The plane had now reached through the state's border where its designated city was located. It was neither ahead of schedule nor was it delayed.

James Gordon looked out the window. He had flown several times only when it was for vacation or to visit relatives. This one was different. Or at least it felt different. This one seemed much longer. The jet-lagging, he'd get used to. Then again, no amount of getting used to jet-lagging would prepare anyone for a city like Gotham. From what he could see, it was beautiful. It really was. It was almost much like the overhead view of Chicago when he left. Though, his years of experience taught him that appearances are the first thing that shouldn't be taken into account. The deftly placed narrow buildings and busy streets would trick anyone into thinking that it would be civilized.

Gordon's transfer came from Commissioner Gillian Loeb, who told him that he wanted experienced professionals. Some would call it a promotion. Some call it versatility. Gordon would call it a necessary evil. From what he read about Gotham City, it would be a difficult place to raise a family. His daughter, Barbara, assured him that she'd continue her studies at Gotham University. Her father understood that, to the establishment's credit, Gotham University has provided substantial opportunities—so big that it grabbed Gordon's attention. He was also touched by her remark that Gotham could use a guy like him, who could—if given the proper authority he was promised—shape up Gotham City as it should. That would be nice, he thought to himself. It would be a tough challenge as the city's character was heavily sinful. He couldn't wait to get out onto the ground. He swore he could hear the cigarettes calling out to him. He swore to his daughter that he'd quit, but that was a habit that he couldn't simply break. Barbara would kill him if she saw him with a stick on his lips.

"We are now beginning our final descent into Gotham City," the intercom said.

Gordon's eyes scanned the city as much as he could before the tall, narrow, and ancient skyscrapers would rise too high for him to get a glimpse of the horizon. Soon enough, the plane was making its final approach. The sun was beginning to disappear, and the darkness was making its inevitable approach. Gordon was making his final descent.

A descent into hell.

The arrival seemed like an illusion. Everyone's expressions were casual or excited, some were a mix of both. They either kept to themselves or made shady-looking glances at him as they passed by. In Gotham, you were either a hunter or the hunted, and there was no telling in difference, even if you were a cop. His observation picked up that some were Barbara's age. Young adults or teenagers who have begun their adulthood to pursue their dreams. It was maddening to think about. Who in the hell would think that Gotham was the place for anyone to have a bright future?

Just remember that you're needed here, Gordon told himself under his breath. More than anyone right now.

If the city was rotting from the inside out, it would have to take someone with a rough experience to help it climb out of the deepest pit.

Gordon's searching eyes found a man who was waving erratically. The man looked slightly obese along with a five o'clock shadow that gave the impression that he may have been quite the veteran that would match Gordon's prestige. A smile stretched across his chubby face.

"Jim!" the man called out.

Cautiously, Gordon approached the man. He knew who this guy was, but in Gotham, one could never be too careful. "Mr. Bullock?"

"Harvey Bullock," the man corrected, holding out a hand keeping that smile. His voice seemed a lot scruffier than he looked. He had quite the thick New England accent that would mesh perfectly along with the rest of the city. His teeth looked less than white while his breath reeked of cigarettes. There was another scent that may or may not have been alcohol. Just another cop that may have been more into trivial things than upholding his own shield. Feigning a smile, Gordon returned the handshake.

"And it's Detective Bullock," he further corrected with another rusty chortle.

"Detective Bullock," Gordon reiterated formerly.

"You're finally here! We've been waiting for you. Commissioner Loeb wanted me to make sure you got here okay."

Gordon nodded. Nice to see that they were at least had some consideration for new recruits. "The flight was on schedule as it should've been," he simply explained.

"Well, good then," Bullock said, trying to sound like a good sport. "The boys are waiting for you at the station. You're gonna love it around here, Lieutenant. Yeah, Gotham's a crap sack, but cops get it easy."

Gordon scoffed under his breath. At least this guy was in high spirits. Nodding accordingly, he followed the chubby cop and found their way out of the airport.

