Legend of the Batman

—WHAT MATTERS—

The police were created to enforce law. We don't utter the words Serve and Protect for nothing…or maybe they do here—Gotham City.

I don't always like the GCPD but my office gives me a great view of the city. Sometimes I look outside on long and quiet days. I see a bird perched on the railing of the fire escape, the streets between 4th and Bench Avenue. I see the harbour in the distance, Station Bridge the stretched over the bay was usually packed at this time of day, no way around it without getting caught in even heavier traffic. The only other option lead straight to the slums, then to the Narrows and no one wants to go there.

Beyond the harbour, the sun begins to rise. Not even seven yet and I'm already feeling sluggish.

It takes every ounce of strength in my body to turn away from the window. But I've got work to do. I turn on the computer. It takes a lot longer than it usually does to boot up, but I don't mind. I just stop and gaze. Within the black emptiness of my monitor, I see my reflection. I was beginning to grow a moustache, Barbara says I should let it grow but maybe shave off a beard…I don't know…I kinda look like my old man.

But apart from that, I am treated to seeing a couple of bruises around my face. A cut lip, a black eye and swollen on the right side. Why?

I asked myself that a dozen times on my way to the hospital. Apparently I had a few broken bones, a close fracture on my firing arm and a few of my ribs. Maybe it was punishment, for the shit I've done overseas—for staring at innocents and pulling the trigger.

But of course, I knew exactly why.

I hated those days when I'm on patrol with Arnold Flass while Bullock gets Uptown. That night though…

'Gordon!' He says to me, ripping me from my thoughts. 'How about you keep your eyes on the road eh?'

He directs me through Cheap-side, we've been through here maybe thirty times and our route usually takes us through Portside Boulevard and the Eastern Docks. Truth be told, I really wanted a closer look at the Russian cache and why Loeb tried so hard to cover it up.

'Wait, Jimmy, stop the car,' Flass jerks my shoulder a little too roughly, but I stop and watch as he hops out.

A young man, African American, short, probably High School age along with a couple of Caucasian boys around a dimly lit bin for warmth. They seemed innocent enough. But would that have mattered?

It was a little muffly I admit, but it wasn't hard to hear Flass from the car. 'Hello, Clayton,' he starts, addressing the African American. 'Your mom know where you been tonight?'

The boys backed away, clearly terrified. 'Hey, Flass, dude not tonight, please.'

Arnold chuckled. 'Did you just call me "Flass"?'

Clayton stuttered an apology, rapidly correcting himself by saying 'I…I mean…O...O…Officer.'

Again, Flass laughed, grabbing the boy by the jacket and pinning him against the wall. My own hands tighten around the wheel. I want to go out there and put a stop to this before it escalates. Bullock's number one lesson: Always have a fellow officer's back. We're all brothers-in-arm.

'You be tellen your mom that I'll be paying her a visit tomorrow night,' says Flass, not even bothered whispering it. 'Would you like that, seeing your dirty slut of a mom take my jizz—?'

Clayton begins to struggle free, anger was building up, I could tell…he wanted to punch Flass straight in the jaw and believe me, I'd love nothing more, but I also knew what assaulting a police officer means, so I step out of the car and head towards them. Intentions as always, were to calm the situation. I've done it a hundred times now.

Suddenly one of Clayton's friends tries to pull the 6'4'' jock off of him, in response, Flass pulls out a gun, pointing it at the kid, warning them off a little.

'Stand down, Flass!' I reach for my own gun readily.

The crooked cop points the gun now against Clayton's head. 'Get back in the car, Jimmy.' Fuck was I gonna listen. 'Did you hear me Gordon…back off.'

'I will, once you drop the fucking gun, Flass, and let the kid go.'

Still looking at Clayton, Flass grinned. 'Okay…fine.' He opens his palms and let the boy drop. He turns to me, shrugs and surprisingly the situation stabilises. I did hear his pager beep before his sudden change. I was suspicious of course. But that would have to wait.

That was only one instance.

Two days later, Hancock brags about stopping an armed gunman. His cam however, showed him Taser a homeless black man around three times and all while the man cooperated completely, raised his hands over his head, chest on the concrete path.

Next day, Benson forces a man out of his car. He had a blood alcohol of five but still earned the younger Benson's fist to the face, humiliation in front of the family also in the car. Benson claims the man wasn't cooperating. My two cents: sure, the guy wasn't complying at first, not lowering his window to talk until his daughter urges him to. But once he did, everything Benson ordered, the guy was compliant.

Loeb then tells the press that Benson and Hancock's cameras were dislodged and broken in the scuffle, although, I did manage to get Hancock on probation.

When I was called in to Internal Affairs for interrogation, I told the District Attorney Harvey Dent, everything. The next day I find out the kid, Clayton was in an accident I told Dent my suspicions.

