pulling him back into formation.
"And you are—" Trisha began, but was cut off.
"That's Lt. Paltron," The officer identified as Jimmy Connolly shouted. "She's my boss-"
"Connolly!"
"Yes sir! I mean ma'am! Er…Lt!" His face turned a bright pink, and he gave the reporter a hasty, apologetic smile as he snapped back in line. The pixie rolled steely blue eyes to the heavens, but didn't speak again. Trisha laughed and flashed the camera a winning smile, the afternoon sun bathing her face a bright, glowing gold.
Behind her, the Governor's limo had just pulled into view.
13:52 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
"Bet he enjoyed that," Milton noted.
"Who?" Lawless asked.
"Connolly. That chick's got great tits."
Gordon cleared his throat and shot him a glare as Renee Montoya walked by the open door. "Do you mind?"
Lawless just chuckled. "Nope. The Kid's only got eyes for one woman. He's absolutely smitten."
Gordon smiled in spite of himself… it was nice to take a short break from the worry and the strain. They had gone over security a thousand times in the last few months, cleared the buildings…but most importantly the Joker was still in isolation in Arkham, and no one had stepped up to take his place. And somewhere, unmasked, unknown, the Batman was still watching, waiting…A little more of a year ago, for Loeb's funeral, they would have had to call in the National Guard just to have a parade. And yet today, thirty-five thousand people were gathered in defiance of the crime that ran rampant through Gotham City. Dent had been right-it was always darkest before the dawn.
There was hope. There was change. Dent's death—the Batman's sacrifice—had united the people of Gotham City, their faith rewarded.
"Who is she?"
"You don't know?" Lawless teased.
"He's never mentioned her to me," Milton pouted.
Lawless shrugged. "That's because you're an asshole, and you've taken every possible chance to publicly humiliate him since day one. But he is my partner. I guess it's natural I'd notice some things that you two drips don't."
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm in charge of a police force in a city so corrupt Las Vegas called in to give up its title. I don't have time to brief every officer in this building on their love life," Gordon countered, taking a sip of now tepid coffee. "Do I know her?" he asked kindly.
The detective grinned, nodding towards the scene on the monitor, the two officers in question still visible behind Trisha Tanaka's latest interviewee. "Look no further."
"Paltron!?" Milton spewed coffee all down the monitor. "Is he nuts?"
Gordon chuckled and shook his head, knowing he'd been had. "Nice try, Lawless."
Lawless threw his hands up. "I just know what I see. The Kid talks a hundred miles an hour, but if she's around he's dead quiet. I think he's got a crush on her. Bad."
Milton waved him off, still wiping coffee from the security screen with a soft, non-abrasive rag. "And that could have nothing to do with the fact she's our boss and she scares him shitless?"
But he went unheeded, Lawless' retort dying and expression sobering as he noticed Gordon's face harden as he gazed solemnly into the monitor, taking another long, slow sip of coffee. Connolly was his partner now, but for years he had worked with Paltron, like the Commissioner himself. He was proud of her, proud of both his partners for being selected for this honor. Her promotion was long overdue…
"She's a good cop," Lawless reassured lowly. "You've done a good thing."
"I know," there was pain in that look, and Gordon didn't seem convinced. They had a history, and what exactly happened between them Lawless had never asked. But there was something there, a wall, a wedge, that had driven them apart. The Commissioner was the unsung hero cop of Gotham, a poor knight whose armour didn't shine bright enough to attract attention, but still he hated corruption and scandal with a vengeance. Aaron liked to believe his new commander had always been this upright. He hated mulling if this man, too, had something dark and disgusting to hide…
She's a good cop, Gordon mused to himself. But the gnawing, dreading doubt wouldn't leave. He trusted the Batman because deep down inside, Gordon believed that the vigilante wasn't a killer by nature.
She went rogue. She can't be trusted.
Again he found himself wrestling to justify his past treatment of her with his present league with the vigilante. But the Batman was not under the jurisdiction of the GCPD. He didn't have protocol and regulations to follow. The Batman could execute his own justice outside the system because he had no allegiance to the system…and Dent excluded, he had never killed.
That was thirteen years ago. She's changed since then.
13:55 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
Five minutes and counting. The patient known only as the Joker suddenly ceased his pacing, slicking sweat-soaked hair behind his ears, and sat as calmly and regally as a king. His dark, smoldering eyes were wild with excitement, glued to the television.
"What the Hell?" the security guard mused. "You think we should call this in?"
"He ain't hurting anyone for once. Maybe he really likes As the World Turns," the other shrugged. "Leave it."
13:57 EST
Above Gotham City
"Unidentified Aircraft, you are in Restricted City Airspace, repeat Restricted City Airspace," Traffic Control came muted over the headsets. "Traffic Control Aircraft will guide you out-"
James looked desperately down, the colors and crowd of the Stop the Violence Parade scattered tiny and bright across the intersecting streets, overflowing the plaza. Red and white balloons rose in clouds around them, blown into arching spirals by the wind of the chopper's twirling blades. They were so damn close-
Wayne glanced back, studying the two reporters, and made an executive decision. This wasn't Batman, this wasn't billionaire Bruce, this was himself: the childhood, arrowhead-stealing friend of Rachel Dawes... and he was only trying to do a favor for a little six-year-old girl.
He grabbed the radio from the Captain. "That's a big fat uh, negatory, Traffic Control," he said pleasantly, propping his feet up on the dash. "You see, my name is Bruce Wayne and I own half this goddamn city. So I prefer to think of it as my goddamn airspace. So why don't we both just…forget about this and you tell your boys to stand down?"
James let out a hiccoughing chirp, staring at him in a mix of disgust and astonished, thankful admiration. Shaw had turned away, laughing silently into the bowed glass window.