Once Gordon reached outside, the sun had gone down. By now, the bandits would be crawling. Being with these policemen offered no such comfort. Bullock seemed way too cheerful to be a law enforcer, which had a nightmarish eminence in this city. If cops weren't to be trusted, why bother trying to build a friendship with this guy? Then again Bullock seemed clean—at least, his file seemed that way from Gordon's own analysis. His only bust was police brutality on some lowlife drug dealer, who wanted to score with a hooker, who just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Somehow, the charges were dropped. That gave Gordon the impression that maybe Bullock wasn't corrupt. He hoped he was right. Being too careful was a necessary habit to adopt if he was going to live in Gotham.

Gordon looked out from the cab's window during the ride to the station that Bullock was so giddy about. The outside looked vastly different than what Gordon was used to back home. Back in Chicago, there were much more people that ranged to nearly all ages. Here, the number of people was significantly less. The streets were ancient and worn like the streets and alleys of New York like all those family vacations he remembered seeing. Back when life was simpler and when looking over a shoulder was unnecessary.

Soon enough, the cab dropped them in front of the station. Inside, Gordon was less impressed with his impression. The floor, while busy, seemed lacking. The room had an old-fashioned appearance. The walls and flooring showed severe signs of aging as if never touched or tidied. The smell inside was a mixture of many elements, yet they were detectable. The smell of coffee was no stranger. Cops had to have some way of keeping themselves up and ready. Some cops had a resembling odor of the leftovers of cigarette smoke. No smoking was allowed, but whatever happened outside was showing inside. There was also the smell of rot. The kind of untweaked stench

"Lieutenant!" Commissioner Loeb exclaimed. His face lit up upon seeing his new recruit approach the doorway. Gordon nearly gagged. Loeb's breath was the worst. Those half-assed cough drops didn't help conceal his abundance of cigarette smoke. It was almost enough to make him gag.

"Do come in," Loeb said. "Have a seat." Loeb proceeded to reach for a folder. He had them ready ever since he called Bullock to meet him at the airport. "Bullock didn't annoy you too much, did he?"

"Sir?"

Loeb formed a smile. "Well, the guy tries to put on a happy face. Don't fall for it. He's a bit of a loose cannon."

"So, I've heard," Gordon said.

Loeb's smile died a little. "Read about him?"

"Yeah. Saw 'excessive force' on his record."

Loeb's smile returned. "Yeah, that's Bullock. Toughie, but a softie. I'll be honest, though—we could use a little something like that. Well, we naturally don't condone that, but he's right for the job. The city's in a criminal crisis right now. We need a little more pushing out there to show everyone this isn't anyone's playground."

Loeb shifted through several documents that he pulled from the folder that lay before him. "And according to your profile, you have a lot more than what it takes. Good job on keeping the media away. I'll be looking forward to seeing how you do that. Reporters are obsessed with the 'truth'," he scoffed with a grin. "They don't have what it takes the shut the hell up."

"I promise to give you the best work, Commissioner," Gordon said formerly. "Though, sometimes, I think to myself that I may have made a mistake of keeping the media out of it."

"Well, mistake or not, you've got a good rep. And I say that's good enough to be around here in my office. If Bullock saw you as a good sport, that I'll be damned if I was wrong for hiring you."

Gordon lightly chuckled at that. At least there was positive-sounding honesty there.

"I gotta tell you, Lieutenant, you could not have come here at a better time. That being said," Loeb added, placing the papers back into the document, "I think it's best that you'll have your first-day hazing with Bullock."

Gordon's brows lightly raised.

"Don't take it the wrong way. Like I said, he's a good guy. I just think he needs a better guy to keep him on a tight leash." He leaned in closer and whispered gruffly, "I need you to be his anger therapist too. Lieutenant, this office is a team. And we're gonna work together as a team. What do you say that we could use a little team spirit?"

Gordon slightly grimaced. Already, this station was praising one who engaged in a felony in the eyes of competent superiors. He asked himself what he would be getting himself into since the first time he applied, but this office needed to produce results as much as Chicago's—or better yet, anywhere else but here. His first day on the job was already not going to be an easy one. He didn't expect it to be a cakewalk. Not in this city. But he hadn't counted on being someone's pause button. Chicago had plenty of homicide cases when someone was murdered, and the amount of anger that poured into the media and the victim's loved ones was nigh insatiable to solve a case without passion. It was natural for emotion to catch anyone off guard, and they would react irrationally. Cops held no immunity to such things as well. The horrors would turn a law-abiding enforcer to shoot first, ask questions later. Gordon hoped to God on his soul that he would never reach such a low. Gotham would be a challenge.