Heck, I even gave the precinct a few minutes lecture on ethics, my own opinions on how to get people's respect the proper way, not through bribes but through efficiency in our jobs.

Yesterday, March 11th, I was heading to work. My car in the lot, I was already weary, craving the comforts of home, in Barbara's arms, I was not looking forward to the precinct. I only managed to get my key into the lock when a gang of four, maybe six men in balaclavas surrounded me.

'Heading off to work, Officer?' one of them had said, tapping a metal baseball bat. 'I think you're going to be late tonight. In fact…I think you might not make the whole night.'

As one would expect from such approaches…they charged at me.

A very important thing to note about me is that I'm not an incompetent man. I fought in a fucking war over at Afghanistan, Syria and Bialya. I know how to handle myself fine. Perhaps it's the glasses?

I dodged every one of them and their strikes without moving my feet from their positions. Each one of them had a hand held weapon of one kind or another; bats, crowbars, even a police baton which was a dead giveaway. I blocked one guy's crowbar that was directed at my head, then kicked him in the stomach and snatched his weapon away, throwing it as far from them as possible.

Their attacks were quick, but predictable. I managed to disarm about four of them already, and they never laid a single finger on me.

'So this is how you guys treat people?!' I thought I was victorious, I had gotten all five of them—

The guy with the wooden bat blindsided me, knocking me to the ground and my glasses from my vision. I groaned in pain as his bat collided with the left side of my ribs. 'Perhaps next time you oughta mind your own stinken business then,' he grunted and began punctuating every sentence with a blow upon my body. 'If not for your own sake…then think…about…your wife…your beautiful…very pregnant wife.'

With that they all began joining in. I lost consciousness about fifteen minutes in, when I heard the screeching of tires, a car was coming in, they bolted away.

Next thing I know, a man came to my side. I couldn't see his face but I have to say, I was grateful when he came because after the dark took me, I woke up in a hospital bed, a little drowsy but perfectly fine with my wife sitting beside me, holding my hand.

Yes, Barbara had said that a man found me and took both of us to Gotham General. All that reception had to say was that this man paid for everything. He must have been rich. Either way, I think I owe him my life.

Regardless, after a day at Gotham General and another few more at home, I was back at work. I was pissed sure, on my way to my desk I pass by Lewinski, Corrigan and DeCarlo, some of them looked at me with stern disgust, the other, a little mischievous grin—DeCarlo was a fucking prick.

As I fill in my paperwork, I could hear Flass in the lounge, recounting some sort of story or other to a circle of female officers. Me—I try to ignore as much as I possibly can though Bullock advises me against it. 'You need to know where everything is, what everyone's doing and what the word going around is. That's how you survive here, Rookie.'

So now, I sat at my desk, looking at a bruised and damaged self, I was pissed. Flass jokes about the state I'm in, attributing it to an intercourse accident. They all laugh at my expense, but what pisses me off is that I know it was Flass, hell he tells me up front about it but his threat still stands. My wife is vulnerable.

Suddenly, Bullock came charging by, grabbing his coat from his seat. 'Get up, Gordon, we got a hostage situation down town!'

Children were being held at gun point in a rundown apartment in the older part of the city. The lone gunman was a former inmate at Arkham Asylum, released only a week ago, said he was cured…apparently not.

'Go find your own war, Branden,' I said as I passed by the Lead SWAT officer. He had a tendency for violence and destruction. He and his team once stopped a riot at the park in Gotham Central—didn't even leave the statues standing.

'You don't got any authority, Gordon,' he struck. 'This is my gig so fuck off.'

I was about to refute him but as usual, Bullock stepped in and made sure I didn't do anything stupid. So I watched as Branden's men stormed the apartment with their assault rifles. They were half blind. Howard Branden relies on brute force as always. The direct approach is his only tactic, to go in heavy loaded and guns blazing the scene. This was far too delicate to leave to chance.

The man was an inmate of a fucking lunatic asylum. The slightest change in his little controlled world could lead him spiralling into frenzy and get the kids killed in the process.

After the first gunshot, I bolted into the apartment.

'Back off…I said back off!' I hear the gunman overhead. 'I'll kill them!'

As I climb the stairs, I see bits of equipment discarded on the steps. Once I got to the third floor, I came across several of Branden's men, knocked unconscious on the floor. But I didn't see Branden anywhere. I rushed off as fast as I could and when I got to the fifth level, in apartment 15, I found Branden pointing his rifle at a dishevelled man pointing a gun directly at a little ten year-old girl.

'Don't come any closer, believe me I'll do it!'

Howard looked him straight in the eye...and smiled. 'I believe you.'

He was about to pull the trigger, I had to react the only way I knew how. 'Wait!'

'Shit, Gordon, what the fuck!'

When the man trained his gun on me, I put my hands up. Being cautious I stepped towards him. 'Please, put the gun down, sir. I just want to talk.'