13:58 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
Two minutes and counting. The Joker stretched lazily on the chair in his cell, casting a glance at the guards and giving them a grotesque wink. He turned back to the television, humming obscenely. It wouldn't be long now.
13:59.
He turned back to the guards, smacking his lips. "Do you want to see a, uh magic trick?" They remained deadpan, refusing to meet his gaze. "Tsk, Tsk, Not very polite-tuh," he grinned, then waved his hands elaborately, covering the small screen. "I can, uh, can make that uh, that limo disappear," he sniggered, the grin growing on his face, stretching and pulling at the hideous scars on his cheeks and lips until he was utterly grotesque, no trace of humanity left in his visage or his burning eyes…
That little Asian sex kitten was still jabbering away about the Governor. The white limousine had almost pulled even with her. He closed his eyes, waiting…
14:00.
"Abra cadabra."
Legacy Plaza
"Though few may know it, Governor Greyson Richards is actually the cousin of the late Harvey Dent, former DA of Gotham City. After Dent's tragic death last year, Richards began a campaign that led to his, his inauguration—" Trisha Tanaka's wide, wondering eyes left the camera, her voice trailing off in mid-sentence, gaze following a small plume of white smoke-
GCPD Tracking Room
"Fuck!" Lawless shouted in shock. "Gordon!"
Legacy Plaza
It happened in an instant. It had been nineteen years, but she knew that smoke, knew that high, whistling whine from eighteen months on tour in Pakistan, an exploded tank, men screaming, burned bodies crisped and blackened like charcoal-
"RPG!" Lt. Gwen Paltron threw herself to the side, forcing the younger officer to the ground, and covering him with her body. The explosion rocked the streets, sending white-hot debris flying into the air and the crowd, a belch of acrid black smoke choking those who escaped the blast of heat. She squinted her eyes open through Connolly's hair as the last pieces of concrete and metal rained down-
The blank, open eyes of Trisha Tanaka stared at her not a meter away. Half her skull was missing. Diamond earrings sparkled in a spreading pool of blackened blood.
Another deafening explosion. She shut her eyes tight, Connolly's scream rupturing her ears. Everything was blurry—vision, hearing, consciousness…through the smoke and haze she could hear screams, running feet moving like a tide down the sidewalks, around her, people groaning and crying out in pain, rolling over, standing up-
"No!" she shouted, raising her head. "Stay down!"
Another blast. The boy underneath her cried out in pain and fear as she slammed him next to the curb, using the sidewalk to protect him further. She opened her eyes, and the fallen were not getting up. A few were still standing, wandering, staggering, hands pressed to their aching, deafened ears, gasping and moaning as blood poured to the sidewalk-
"Stay down!" But they couldn't hear, dazed, deafened-
Dead.
Another high pitched whine, another earth jarring explosion, another deluge of concrete and ash and soot and body parts ripped flying everywhere. She rolled back on top of the boy, pinning him down as he struggled in fear to stand, to run, to get away! "Stay here!" she shouted. "Stay down!"
Above Gotham City
"Look!" Shaw shouted. "Smoke!" The four looked down, drawn to her pointing finger. Black clouds belched from the Plaza-
The southwest corner of the Legacy's spire tilted. Ever so slightly. Then seventy-four storeys of steel and glass shuddered, slipped, and disappeared.
"Oh my God!" Wayne shouted. "Oh SHIT!"
"TRISH!" Rebecca James clawed at her belt, tore the headset from her face, scrabbled at the buckles strapping her in, holding her down, keeping her away- "TRISH!"
Cameron Shaw had vomited, face pale, mouth etched in a silent, wordless scream.
GCPD Tracking Room
"Get me visuals!" Gordon shouted. Every screen had gone blank at once. Fred Milton desperately checked the monitors, the plugs, the radios…He tried the local news stations…he could raise nothing. No one. Either power had somehow been cut solely to the Tracking Room Intake or-
Or all outgoing signals from the Legacy had been lost simultaneously.
Oh, shit. Oh Christ. Please no-
"Oh Christ! What the fuck was that!" Lawless' fingers tore at his hair. Paltron. The Kid! "They were right there, Jesus Christ they were right there-!"
A long, terrible shriek came from the hallway. "OH, FUCK ME! OH SHIT OH FUCK!"
The three thundered out of the Tracking Room, adrenaline pumping, confusion, anger, and fear propelling them towards the sound.
Renee Montoya, still screaming. "What's wrong, God, honey what's wrong!" Lawless grabbed her, pulling her away from the window.
But Milton already knew.
"IT'S GONE! IT'S FUCKING GONE!" she shouted, tears pouring down her face she was gasping, sobbing, hyperventilating-
"What's gone—!" Lawless shook her.
"The Legacy." Milton whispered.
"IT'S GONE IT'S GONE IT'S FUCKING GONE!"
Jim Gordon stared out the window in shock, for one agonized moment his heart stopping completely. Rising in Gotham's Skyline were clouds of grey dust, black smoke. Rising through the jagged, naked scar where the Legacy used to be.
They were there Jesus Christ they were right there! Lawless' words came back to haunt him as the woman struggled against him, screaming.
A year ago. standing on the frigid deck of the ferry waiting the countdown. Fifty-six seconds until they murdered or were murdered. "You're here," Paltron finally whispered, face empty and blank. "There's no one else for me to call."
Four months ago. "He, he, he raped me! He was my d-dad and he raped me!" Rage. Adrenaline. Pity. He pulled the sobbing boy close as he tensed, screaming and refusing, knowing nothing but fear and fright in even such an innocent, loving embrace…a father's embrace. The one touch, the only touch, he had never had from a man-
Burning rage and sickening sorrow. They were right there. Jesus Christ they were right there… Lawless held the weeping woman tightly as she sobbed. Her whispered words rose in the terrible silence: Ave Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum…benedicta tu en mulieribus et, et benedictus…benedictus fructus ventris tui…Sancta Maria, mater Deus, ora pro nobis pe-peccatoribus nunc, nunc et in hora m-m-mortis nostrae-!