The office door opened.

"Sorry. Is this a bad time?" a voice said.

Gordon turned around to see a rather small man, standing to at least five-foot eight, whilst Gordon was several inches over. His hair was slicked to one side. Despite his small stature, his eyes had a sharp gaze that would stare down anyone if he could, even if they towered high above him.

"No, not at all!" Loeb assured flamboyantly. "Come on in. Lieutenant, this is our D.A., Tobias Hobbs."

Exchanging a handshake, Gordon introduced himself. "Jim. I'm pretty sure the Commissioner's already told you about me."

"Yes," Hobbs answered. His tone was surprisingly low for a man about his size but sounded friendly enough. "Told me about all your 'whacky adventures' over in Chicago. About how you handled that murder case that had everyone on the ropes for weeks before you caught him. Wish I had that superpower of keeping the media off my back."

Gordon chuckled softly. At least that was another compliment. "Yeah, thanks."

"Lieutenant, Mr. Hobbs here has done a lot more for this office than we could ever give him credit for. He busted so many junkies, wife-beaters, shark-loaners—you name it. He also got a full confession from one of our biggest serial killers, Victor Zsasz. Took a whole month to catch that S.O.B."

Gordon smiled at Hobbs. "I heard about your conviction on Zsasz. Congratulations. I imagine that must've been a difficult trial."

Hobbs shrugged. "He was in the wrong place, wrong time."

"As they usually are," Gordon added.

The door opened once more. Bullock still had his hand on the door. "You wanted to see me, Commish?"

"Harvey," Loeb said, "I need you to show the Lieutenant around here. Make him feel home."

As Gordon exited himself out the doorway, something had caught his eye, paralyzing him right in his steps. Bullock waved a friendly hand in front of his partner's face, but Gordon's eyesight was unshakably locked. He saw that there was one cop at his desk. He was a young guy, sometime after college. Either mid or late twenties. His eyes were prepped wide open, his teeth were open behind his tightly closed lips. Not a single nerve made a movement as if he were a puppet with no one holding the strings. Among the rest of the floor, he was the only one frozen.

"Hey," Bullock said, looking at the frightened man. "Gage. You a'ight?"

Bullock mirrored Gordon's eyesight and saw the young officer. "Hey. Gage. You a'ight?"

Without much else of a warning, the young man pushed himself from his chair and bolted away where he once sat. On his way out, he narrowly made it past several of his fellow officers, who barely paid much attention.

Bullock scoffed. "That was weird. Nick Gage. Our youngest. He transferred all the way over here from Central City. Can you believe that?"

"What was that all about?" Gordon asked out loud, surprised that none of the fellow officers took notice.

Bullock grunted. "Beats the hell outta me. Gotta a good record, though. Must be a family emergency. We're proud to have him all the way over from Ohio."

Gordon was almost tuned out. His first impression was a strange feeling. But that had to have been the perks of being the new guy in a far bigger city. On one hand, he was heavily surprised. For a city this so ass-backwards, one would think they would be far more vigilant. They were at a war on crime, and this felt like an office in a highly funded town. Loeb did extend his thanks for him being a part of their unit, but it seemed like he was supposed to say that. Even Chicago's P.D. was more strict. They'd whip these guys into shape. No way they would've lasted long in taking down the bad guys while having this kind of persona. Was this the first day of warm welcoming? Was this to show they were fearless? Fearlessness was a common sign of ignorance. The real question was whether he makes a mistake.

"You're lucky," Bullock sneered.

Gordon nearly jumped as reality pierced his pensiveness. "What do you mean?"

"My last partner got jumped in an alleyway. Broke his ribs, shattered his collarbone, snapped his spine, and had to spend the rest of his days drinking from a damn straw."

"And I'm lucky . . . how?"

