Tuesday, August 5, 2008; 12:58am – Near Dixon Docks; Gotham, New Jersey
The rhythmic drumming of the large motorcycle beneath him didn't help his current state of consciousness. Everything was in shades of gray, grayer than normal, making things harder to distinguish, harder to tell if his vision was fogging again. A blur passed by on his right, a rectangular shape that took him a moment to realize that it was a speed limit sign. He didn't know how fast he was going—nor did he care, but he did manage to distinguish a street corner. He took the turn sharp enough to make sparks fly from underneath the machine as the metal along the right side tore against the asphalt. Adrenaline shot through him again, much weaker than what had been powering him before, but enough to clear his vision again; the pain from the effort of the turn causing his vision to flash red as well. His body was reaching its limit, as much as he hated to admit it. From all the injuries he had sustained, his body couldn't keep going. He had to find a safe place to crash. The best and closest option right now was the shipyard, the first place Alfred would look.
Sirens echoed through the streets behind him, an unwanted sound that he was able to hear again with the small dose of adrenaline. They were far enough away not to worry him too much, but his mind made them sound so much closer; those sirens were no longer friendly sounds.
The bike wobbled slightly before he noticed that his vision had reverted back to foggy gray and the corners were beginning to blacken. Not yet, I'm not safe yet. He made another sharp turn, causing more sparks to fly towards the car he had just cut off, but this time he wasn't rewarded with the clarity and rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins. His vision remained foggy as it narrowed.
I'm not going to make it.
No, he couldn't think like that. Not now. He was going to make it. He had to make it.
He had turned a block too early to make a straight shot for the shipyard, only five miles south from where he started this mad rush, from where Gordon still was, safe with his family. The weaving through cars and sharp corners to take the long route had kept him awake at first, and it had given him more time to lose the always-following sirens, sirens that he could no longer hear as both the coaxing rhythm beneath him and his throbbing pulse drown everything else out. But it had taken him longer to travel those five miles, a price that it seemed he would have to pay.
The bike wobbled again, and he lowered his chest, causing his entire mid-section to scream in protest, to help steady it. His eyes narrowed to try and see clearer through his slowly narrowing line of sight.
One more block. And one more turn.
He heaved his weight towards his right to make the bike turn the corner. It was easy to get into that position, aside from the protest from his wrists and arms that held him to the machine, and his turn wasn't as sharp as the last few. But he couldn't get back into an upright position. His left leg pushed hard against the metal in an attempt to raise his weight again, and he could feel the heat from the metal pipes radiate against his skin through the armor. It worked, but he was in a constant wobble that neither his body weight nor his arms could steady.
He managed to flick his thumb, firing the guns at the head of the massive machine at the weak fence blocking him from sanctuary. Hopefully no one would notice a missing part of the fence before Alfred got to him. Asphalt turned to gravel, changing the rhythm into a much rougher one. But his body was spent, this change could coax no more strength from him. His weak fingers reached for the brake, but they couldn't grip it tightly enough. The motorcycle was meant for emergency purposes, not something to gallivant around town on. No speedometer, difficult brakes, large tires that made turning impossible for the average Joe. The bike wobbled dangerously again, and he tried desperately to tighten his hand and apply the brake. But no matter how much his mind screamed the command, his fingers wouldn't listen, and they rested idly on the black metal.
He could say with certainty that this had been the most painful thing in his life—physically. Being beaten until he went unconscious or learned to fight back, starving for days on end, enduring Ducard's—no, Ra's impossible training in the freezing terrain of the Himalayas was nothing compared to this. The massive motorcycle he had finally lost control of had hit the gravel on its side as it swerved off the path, sending sparks flying past him as his leg was crushed underneath it and he was dragged behind the skidding machine. It was with this new pain of his leg being trapped against the heated metal of the bare engine and the ground, and the sharp gravel finding spots to dig into the spaces between his armor that made the numb and dull pain he had been barely controlling to scream without mercy. He felt each and every injury he had sustained that night, from broken bones to a point-blank bullet wound, now that Cassandra's training fell by the way-side.
He couldn't tell if the motorcycle had slammed to a stop against one of the crates first, or if he had passed out first.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008; 9:32pm – Gotham Century Towers; Gotham, New Jersey
Darkness. Silence.
"Harvey? Harvey, it's alright." Her voice echoed in his mind, in the darkness. She sounded pained, hurt. The realization dawning on her that she was not going to be saved. The realization that Batman came first. So she was doing what she did best, what she could always do. Trying to comfort a distressed Harvey as he was being dragged out of the warehouse.