Milton sat shakily on the cold tile floor, face buried in his hands.
Over thirty-five thousand people in the streets. Most of them students, teachers, or parents, believing in a better future.
GCPD. GCFD. GCEMS. All had representatives at the scene. Many were operating on minimum capacity.
All those people, all those lives, all that hope
In one instant, in one moment
Extinguished.
14:03 EST
Above Gotham City
The pilot kept his head. As the Legacy collapsed he veered up sharply, bringing them up above the level of the surrounding skyscrapers where they could mourn in safety.
"Jesus Christ," He whispered, as plumes of dust and smoke ebbed over a span of 15 city blocks.
Shaw was white and trembling. James was pale, shaking and sobbing, "It should've been me it should've been me instead—"
I was supposed to be there, Bruce thought numbly. If I had left on time we'd all be dead-
Paul Binkowski was the first to recover. He was filming, had been filming this whole time. What for, he could not guess…but he knew instinctively he now had the only available tape of the Legacy's destruction. Every major local news station—18, 37, Gotham Galore, the Urban Scene Network…hell, even CNN—had had ground crews on sight. Perhaps multiples…
"Put me through to TV 18," he said quietly to the captain. "Please."
"Chris? This is Paul. We've got aerial—live feed. I'm linking it to a cell phone and sending it your way." Then he turned his balding head to James and Shaw. "You need to cover this."
Silence. Seconds ticked by. Wayne looked at him through suffocating tears as both women blanched and turned away. "He's right."
"No. No!" Shaw screamed, burying her face in her hands. 'Trish! Oh God, Gracie-!"
"It should've been me!" Rebecca sobbed. "I should've been there instead-"
"Hey, listen. Listen!" Wayne said sharply, unbuckling his belt and climbing over the seat towards her. He shook her shoulders gently but firmly. "It's over now. Okay? It's over. Even if you had covered for Trish she still would have been there. More people would've died, okay?" He held her close, rocking her slowly. "This isn't your fault. It's not your fault. There's nothing you can do now. Nothing." He spoke not only to her but to himself, the terrible thought that perhaps if he had been there, if he had only been there he could have done something to stop this…
James' nails dug deep into his arms and she took a gasping, steadying breath. Wayne squeezed her tightly, then let go.
She dried her face with a blot of her sleeve, tearing green eyes staring fiercely into the camera. Paul nodded.
"We're live."
14:09 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
Laughing laughing fucking laughing it was hilarious the best punch line to the best, best joke he ever told-!
TV 18 went off air. Well, of course! That little whore was cinders. Couldn't show that on television, now uh, could we? With a studious look he brought the remote up, pressing the channel button with a tilt of his head and a disgusting shiver-
He was disappointed.
All the channels went blank. Well, the local channels, that is…He didn't understand, it didn't make sense. No way in Hell those rockets took out all the news crews-
"This is Rebecca James reporting live from…from above Gotham City." Wait a moment, wait a moment-tuh: that reporter worked for the local uh, the local TV 18…what the Hell was she doing on uh, CNN? He flipped the channels, her face appearing on all the networks…
Interesting.
It was noisy-she was wearing a headset over her ridiculous mane of red curls-
A helicopter. That's where she was a helicopter…but what the hell was all that uh, that black smoke?
BREEEEEeeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEEeeeeEEEEE-!
The alarms shook Arkham to its core, inmates cowering in fear, security guards looking nervously around. His own guards wheeled, guns drawn.
CODE FIVE CODE FIVE CODE FIVE CALLED ALL PERSONNEL REPORT CODE FIVE-
Code Five. Natural Disaster.
Or Terrorist Attack.
The view panned out from the bitch's pale, freckled face to the window behind her, looking down-
The Joker howled in glee, kicking his feet laughing, laughing, tears pouring out of his eyes pounding fists into the chair ribs aching hyperventilating jaw sore laughing laughing laughing!
And to think he thought his jokes were good.
14:33 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
Cruisers sped down the parkway, sirens blaring through red lights, barreling towards the rising black smoke and greyish, dusty cloud.
"This is Commissioner Gordon speaking. All units we are Code Five, I repeat Code Five. We have initiated FEMA protocol—"
"SHIT!" Lawless shouted, slamming the brakes. The dust cloud was still expanding, wafting down the road, a white-out of asbestos, plaster and glass. Around him, other crews were doing the same.
The Commissioner shouted over the radio, "Only medical and emergency vehicles on the streets! Park all squad cars on the sidewalks! We've got to get them through—"
Lawless sprinted after the Commissioner, racing to keep up. A fire truck went hurtling past them on the Parkway, sirens screaming. All around, for blocks upon blocks, sirens echoed and wailed, tinny and ominous in the grey fog. GCPD. GCFD. EMS. Men and women racing down the street, stumbling in the blinding cloud, desperate to reach the plaza.
Through the haze, a dark shadow grew. Closer and closer it loomed. Lawless stopped cold, realizing suddenly it was a host of survivors-
"Paltron!" Lawless' gruff voice rang. "Connolly!" No answer. They straggled past, maybe sixty of them, Red Cross and paramedics grabbing the weak and the injured-
"Gordon! Gordon wait!" Lawless shouted hoarsely, waist deep in rubble, scrambling over the still settling dust and debris of what was once the Wayne Legacy Foundation. "Gordon!" He erupted in a fit of coughing, choking on the dust and glass that now coated his face, his clothes, and his throat.