"'Cause that's the last time I'm letting something like that happen to my colleague. They probably told you that I'm a wild card for beating pieces of garbage around here. Y'see, Lieutenant, I got a code, and it ain't pretty. Mess with a cop—you so much as kill him—you deal with me personally. There's no death penalty around here, and every cop-killing bastard and trafficking son of a bitch walk around like it's a damn Halloween town. If they don't get the needle, I'm giving them a battering. My partner ain't here 'cause I was too soft. Around here? It makes you realize—you drop your guard, they'll hunt you like an animal, and they don't stop hunting. You're gonna be my last partner to be replaced. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, you get me?"

Well . . . maybe this guy wasn't so useless after all. "Deal."

The walk to his designated home seemed like it took hours. Gordon's eyes swiveled like mad all around him. Any second, something would emerge with a firearm or a blunt instrument for a quick cash mugging. The slightest rustling that reached his ears sent his lungs into a quiet frenzy that he restrained himself from revealing. They would feast on that kind of fear, and he'll be damned if they ever smelled that on a cop—like that Gage guy he saw earlier. He had seen that kind of fear before. All first-time cops get that spine-tingling feeling. Even him. Like him, Gage was young. He'll get used to it. That's all one could do.

Minutes passed, and Gordon's path was lit by the streetlights, guiding him to the oasis within the barren desert which was his home. He had to finish the cigarette very soon. Barbara should be home by now. The library at Gotham University fell into her lap much to her luck. Her dreams of being a librarian impressed him and it didn't surprise him either. Her passion for knowledge had been with her since elementary school. It was no wonder she was a valedictorian at her high school with a damn near perfect 4.0 GPA. Despite its scary face, Gotham University's library would be a great place to start—that is, unless she wouldn't become another victim to the long series of incidents that Gotham was so full of.

Even though he was exhausted, his feet found the energy to climb themselves up the steps that would lead into the comfort of their home. Three lights were on inside, but the backend area seemed brighter. Opening the door, the scent of fresh dinner flooded his nostrils bringing joy. He needed it. The walls were ancient. The wood panels have been polished many times that it would be easy for one to mistake the floor as hard tiles that were customized to look like two by fours put together. The floor was hard enough for Gordon's shoes to make cracking echoes. The smell of fanciness wouldn't go away, no matter whose belongings resided within. The lamps were a dim yellow that it almost seemed as if only candles were the only source of light. Gordon figured that the lack of sunlight outside only made it seem that way. Adjustment was going to be a big key.

Hanging up his coat, Gordon entered the kitchen. There, stood a teenaged girl with a skillet in one hand, shuffling it gently to allow the spices to soak. The young girl was a small height with long red hair that reached between her shoulders. Her arms went in many directions multitasking between making dinner and checking on the timers that corresponded with different tasks. She heard her father entering the door, but she couldn't look up now.

Gordon glanced over at his daughter's work. It did put a smile on his face. That smell brought back the warm memories of the casserole dish that would lift the Gordon family's spirits. "Mom's favorite."

Barbara didn't answer back, but Gordon knew that was typical. She preferred to be left busy while she made her work.

"Need any . . .?"

"Nope."

"Gotcha." Gordon hesitated, wanting to make sure not to interrupt her concentration. Changing his tone to overly casual, he said, "So . . . first day as an actual librarian. How'd it go?"

"It was awesome," she answered more enthusiastically.

Gordon's eyes lit up. At least she seemed excited.

"My friend, Colleen, showed me around, and I got to stay for a little more extra hours. It was perfect. The freelance would be perfect and I'll have that on my resume."

"That's great, honey." Gordon complimented.

"Yeah," she answered once more, though it sounded like she was returning to her non-interested self. "What about you? How was the station?"

Gordon exhaled. "It was . . . something."

Barbara turned her head. "What do you mean?"

Gordon shrugged. "I mean, I think I'll do okay. The place is a little sketchy. It's got some interesting people."

"The not-buying-it-interesting, or the interesting interesting?"

"Little bit of both?"

"That doesn't sound too promising," she analyzed.

Gordon made a weak scoff. "Well, my new partner seems promising. Harvey Bullock—he seems a little rough around the edges who might need constant adult supervision."

"Think he's dirty?"

"I don't know."

Barbara could sense her father's despondency in that response. Much to her father's surprise, she turned her entire body around and faced him, her eyes loosening themselves into a more tranquil gaze. "What's wrong?"