Her last words were trying to comfort Harvey. Not her, not him. Harvey.
Bats suddenly flooded his mind as an explosion ripped through the silence and filled his mind with the image of burning bats…
His eyes shot open as he panted, trying to catch his lost breath. He blinked, attempting to make himself realize that he was in his bed in the penthouse. But the images from the dream wouldn't go away. Neither would Rachel's voice. Her voice, her last words, would always be stuck in his mind, just like the sound of two gunshots echoing off of alley walls.
With a sudden wave of unbearable pain, the memories of last night, of the past week, came painfully rushing back to overcome the memory of that dream. Joker. Harvey. Gordon. Rachel. He groaned aloud as a result of both the pain and disappointment as he tried to move, which seemed to double the first problem. His panting suddenly subsided as well once he realized that it was causing more pain instead of helping him.
"Perhaps you should lie still, sir." Alfred.
Bruce's dark blue eyes glanced in the direction of his voice to find him sitting next to the bed, preparing a clear drink. It was the same image he had seen only once before, nearly a year ago, only he didn't hurt as much. And it was sunny then. "How long have I been out?" The question came out as a croak as it sent a crushing force searing through his chest above the rest of the slowly numbing and aching pain throughout his stiff body; it felt like his lungs collapsed.
"I'm not quite sure, sir," Alfred replied quietly as he finished stirring the drink. "I found you last night around two o'clock in the morning after I received a call from Mr. Fox." Bruce's brow furrowed, confused. "He was calling to warn me that you might require some assistance in the morning due to the injuries he had witnessed you receive." Alfred offered the glass, but Bruce only glanced at it before shaking his head slightly, his eyes clearly wanting the butler to go on. Right now he wasn't sure if he could stomach anything—he needed to wait a few minutes. Alfred returned the glass to the nightstand before continuing, "He had also informed me that you had run another errand after your escapade near the river. So I, not expecting you back for some time, and especially not here, went to the bunker. Once I was logged on, I found your GPS location just above me." Bruce still looked lost, his eyes now tilted downward as he pieced things together, the memory of last night conceivable but still more of a blur than anything else his sharp mind could remember. Alfred paused before continuing, his own blue eyes full of worry, "You did wake up when I found you, sir. You helped lift that machine of yours off of you, otherwise you'd still be laying there, surrounded by sea gulls."
Bruce didn't acknowledge the humor. "What time is it now?" he managed again, still only a quiet rasp that was hardly a shadow of the Batman growl.
"Nine thirty-five in the evening, sir."
Nine thirty-five. He'd slept an entire day. He tried to move again, causing Alfred to frown and his lead body to ache. "Joker. What happened…?" he muttered, his eyes searching Alfred for a clue, any clue. So much had happened that night, he needed to know the aftermath. He needed to know that he hadn't wasted a precious day.
Alfred reached for something further back on the table the glass was sitting on. "Perhaps you should read this, sir," he said with a hint of remorse in his voice.
Despite how much it hurt, Bruce fully reached for the newspaper as his eyes eagerly devoured the headlines. There was only one headline, the article trailing it simply a line of photographs. The rubble of Gotham General, the worst rush hour seen in Gotham's history, the vibrant makeup of the Joker barely visible through a mob of people—most of them SWAT, police, or national guard; a body bag being wheeled towards an ambulance in front of a broken warehouse backdrop, and above it all a picture of the spotlight with the shadow of a bat focused on the clouds above Gotham. Several bylines flanked the pictures, each one on the photos already present on the page. But above it all, it was the headline that stuck out the most to Bruce, the headline that probably stuck out to everyone.
'BATMAN'S RAMPAGE. Masked vigilante conspires with Joker and kills five more in a day of terror.'
Bruce winced. He knew it wouldn't be pretty. And he knew first-hand that the press blew things out of proportion. The Gazette's staff must have stayed up all night working on this. Let everyone think he was the bad guy now. That was the point. In the quick skim of the bylines, specifically the one detailing the murders, he'd learned that Harvey hadn't been blamed at all. He was a victim.
Gordon had pulled it off.
Bruce lowered the paper to see Alfred ringing out a washcloth in the bowl on the table. "Alfred?"
"Yes, sir?" the butler answered as he finished folding the cloth and set it on Bruce's forehead, crushing the few stray hairs beneath it. Before Bruce continued, he glanced upward, though he couldn't really see the warm washcloth that stunk of vinegar, as his arm moved to remove it, but Alfred quickly stilled his arm. "Fever, sir."