He passed more people, bewildered, hurt, confused. They looked at him, under the layer of dust, and couldn't even tell he was a cop. It was better this way, he thought. Better than the screams and pleading for help-
"Christ," He said, finally catching up with Gordon, five blocks out, taking his first look at the ruined remains. Twisted steel spires still jutted like shipwrecks from a sea of concrete and plaster, papery debris floating like a terrible autumn through the air. Not seeing the Foundation's familiar spire through the skyline had been bad enough, a jagged, naked scar on the horizon. The earthquake, the screaming, the sudden release of dust and ash that coated the city from fifteen blocks away…they were nothing compared to this.
"Paltron!" Lawless cried again, weaker and sickly in the muffling, suffocating dust. "Connolly!"
He looked helplessly over at the shell-shocked Commissioner. Grey dust had coated his hair, his clothes, even settling into his mustache, making him look older, more careworn and desperately tired than the Detective had ever seen him before.
"Paltron! Connolly!" Aaron shouted, the low, whooshing hiss of falling dust drowning the sound.
But there was no answer, and looking out at the utter ruin of the Joker's most recent revenge, he understood now there wouldn't be.
14:46 EST
Above Gotham City
"I've just received, received word that the first group of survivors has been found—" James' shaky voice rang through the cabin. "Sixty people were evacuated to Sisters of Mercy Convent for emergency treatment….other emergency sites include Gotham United Methodist Hospitals, Arkham Asylum, and all GCPSC gymnasiums.." she rattled off a long list of locations, prompted by the Network's voice in her ear, Paul standing behind the camera, changing the focus from her pale face to the carnage below.
Shaw continued to stare, stricken, out the window.
Bruce called Fox again.
14:58 EST
Gotham City Public Transit Station 213
Panting in the afternoon heat and the dense, suffocating dust, Renee Montoya shouted over the emergency band. "Officer needs assistance I repeat officer needs assistance! Estimated two hundred survivors taking refuge in subway I repeat, estimated two hundred survivors taking refuge in subway-!"
15:36 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"IV fluids!" Amy Lawless shouted, rushing yet another stretcher down the long hall to surgery. She had pulled the last bloated bag from the ER storage. "How many do we have in stock?"
"I, I think maybe eight hundred more in Ambulatory-"
"Save them!" She shouted, running an alcohol swab down the arm of the skinny thirteen year-old girl. "Have security bring 'em up here but give 'em only to unconscious patients! If they can swallow I want oral hydration, three hundred cc's every ten minutes for an hour!" Done. She ripped open the IV kit, dropping the contents on the bed sheet. "You!" She shouted to a pale faced, stricken aid. The trembling girl didn't belong on the floor in that state. "Make copies of any ID! Call families!" The young woman blinked and tore off, purpose giving her new strength…
No time to think, no time to worry, no time to weep…Amy pinched the fleshy bulge over the elbow, feeling the shrunken veins. Damn it, these kids had been sitting outside all day in the heat, they were already dehydrated-! She plunged the needle in, securing it with tape, then used a hypodermic to flush the site. "She's prepped!"
Dr. Chavez came thundering from the surgery room. "Bring her!" Amy grabbed the bedrail with her gloved hands, sprinting with the girl down the hall.
She wasn't scrubbed down, wasn't wearing a mask her gloved hands were filthy but she finished tearing the girl's clothes off as the anesthetic hit her. Wedged through the tiny girl's mid-back was a sharp shard of metal—probably from a car—resting millimeters from her kidney sack….Scalpel. Lancet. No time for worries about minimal scarring. Dark iodine rubbed over the site. "I'm going in. I'm clamping off the renal artery." Chavez explained, already through the dermal layers, a long, sweeping incision right under her ribs, cutting now crosswise through the pinkish muscles. "If this starts bleeding the whole thing's going to hell, okay? We'll have to cauterize the artery—"
"She'll lose her kidney!" Amy shouted, placing pins in the fatty flesh, holding it apart.
"And she'll live!" Chavez snapped. "Do we have a blood type?"
"We don't even know her name!"
"You call lab." He shouted. "Tell them I want a refrigerator of O brought to the ER, stat. Everyone's getting it unless they've got a driver's license!"
Tweezers around the shard, slowly, gently pulling back-
Explosion. Thick, viscous blood splattered from the site, Chavez swearing and suctioning it away. "I need that blood. I need it stat!"
15:58 EST
Above Gotham City
"Lucius!" Bruce yelped when Fox answered on the first ring. He had been dialing once every two minutes, receiving nothing but voicemail.
"Mr. Wayne?" Lucius' slow voice was hazy, distant. Confused.
"Lucius! What can we do?"
There was a long silence. "Mr. Wayne…I don't think even Batman could help in a situation like this…"
"Wayne Enterprises! With search and recovery!" Bruce said desperately. "Surely there's something we can do to help-"
"I was there," Fox whispered emotionlessly. "With my two granddaughters-"
"Shit, Lucius," Mikeala and Nichelle. He had forgotten-
"Their mother's picking them up…they're, we're fine….I'll, I'll look through the records to see if there's, if there's anything we can do."
Bruce hung up the phone, watching the rising smoke and dust that were the only remains of the Legacy. Wayne Enterprises brought all those people together, made them targets for the largest terrorist attack on American soil….She would not abandon them.
"Sir, we're going to have to land. Fuel tanks are getting low."
"Take us to Wayne Enterprises!" Bruce shouted through the Comm. He would meet Fox there. He looked back into the cabin, James still talking into the camera, reading emails sent via cell phone from the news corporation. She was pale and shaky, but goddamned determined. Shaw was still curled in misery on her seat, face covered in her hands, straight blonde hair now a tangled, worried mess. He reached back and touched her leg. "Hey," he tried to smile but couldn't. "It's going to be okay."
It was a lie. But what else could he say?
