Bruce was taking a nap when the phone rang. "Hello?" he growled. After seeing Dick last night, he opened not one, but four boxes of Italian Four Cheese Cheez-Its and drank two bottles of nicely aged wine from the cellar. He hated himself for it, but later found himself not giving a rat's ass, mostly because the worst had already happened. Ask his double chin and the gut blocking him from seeing his toes.
"Jesus, Bruce. You only answer when it's convenient, don't you?" Selina said. "Everyone has to wait for Bruce Wayne, because he can't be bothered—"
"What do you want?" he asked. His hangover was murdering him.
"Where the hell have you been?" she snapped. "The whole city is in shambles, divided by children and gangs, destroyed by villains and corrupt police officers!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Bruce asked. He wondered if menopause treated all women this unkindly.
"Gotham, you pig-headed idiot. Since you retired, the whole city's gone to the seventh circle of Hell!"
"I just talk to Robin last night. He said everything was fine."
"Of course Robin said that. He said it so you wouldn't worry. He wants to fix everything like a big boy, but at this point, the damage is irreparable."
Bruce rose from his bed and took the two aspirin on the nightstand, popped them into his mouth, and dry swallowed. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"FIX IT," she yelled and slammed down the receiver.
Bruce shook his head. It's not like he was in the shape to do anything about it, and he had plenty of other things to take care of. He showered and donned his best suit, looking at himself in the mirror and adjusting the dimple in his tie. Were printed ties still in? He looked at the gold paisley print. Did this make him look like he had jaundice?
"ALFRED!" Bruce shouted. "WHERE ARE MY KEYS?"
–
Bruce drove through Gotham out of curiosity. He sped down the streets and saw nothing unusual, just the normal bustling streets crowded with people wearing Prada suits to Radiohead t-shirts. The buildings were mostly intact, with the exception of some foreclosed areas. The skyscrapers stood tall and reflected the sunlight of their windows, and Bruce imagined the people inside, playing Pong or whatever it was these people did for nine hours, probably bored and thinking about what they're doing tonight after work. If Bruce squinted enough, he could see the Bat signal at the top of the police department building, left out to rust from the acid rain. To Bruce, Gotham still looked like the city it had always been with Batman—a little dirty, but safe. Selina was going batshit crazy. Everything was fine.
Until he watched a group of kids rob an old lady.
Bruce accelerated and drove onto the sidewalk, slamming on his brakes and putting his car on park. He jumped out, running as best he could to catch the hooligans. "COME BACK HERE, YOU FUCKING BRATS!" Bruce roared as he stopped the chase. He was out of breath, watching them turn a corner. Not too long ago, he would've been able to catch them and beat the living shit out of all of them while returning the woman's purse within less than ten minutes. Now, well, it was just sad.
The old woman started to beat him, crying out for him to chase the kids down. He turned to her and shrugged. "They're gone," he said. "I'm sorry."
"Maybe if you were in better shape, you'd have caught up to them," she snapped. "You run slower than my dead dog! This wouldn't have happened if Batman were still here!"
"I AM BATMAN!" Bruce wanted to yell. But instead, he pursed his lips and turned back to his Maserati to drive back home. A ticket rested on his windshield. He sighed, took it down, and drove off, vowing never to help anyone again.
Once Bruce was safely inside his mansion on the outskirts of town, he reached for another box of Cheez-Its that Alfred had graciously restocked, and a bottle of wine from the cellar. He never wanted to leave his house again to avoid further embarrassment.
"Sir?" Alfred had materialized in the living room as Bruce stuffed his face with fake Italian four-cheese flavored goodness. "I would rather you not spoil your appetite with that filth."
Bruce took a long swig from the bottle and turned on the television. Teen Mom 3 was on, and he really felt for Chelsea. Who cared if the whole city of Gotham went to shit? Even grandma deserved to get mugged. Maybe that would teach her not to be so mean to fat people, especially when that fat person was Bruce Wayne.
"Sir, I think you should go out tonight," Alfred said slowly. "There are some things you need to see."
"Like what?" Bruce asked.
"Gotham. It's not the city you left us," Alfred replied. "I think it's best that you see itwith your own eyes."
So Bruce sobered up and went on another drive. Alfred's comments made Bruce feel afraid but excited at the same time. It felt like long term relationship that just ended, the kind of relationship that made you feel good when the other person was worse off than you were. Bruce wanted to laugh at Gotham's pockmarked face, give her a well-deserved "FUCK YOU!", but once he arrived in the city, his face fell.
He drove slowly through the streets, and all the shops had closed their doors. The normally exciting, bustling city had died, with the exception of the sterile streetlamps. Bars were installed on every window, on every door. Everything looked abandoned, left hastily behind in fear of something, although Bruce wasn't entirely sure what. This was not the Gotham that Bruce remembered.
Bruce heard a high pitched whining noise. What the hell? He whipped his head around, looking to see where the noise was coming from, hoping to see cop cars, but he saw nothing. His windows shattered, and he felt something collide with the roof of his Maserati. It jumped down from the Maserati, and through the open window, a hand wrapped around Bruce's neck. The kid's face was covered with a balaclava, but his eyes were full of fear.
"Gimme all your money, old man," the kid said, pointing a handgun at Bruce's chest. "Give it now!"