Gordon hung his head. He had been patient, but it did feel relieving to get this off his chest. It also felt good to sometimes talk about his work, whether it got ugly or not. "Before I came here, I knew this would've been a big decision to make. My record was beyond perfect to be qualified for this place. Maybe too good. I kept worrying that working here would've been a big mistake. Everyone I've looked at back at the station—I don't see anything but pettiness. They're not cops. They're just men with guns with impulses. Shoot first, ask questions later. Or none at all."

Barbara grimaced. "That sucks. But there were other guys like that back home, weren't there?"

"They were mostly rookies." Gordon shook his head. "And even then, the top guys whipped them into shape while keeping them on a tight leash. Around here, there doesn't seem to be such a thing as a tight leash."

"Hey," she said softly. "What's more important is that it's not them who really needs you. It's the city."

Gordon slowed down. "I know. It's just a lot to take in. It's like living in a whole new world. It's not Chicago, and there's no reason to think it would've been the same thing, but I took the job because I know what has to be done. Now, it seems like I'm the only one who does the job. Trust is everything when working in a department."

"Exactly," Barbara said. "You see that kind of talk? That's what makes you great. They let someone like you work in their department, that's going to leave an impression."

Gordon's straight face broke. He knew her point and the meaning of her words, nevertheless. "I swear to God you sound more and more like your mother every day."

Barbara returned a smile. "You're gonna be great. You're a hard worker, you're a good detective, you follow the book, you—what? What's with the pointing? Why are you pointing—shit!" She kicked her heels back to the stovetop, which was now beginning to smoke.

Gordon rolled his eyes. She even talks like her mother.

The sun's dying breaths constructed a deathly hot red in the sky that was littered with several clouds that had no pattern. Down below, a hellish crimson aura gave light. Soon, night would come, and the cricket's songs would begin. They were, at least, peaceful, unlike the barren silence that haunted Gotham. Wayne Manor was an oasis that held no shield from the horrors. The evening insects began their sonatas while the interior of the manor was also a lonely stillness. The silence was natural around the house, save for Alfred's footsteps that would make muffled echoes.

Bruce's head hurt. He already made the calls he needed to make today. The fundraisers had already been made except for one that was coming this weekend. It had been a demanding event for everyone, even the mayor. Bruce had little to no patience for politicians, but that never stopped him from putting on a happy face whenever they met him face-to-face. What was more painful was sitting there. There was nothing to do. The countless hours of having more paperwork to do wouldn't fill in the hole that continued expanding in his mind. There were no late date nights.

Ultimately, it was decided to have some time in front of the TV—a mindless distraction from what was eating at him on the inside. The usual shows were on commercial breaks, except for local news stations. Every news channel was flooded with similar covers. There were more reports about how crime has risen erratically. He heard the report about more murders that occurred another night. The investigations were ongoing, but there was no conclusion to any of them. There were several reports about the brutal murder of a female college student found dead and signs of sexual assault. Another story involved a home invasion. A family of four—father, mother, son, and daughter. All were found in their bedrooms, murdered. Shot point-blank range. It was assumed they had been asleep as there was no struggle.

An entire family.

Bruce shuddered, feeling the adrenaline of anxiety take the reins of every nerve in his body. It was happening again. The new homicide that would be placed among the many others that occurred this week ripped open the back of his mind. He could see his mother and father's faces. The gun that pointed at him, its rim shimmered, heralding the two deadly bullets that changed his life. The screams followed by silence from his mother and the anguished sobs from him shortly afterward. The nightmares about the bats that surrounded him. The vulnerability he wished on none other. No one to help.

Stop it!

The remote fell onto the floor. Bruce's coordination was no more, and he found himself at the edge of the seat with his head facing downward, his forehead dripping with perspiration. After a moment's recovery, he reached for the remote and turned his attention back to the screen. The remote's contact with the floor had caused another channel flip; this one was immensely different. At last, a channel that didn't feature an anchorman or sub-headings of whatever the hell was happening in Gotham.

The TV was showing a program in black and white. It was the station that would play reruns of older and more retro shows or films. He had seen plenty of old-fashioned movies. His parents had shown him plenty of flicks they had seen in their lifetime. Only this one made his heart skip a beat. The words that were said on the screen seemed to have echoed as if everything around him disappeared, making way for an endless void for the sound to travel beyond him.