16:32 EST
Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward
"You heartless bastard! You did this you did this—!" security dragged the shouting nurse back as she kicked and screamed. "My daughter was there you bastard my daughter was there!"
Dr. Quinzel came running down the hall, purple high heels clicking with every hurried step. "We can't keep him here. Move him!"
"Where?" Frank Boles challenged. "We've got nearly two hundred people down in the cafeteria, all the rooms are full—"
"Morrison's room! It's empty. We've got to keep people away!"
"You want to protect HIM!" the nurse shrieked. "I'll kill you I'll fucking kill you too!"
"The safety of all our patients is my concern," Harleen said coldly. "She won't be the last. Put him in Morrison's room. Keep security outside this door."
Boles gaped. "You want us to transfer a maximum security prisoner to a patient care ward? Without security? Lady are you nuts!"
"Number one," Quinzel said fiercely. "These are patients, not prisoners! And secondly, you're going to have to! He's just as confined in a patient care ward as he is here. If you keep him here we're going to have break ins…and if this unit is breached, he won't be the only one to escape!"
She was right. Reluctantly, they consented. "We'll do what you want, ma'am," the chief of Arkham Asylum Security said. "But you're going to have to post this as a direct order. My men are not taking the heat for this one if it goes sour. I'm documenting this as contrary to advice and protocol—"
"You idiot!" Quinzel snapped. "If either of us document it's open for the whole system to read. Do you think it's a coincidence she was the first to attack him?" Hastily she scribbled a note, muttering vehemently about lost time and cowards. "This does not make it onto the computers," she hissed. "But it'll cover your ass. Now if you'll excuse me, I have patients to treat."
17:04 EST
Gotham City Plaza
Screams, shouts, bloodcurdling wails…in some places the rubble had begun to blaze. Everywhere Aaron went, there was suffering, someone needed him, needed his help…but he had to get to Paltron, had to find the Kid, pull him up from the wreckage wearing his small, shy smile and stupid purple T-shirt, had to introduce him to Gordon so he could buy him dinner…had to keep working his way towards the Legacy itself, had to see, to know for sure…
But it would be days, weeks, months, even, before this mess was cleared.
GCFD. The letters were blazoned on the dead man's suit. Damn. Aaron dug around the body, pushing his back into a crumbling slab of concrete and prying the corpse loose. Leave it, he thought, go on to the next…
There were dogs now, loosed on the edges of the pile, climbing, circling, searching for victims. Good. The dogs were good. Someone was still thinking, operating according to plan-
Plan. Aaron stopped dead in his tracks, remembering something the bastard had said: do I look like a man with a plan? His hideous laughter rang in Aaron's ears as he continued to climb the mountain of steel, concrete, glass and dust. What was left of Gotham's officers, civil servants, emergency and relief workers was now converging on this very spot…They would be fucking pants down for another explosion.
"Shit!" he said aloud, grabbing his phone and calling Gordon. The Commissioner's line was busy, and he cursed again, knowing it would be useless to call any emergency center at this time. Every line in Gotham would be ringing off the hook, the operators swamped, a city desperate for certainty, grasping for answers and reassurance…
But Detective Aaron Lawless was standing in the middle of Chaos, knowing the only certainty here was that there were none.
18:39 EST
Wayne Penthouse
Alfred Pennyworth woke suddenly, blinking in surprise. The parlor was in half light, the windows still open. Hastily he checked the wall clock, shocked to see the lateness of the hour.
My lands, he thought, standing shakily. I've missed the entire thing-
Bruce's speech would be taped of course, but he had hoped to watch it live…
6:39. The kitchen staff should be busy by now. He wandered in, wondering at the lack of activity, this afternoon's dishes still dirty and unscraped on the counter. How odd.
The sound of voices from the staff room. It sounded like television. He pushed open the door.
A pale, red-headed woman was on the giant screen, standing in the midst of what appeared to be a war zone. My God, Alfred's heart leapt. We've gone to war…
"Over three thousand people have been hospitalized so far…the National Guard is helping to evacuate non-critical patients to surrounding counties and their facilities… Lt. Governor Stephanie Miller has placed the entire City under military jurisdiction, and President Calderon has labeled Gotham a Crisis Zone-"
Alfred blinked. Gotham? Gotham City? But that would mean the reporter was here in Gotham…her pale, stricken face and voice grew eerily familiar in the silence. None of the kitchen staff spoke. Their eyes were glued to the television, faces traced in tears…
James. Rebecca James. That was her name.
She had to be here in Gotham. And that war zone, that fire, that smoke that hell and chaos behind her could only be one thing-
Panic.
Heart pounding, head reeling, Alfred stumbled through the kitchen, pain and dread growing in his chest. He coughed weakly, staggering to the window, and threw back the curtains.
Smoke. Ash. Dust. They covered a sinking, blood red sun in a sinister shadow. Alfred gasped for breath, falling, chest on fire, clutching one hand over the throbbing, aching pulse tearing through his left arm. His eyes widened in pain and shock, bluing lips pursing, mouthing Bruce.
19:00 EST
Wayne Enterprises
"What've you got for me?" Bruce asked, pacing behind the elderly man. Fox's weathered hands were in his short, greying hair, his head slumped forward on the desk. A picture of Mikeale and Nichelle—his nine year-old, twin granddaughters-lay on his lap.
"Not much, Mr. Wayne," he said, sighing and opening his dark eyes. "The Cardia. EMF technology with roots dating from the 90's. It detects electromagnetic fields-especially weak ones. US military has an exclusive contract, they use it for special ops missions…and extreme events, such as earthquakes, hurricanes, and, and even 9/11. The Chinese used something similar in 2008…This is a more updated model-better even than Geovox or Life-guard. Much more powerful, much more reliable. If it has a heartbeat, it'll show."
"And the range?"