Dark blue eyes darted back to the butler in acknowledgement as Bruce stilled. For now he'd leave it, but after Alfred left was a different story. "Is this…right?" he asked quietly. He knew the elder man knew what he was talking about, even if he didn't know all the details. Alfred knew Bruce would never let anyone die if he could help it.
Or so Bruce thought.
But as Alfred paused, his eyes looking elsewhere, Bruce's gut wrenched, and not because of the hole that was in the middle of it. "I believe that you did what you needed to do, sir. Whether it was right or not…the future will tell us that, I suppose."
Bruce pondered the butler's reply. And as usual, he was right. Though the damage was done, they wouldn't know the effects after just one day. He knew Alfred had his doubts about all of this, he had all along. Even he, himself had his doubts now. As for Batman himself…
Suddenly he refolded the newspaper and set it next to him before struggling to sit up. Alfred looked alarmed, but Bruce ignored him. Once he managed to reach a sitting position while using his good arm, the muscles in his back as well as his abdomen burning like hell, he pushed the covers aside, let the washcloth slide off his head, and swung his legs out over the side of the bed.
At this Alfred stood, but aside from that, he didn't move. "And where do you think you're going, sir?" In a matter of seconds his tone had turned from worried to condescending.
Other than his heavier- and quicker-than-normal breathing, Bruce remained silent as he finally pushed himself off the bed and stood. The world spun a little, his blood count still recovering, but he lumbered across the large master bedroom and towards the hall.
"Master Wayne, I don't know what happened last night," Alfred suddenly said, "but I know that you shouldn't be going anywhere in this state."
Bruce stopped at the doorway, resting against it as he breathed, feeling each and every injury fresh. The couple of broken ribs and the gunshot injury were obvious. Bruises on his back were making his muscles ache, a result of the Joker's rampage with his metal pole combined with falling four floors. There were also probably a few stab wounds somewhere on his torso. His side and leg stung with the feel of being freshly clean, hinting towards large scabs that were probably present—the gravel-burn he'd received after crashing. And lastly his wrist, that was tucked at his side, was thoroughly wrapped. He couldn't remember exactly how he'd broken it; there had been so many ways.
He could feel Alfred's eyes on his bare and bruised back, watching him warily. "I need to…" Bruce began, his already quiet voice drifting off. How could he put what he needed to do into words? He knew Alfred would understand, but he himself almost didn't want to admit it. He'd put so much time and effort into everything for nothing. He had tried to be one of the good people.
Now he had to bury his failure. For her. It's what she wanted.
"If you want to go down to the bunker, I will not allow it, sir."
He pushed himself off the door frame and staggered down the hallway. Alfred sighed behind him as he quickly caught up. He only had to walk alongside his employer for three steps before Bruce's throbbing leg gave way and the butler quickly caught him. "I should know better by now," Alfred muttered under his breath, Bruce still able to easily hear it even in his weakened state as he did his best not to put too much weight on the elder man's shoulders. At that he managed the faint trace of a smile as the pair made their way through the penthouse and to the private elevator hidden behind the wall in one of the spare rooms.
A/N: Alright, so I put some dates to the Nolan movies, and I'm saying they're right, even if they're not. Starting from last chapter, Joe Chill's hearing was Monday, February 14, 2000. Bruce disappears that day for about seven years, so I'm going to say that brings him back to Gotham in March of 2007. Batman Begins would then occur over the next few months, leaving the attack on the Narrows around late June. That leaves about a year for the events in Batman: Gotham Knight to take place, as well as the estimated time lapse given by both the Joker in The Dark Knight and IMDB's trivia section and the whole GCN section of TheDark Knight DVD special features, before The Dark Knight begins roughly in mid-July 2008 (it gives a pretty decent time frame for Harvey's campaign and election) and lasts a couple of weeks, starting our story again in August. This chapter picks up where the movie left off, starting from Batman trying to get to safety after his night with stopping the Joker from blowing up two ferries full of people and saving Gordon and his family from Harvey Dent, aka Two-Face, with the police chasing him and the serious injuries he sustained.
For the rest of this part, Nolan's Gotham is based on real cities and locations. Bottom line: Gotham = Chicago. Metropolis = New York. I'll be taking real places from Chicago to be used in Gotham (with my own alterations to make them fit into the story, of course); same thing with Metropolis.