"Out of the night when the full moon is bright,

Comes the horseman known as Zorro."

Bruce's lips parted as he was that night slammed into his mind. The same tune that echoed in his head that he had tried to avoid for so long had made its torturing return—only it wasn't as harmful as he had feared. Hearing the lyrics play more, the shuddering ceased, and Bruce froze his eyes, allowing the memory to smother. He had felt a hint of felicity—the same kind of feeling he hadn't sensed in so many years. That one brief time he was most happy right up until the Waynes made their way to Park Row. Long ago, he had longed to be like Zorro—an outlaw who always swept in and beat the bad guys. The swashbuckling action that entranced him before came back to him. A child's fantasy. If there was such a hero, he would've come and stopped Chill. If he was real, he would've stopped that family murder. Maybe heroes really are just child fantasies. There was no such thing in this town. There were only bad guys and those who are innocent.

Pressuring on the armrests, Bruce hoisted himself out of his chair. He turned to see the nearby wide window that cast a bluish-white light from the watchful moon far from above. He walked over until he was only inches away from the freshly polished pane and stared downward. The moon's gaze made everything visible. He could see the nearby shrubs and hedges that Alfred neatly trimmed. Beyond where that was, it only got darker. The rest of the direction got murkier and soon, Bruce's eyesight caught the heart of Gotham, where the tall towers stretched far into the blackened heavens. The moon showed everything there was to be seen where Bruce was. Out there, it showed nothing.

Panic soon dissolved from Bruce. He could no longer feel the dread grasping his innards. There was now only a tranquil righteous sense of fury. His breathing was now barely audible, and he narrowed his eyes into a raging leer at the towers far away. If no one was willing to shine the light upon Gotham, somebody had to.

He hesitated, thinking to himself. He was told by Alfred, friends, colleagues, and many other law enforcers. He had believed them. For the longest time, he restrained himself to not do this. They all told him to let it go and move on. There wasn't anything he could've done or do.

Not tonight. Not anymore. Why bother, especially if a man who swore to uphold the law didn't even try? He made his decision. It was time to storm into the deepest pit and yank out the demon that made its nest.

Retreating from the window, he flicked the TV screen off, silencing the light in the room, leaving Bruce in the dark. He stormed out of the room with a single-minded determination that would lead him to one of the study rooms. Bruce promptly sat himself at the office desk, where his desktop system would activate upon fingerprint matching.

Fiddling the keyboard erratically, he searched through the archives, which contained schematics and component layouts for several devices. Being the sole bolster for Gotham's economy and telecommunications projects for the Department of Defense had its benefits.

Keeping a secret like this would be tricky, but not impossible.

His biggest concern was Alfred, who would have a heart attack. There was no telling how Alfred would react to something like this, especially after he told him to take caution. If he were to do this, this would have to be as discreet as possible. He wouldn't count on keeping Alfred in the dark entirely. He'd find out sooner or later; it would be a matter of time. Either way, Hobbs had to be taken down.

Seconds followed, and the room almost immediately lit brightly as if a light switch had been turned on. That, alone, was the reason why he had lamps personally removed. This system would be the sole light source and bright enough to even spot dust on an untouched object. Upon activation, the interface images that imitated icons flashed and were held suspended above the desk.

Toggling the keys that lay flat on the desk, Bruce typed in the name, "Tobias Hobbs". Soon enough, the large monitor materialized several images. One was an enlarged picture of Hobbs while other images displayed news headlines that were related to him and his biography. The monitor mounted on the side enlarged his record. Admittedly, it was impressive. He served Gotham's justice system even before the Waynes' deaths. Highly decorated, he was considered to be promoted as judge. He was even offered to be a supreme court justice. That would've been a fatal error.

Tapping the console, the monitor then displayed an audio channel that came in the form of faint of static. The police radio was always chattering. If Hobbs was present at his parents' murder site, then he would bet that Hobbs would still be around other scenes, even after all these years. The guy was still in office and still defending and prosecuting.

As Bruce's eyes danced from one location to another, figuring where something needed to go, exhaustion began to swell in him. His eyes were failing him, and everything had lost its sharpness. His body was fueled with a growing heat that told him that staying awake would be not much easier now. But it had to be completed.