"About half a mile. It's accurate, too, within half a meter, give or take. We developed this model for the military, strictly Black Ops. They're damn expensive, never manufactured commercially for search and recover, you'll understand…but it'd do the same thing: locate living people."
Bruce nodded, his desperation for answers, for help, for something to give back slowly fading into fierce determination. "That's good. What else?"
"Echolocation technology. If you can reboot it, that is," Fox turned, looking him in the eye. "Seventy-nine percent of the American public carries a personal cell phone…starting at age six. If the phones are on, we can tap their speakers, image the wreckage, model it in 3-D, give emergency services an idea where, where flare-ups and…bodies lay." He sighed, looking again at the picture of his family, running a tired, dark hand over its surface.
"We were late, you know," Fox's mild voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "If we had left on time we would have gotten there before the crowd…we would have been right there. Right in the plaza."
Bruce was silent. "You're here now," he said lowly. "And Mikeala and Nichelle are fine."
"We need to get this to MCU," Fox stood abruptly. "I've, I've been tampering with the machine. You'll need the original password to re-start."
"It's Lucius Fox." Bruce grunted, "Get it online. As for the Cardia-"
"Every existing proto-type is here," Lucius gestured to twelve sealed cases stacked under the desk. "It's a ray gun, uses auto-triangulation. Point and shoot. Even a kindergartener could use it."
"Echolocation," his voice was growing deeper, raspier. "Can it be moved? Onsite?"
Fox nodded. "Yes, Mr. Wayne. I believe it can. The signals will be stronger the closer they are—and a perimeter would help us triangulate."
"Good." Growling, gravelly, guttural. "We'll get them to Gordon."
"Mr. Wayne?" Fox asked hesitantly. His young employer turned, face a rictus of cold, calculating rage. It was no longer the face nor the voice of billionaire Bruce Wayne. It took a moment for Fox to realize it was the Batman, unmasked…
Even without cloak or armor, that anger was terrifying to behold.
19:25 EST
1900 E. Philadelphia Dr., Apartment #3578
Cameron Shaw unlocked her apartment door, slipping silently in and shutting it behind her. As soon as the lock clicked, she set the dead bolt with trembling fingers then collapsed into the frame, sliding slowly downwards until she sprawled sobbing on the cold tile floor.
She watched a building fall, crushing thousands, a co-worker among them. She was angry and afraid. She watched another co-worker muster the courage to face that fear, stepping up to the plate with grim determination.
Trisha was dead. All the jealousy she had ever had felt now so incriminating and petty. And now Beck had stepped forward to take her place. Trisha made a living out of her face and tits, achieving in one interview what took other journalists years. And now Beck had done the same. Seized a solid, permanent career in a matter of moments, when a nation looked for hope and trust and found only a pale, red-haired woman to guide them through.
Cameron Shaw cried for the dead.
But mostly she cried in jealousy and guilt.
20:37 EST
Gotham United Methodist
Darkness falling. Victims still pouring in. Many were simply dehydrated, confused, suffering panic attacks or even nervous breakdowns. For many it was psychological, raw emotional hurt. These patients needed friends, family, support-
But she did not have time. Today her job was stop the bleeding. Start the heart. No time for names or intimacy. Each was a life. Each must be saved. The stress of the ER shift was beginning to take it's toll…Amy Lawless' shaking hands bandaged yet another gaping cut, disinfected yet another scrape, wishing silently she could drink caffeine, praying urgently that the stress and panic, the adrenaline and fear hadn't already hurt the baby-
14:00. She rushed out the doors of the Ambulance Bay, staggering in shock at the sight and weeping on the pavement, clutching thin hands to her mouth. The asphalt stained her clothing, scratched up her knees…and she couldn't feel the baby's heart.
An elderly gentleman. Mid sixties. He was unconscious, a medicated coma. The stress of the news had taken it's toll on his body. Alfred Pennyworth. He had been lucky that friends or family knew CPR. It had taken nearly ninety minutes for EMS to reach him…but the waves on his telemetry said his heart was still pumping strong. He would make it through this. He would survive—
She finished signing off on his vitals and placed a gloved hand over her flat stomach, pressing deeply, hoping to feel a gentle, steady pulse. Her heart leaped—! then fell. Her own aorta, and nothing more.
20:52 EST
Near Gotham City Plaza
Darkness falling. Stadium lights hauled in, illuminating the wreckage. A fifteen storey parking garage groaned and collapsed, buckling under the structural damage of its foundation and the constant, steady vibrations of the heavy flow of emergency traffic.
Renee Montoya watched helplessly as the rushing ambulance she just loaded with two small children disappeared with sudden finality under the crushing mound of concrete and dust.
Around her, survivors choked and covered their eyes and mouths against the raging wind of gravel and cement. Two EMS workers and a driver. An ambulance. Things they couldn't afford to lose.
She held her head up, blinking owlishly through the settling dust. Her rationality sickened her.
21:49 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
The door swung open roughly, and Milton could hear protests from outside. Warily he spun from the monitors, gun up and at the ready.
He let his right arm drop. It was only Bradley.
"Man, what the hell? You can't bring civies in here-!" He protested as two plainclothes clamored wearily in behind his partner.
"I think you'll find we're not just civilians, Officer," Lucius Fox's smooth, reassuring tones began. "We're from Wayne Enterprises," he set a box-like silver case on the counter, deftly popping it open to reveal a padded interior and a strange looking, cathode gun, the tip a large, bowl shaped plate of steel. "And we believe we can help."
22:08 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
Officer Eugene Bradley sped down the cluttered road, sirens blaring, tearing through the maze of parked squad cars. The wind had change direction, and the Parkway was now clear and visible. In the passenger seat, the man who identified himself as Bruce Wayne sat still and emotionless.
"There she is," he stated. "The black van—"
"Looks like an Ops Center," Bradley noted, observing not only the dish antenna but the sliding door and lack of body windows. He handed Wayne a portable light. "Place this on the dash. Try to follow me as close as you can."
"You'll have a power source big enough for us?"
Bradley laughed humorlessly. "Wayne, you have any idea how many Watts go into one of those bad boys?" He gestured to the spotlights still visible thirteen blocks away. Lights Bruce recognized as sleeker, more modern designs, yet still comparable to the one Gordon used to fire into the night sky….
"Yeah, we've got you covered," the officer grunted, then the cruiser tore off again towards the glowing lights, wheels spinning and skidding on dusty pavement at sixty mph. Bruce followed as best he could, swerving in and out of the wreckage. But fifteen passenger vans-even modified ones—just weren't built for this kind of terrain.
If only he had the Tumbler.
22:35 EST
Near Gotham City Plaza
"Officer needs assistance I repeat Officer needs assistance!" Montoya barked over the comm. "I've got people who need help now!" She had evacuated most from the underground station, leaving behind only those too weak to stand or walk…but then the parking garage had fallen. Those left behind were now trapped, perhaps crushed. And she still had over a hundred out on the streets…
"I repeat Officer needs assistance!"
But she wasn't the only one. In concentric circles spreading for six blocks around the Plaza officers, medics, FD personnel, Red Cross Workers and National Guardsmen all shouted over the radio, each desperate to receive help for the victims in their charge…
Children whimpered. Grown men sat weeping openly. An elderly man toppled slowly sideways, heart giving out to exhaustion. She sprinted towards him, shouting into the radio, setting it down to start CPR.
Goddamn it. She found these people nearly eight hours ago. They should all have been evacuated by now-!"Officer needs assistance. I've got over a hundred live ones with me does anybody copy!"
"Montoya, that you?" A familiar voice came over the Comm. "We're targeting your position now, try to hold on—"
Press. Press. Press. Breathe. Press. Press. Damn. Damn. Come on, Come on!
"I had some left in the Subway! Station 213! They're trapped in there you've got to send FD to get 'em out!"
22: 48 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
"We're sending help your way, Montoya!" Milton cried. "Hang in there!"
"You guys serious about this shit?" Bradley asked. "Cause this is as real as it's gonna get. You better hope to God that fucker works." Bruce held the Cardia gingerly against his chest, feeling suddenly quite ridiculous and out of place, as though posing for a Sci-fi shoot. The thing just didn't look real.
Fox held one as well, and he smiled tiredly and grimly. "Lock and load, Mr. Wayne."
"You three—" Milton shouted as they clamoured into Bradley's squad car. "Find and locate the collapsed station, see if there's any left alive. I'm notifying GCFD and I've got Medevac choppers returning from Methodist. Fifteen minutes out. Stay in contact!"
23:07 EST
Operator Log Methodist Hospital
FCC Emergency Frequency Band
Methodist One, Methodist One this is Medevac Chopper 418. Do you copy?
Medevac, this is Methodist One. We copy.
Inbound flight with six patients presenting critical condition. Estimated arrival time ninety-seven seconds. Request permission to land.
Permission Granted. Paramedics will meet you on rooftop. Pad two. Repeat, Pad two.
Methodist One, we have Pad two. Pad two. Estimated Arrival time forty-eight seconds.
Medevac 418, we have thirty-six seconds to arrival. Thirty-one seconds to arrival. Twenty-five seconds to arrival…
23:31 EST
Near Gotham City Plaza
"No, No, oh fuck NO!" Bruce shouted as yet another green light blipped, blinked, turned red and was lost. Eighteen dots. Eighteen fields. Eighteen pulses. Eighteen goddamned people…
GCFD had arrived. Begun digging into the tunnel from the surface, sending crews to stations 212 and 214…But they were too late. Far too late. Red lights blinking, flickering, hearts stopping, growing cold.
Fox sat shakily on the cluttered curb, one weathered hand on his drawn face. Too late. They had been too late. If only he had picked up his phone earlier, if only Marissa could've come faster for the twins, if only…
"GOD DAMNIT!" Bradley swore, kicking the hubcap of the cruiser, three toes of his left foot crushing and breaking against the unforgiving steel. He let out a primeval cry, falling to his knees, fists clenched in rage, loss and pain. They were right here they were right fucking here—! "Bastard," He whispered, tears prickling his eyes "You'll fucking pay for this."
Renee Montoya watched in silent shock, face twisted and contorted in sorrow and fury. 15:00. That's when she found them. Shepherded them. Led them. Seven hours. Seven fucking hours they had and fucking no one could get to them…
All around, her survivors were being loaded into ambulances, walked by GCEMS, Red Cross Volunteers, GCFD. She had found two hundred. She'd lost twenty-one. Each face flashed vividly before her eyes, people muttering she did what she had to, did what she could… it wasn't her fault.
A young mother clutched her small daughter as a stretcher wheeled past, holding the blonde child's bruised and bloody face to her chest, whispering to her soothingly: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…And yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no Evil. For You are with me, Your rod and Your Staff, They comfort me…
Comfort? Forsaken. Left. Abandoned. Dead. There was no comfort for her here. Montoya sat miserably in the open passenger's side of Bradley's cruiser, face in her olive hands, rocking slowly, finally finding the strength to cry.
Dios mio, Dios mio, por qué me has desamparado?
GCPD Officer Eugene Bradley knelt next to the cruiser, violent red and blue flashing and reflecting in it's sleek, black surface. He recognized the words, bowing his head with her in a cry that was more an accusation: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
But there was no comfort in those words. Only a terrible, terrible truth. If there truly was a God who was good, He had utterly forsaken them.
23:32 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
Fred Milton threw the headset across the interior of the tracking room, pounding a shaking fist against the acrylic counter, swearing and sobbing. Goddamn it they were so fucking close-!
23:41 EST
Gotham City Plaza
Rebecca James cringed as Chris Holden's voice relayed the information in her ear. Behind the camera, Paul tensed, his bloodshot eyes looking wonderingly into hers. She brushed a strand of ruined red curls from her face as a chopper flew overhead.
"We've, we've just received word that eighteen people have died in Transit Station 213. The Parking Garage above the station collapsed, trapping survivors inside—" her voice broke, but she continued narrating, head held high, weary green eyes focused fiercely into the camera. "This brings the Legacy's official death toll to nine-hundred, sixty, sixty-five…"
23: 43 EST
Sisters of Mercy Memorial Garden
Darkness. They left the Convent in a long train of mourning, heads bowed, flesh glowing eerily with the flickering of votive candles. Next to the towering church was an empty lot, trampled weeds and thistles growing up from the foundations of a ruined building. Nearly twelve hundred were already gathered.
The Sisters of Mercy joined the sad circle of mourners and vigil holders, speaking no words but crying out in their hearts.
Twenty-four year old Sister Theresa Margaret, long, long ago Maggie Kyle, stood silently in the shadow of a beaten, weathered statue: an Archangel, wings unfurled, the concrete broken in many places, only the vague form and the solemn face still recognizable. A large sliver had cracked from the right cheek leaving a dark, running scar. In the wavering light, the Angel, like the silent Sister, could almost be weeping.
23:46 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"Clear!" Chest jumping, limbs twitching. "Clear!" Eyes rolling, whites gleaming-
Nothing. The EKG was flat, the extended, eerie whine the only sound in the silence.
Dr. Mark Chavez hung his head. Nine-hundred sixty-six. "Time of death, 11:46 PM."
His heart stopped beating. His heart stopped beating dead dead the man the baby her baby was dead—! Hands trembling, knees shaking, Amy Lawless removed the EKG pads, covering the dead face with a starched white sheet, and began the long, slow walk to the Methodist morgue.
23: 47 EST
Gotham City Plaza
Awake.
Alone in the dark. Paralyzed. Entombed.
Silence. Darkness.
And Alone. Terribly, fearfully, unbearably Alone.
Please God please someone oh please anything anything not alone not alone-!
Something warm. A hand! A woman's soft hand, lying limp and lifeless next to his. He reached and sobbed, fingers aching to draw it close…
He would hold it, kiss it, pressing, desperate, his only comfort, only hope for the next fifteen endless hours.
23: 55 EST
Ground Zero, Gotham City
Aaron Lawless blinked. A chopper wheeled overhead, long spirals of dust lifting and floating from the smoking wreckage. A strange, sobbing noise. A baby? He climbed achingly over the wreckage, forcing himself faster towards the sound.
Dogs. Thirteen dogs. Moaning. Licking. Whining dogs. And somehow their crying was worse than a baby, worse than a child, worse than any human at all. Bleeding and burned they lay on their sides, protesting their innocence to whatever god who had determined it so…
Gordon. Lawless blinked again. He was barely recognizable, face blank, lost, eyes staring and empty.
"Medic!" A fireman appeared through the smoke and haze, knocking the Detective over in his haste. "I need a medic!" In his arms lay a limp little girl.
"We need and ambulance!"
"There are no more ambulances!"
"Christ she's going into shock!"
Lawless raised himself to his hands and knees, trembling in pain, exhaustion, and growing dread. He rose shakily, heart dropping. The little girl was dead.
Flashing lights. Roaring blades. Flickering, dancing ash and water. Hoarse shouts and terrible screams. He blinked again, dread giving way to horror as Commissioner Gordon swayed, staggered, and collapsed.
"GORDON!"
23:59 EST
Ground Zero, Gotham City
"Jesus, Gordon. I thought you were having a stroke," Lawless' gruff, ragged voice cut through the darkness. "Gordon? Gordon!"
Jim Gordon coughed, sitting up on the tail of the ambulance, his eyes slowly coming back into focus in this epileptic nightmare. "I need to…to call Barb. Let her know I'm okay—"
Gordon coughed again, wiping his face and taking the sharp oxygen tubes out of his parched nostrils.
"Mr. Gordon-Commissioner!" Lawless turned. Shit. Just what they needed…a red-haired reporter tailed by a broadcasting camera stood in front of them. "Sir, what, what can you tell us?"
Gordon blinked slowly as dust and smoke rained down through the shafts of the stadium lights. His answer was both hollow and confused.
"I… I don't know..."
Rebecca James looked back into the camera, then let out a sob and dropped the microphone. She staggered to her knees and fell, weeping.
"Beck? Beck!" Chris Holden's tinny voice soothed in her ear. "Honey, you can't do this. You're live—"
Live. Alive. All those people! Trisha! Oh God Gracie! And 213—! And the redhead reporter only sobbed harder.
"Barb? This is Lawless!" Aaron shouted into the mouthpiece, insides tearing at her panicked plea "No, he's fine! He's right here! Look, he can't talk right now but he's fine, I promise…yeah, that was him…it'll be okay Barb, alright? Jim's okay…"
But it wouldn't be okay. Christ, Paltron was dead. The Kid was dead. A young woman wept. Dogs moaned piteously. People screamed. Flames erupted in the rubble. Foaming water and burning ash met hissing in the air. Medics hustled past with three stretchers…
Armageddon.
He turned back to Gordon.
A detective, a nation and a city looked to one man, one leader for hope, but found themselves thrust bleakly into Fitzgerald's despair: All wars fought, all gods dead, all faith in men utterly shaken.
There would be no answers this side of paradise.
24:00. Tuesday, August 20th.
The Dawn would be long in coming.