The man was flinching. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days, maybe weeks—the look of derangement in his eyes, bloodshot, twitching. 'I've had enough of it!'

'Just shoot him, Gordon!'

'Branden shut the fuck up!' I didn't break eye contact with the gunman for even a second. 'Look, sir…ah…Mr…'

'Blume,' he said timidly. 'Albert…Albert Blume.'

'Well, Mr Blume. Why don't we put the gun down and let these children out safe and sound, okay—'

Then he burst out, 'No!' I flinched, only slightly, but I was willing to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. 'I can't. Don't you understand? I need to protect them!'

He started to hold the gun now even closer to the girl's head, nearly brushing her hair like a combe. 'That's okay,' I said, undermining my urging tone. 'What are you protecting them from?'

His eyes started to enlarge with terror. He looked behind him out the window. 'You don't see it?' He drew the girl closer as he himself backed away toward the other children who braced together tighter in fear. 'There's a gigantic scarecrow outside,' he finally said in a quivering squeak. 'He wants the children, he wants to eat the children…I can't let him take them.'

Again, I tried to appeal to the man, offering my own gun to him in surrender, a white flag. I tell him that I won't let anything happen to any of them. It takes a minute but he soon relents, putting down his own gun but then, looking backn at the window he started to jerk and scream out in pure horror. I myself did not see anything that would warrant it.

As soon as he was clear of the guns though, Branden jumped on the man while I ran to the kids. They all came hugging me, it was great. I took them outside first, met by an army of paramedics sitting ready to receive them.

But for Blume, as they take him out, or at least attempt to, he squirms in the hands of the rough SWAT men, pulling at him as he struggles. 'Please, don't take me outside!' he shouts, 'Not outside!' He then looks at me, pleadingly and I found myself flooded with both sympathy and guilt. 'Please, I can't go outside, the scarecrow will kill me!'

That was when he did the unexpected. Somehow he took hold of SWAT member Weise's Beretta. I tried to stop him while telling people to take shelter but it was just…it was…I was too late.

Blume shot himself in front of a live audience. I don't know what it is but something compels me to give blame for his death. He pulled the trigger but someone pushed. Was it the cops, that handled him with no little of disrespect and cruelty, Branden with his hot headed vices, the guys at Arkham who failed to cure him, or was it me, a guy who wasn't strong or fast enough to stop his madness; his madness, not him.

I often find they bug me to no end, these questions I ask myself. A lot of cops do, guilt riding their shoulders. Bullock tells me that I need to get over it, let it go but I don't want to, I can't want to. It's because I'm afraid that when I let it go, I'll look to Arnold Flass and see a mirror reflection staring back at me. When a cop learns to let that guilt go, then there's no line of limitation to what they might find themselves doing. We have power to enforce the law, it was meant to be a duty, not a right, but with our fallacies, we corrupt it—our purpose. We always seem to find ways to corrupt things.

Maybe it really is a punishment for me. I can't see it any other way.

The following week I got a new office. The public seemed to like me now and I gave the GCPD some good press, Loeb was rolling around in all that positive attention. He opened up a new task force for me and even named me Lieutenant and head of that task force. Major Crimes was what they were calling it but I knew what it really was, we were Batman hunters, and I know what this was for me—a wall between me and Loeb's inner circle. I won't be any trouble for them, well at least for now.

So I go into my office, its night, maybe nine PM or something. There were stacks of files on my desk that I had to look through. It was on Blume's case and other similar to him. No one claimed him. He had no known associates other than his doctors at Arkham Asylum, no family members left alive, no one to give him a proper funeral. So we cremated his remains.

Autopsy said they found nothing in his systems other than some sort of psychedelic drug. They did no further study and boiled his condition down to overdose added with his schizophrenia.

I begin my work when…the lights turn off. I move but then find myself frozen as I feel a familiar chill on the back of my neck—barrel of a pistol. A low voice comes from behind me, tells me not to move.

'You're a good cop, Gordon,' the voice said, grumbling deeply, clearly it was a mechanical voice alteration device, 'one of the few.'

There was no sound that followed. Nothing but the cool air and something colder, more metallic pressed against the back of my head. 'What…what do you want?'

There was some movement, some ruffling of paper. He showed me a folder labelled ARKHAM and removed the weapon for me to flip through those files. Photos of Flass and Commissioner Loeb among Falcone's men at the docks, some of them showed GCPD working with Falcone underneath Hermes Shipping, looking rather suspicious as they hauled large containers of white powder into a truck.

The Batman even highlighted the licence plates so I knew they were on record, but knowing the people I work with, they won't say a thing. But what did he want?

'Falcone won terf from the Russians, Dimitrov is missing but none of his assets were recovered. The Roman now has the Western Waterfront but valuable shipment comes from the Eastern Docks.' I then ask him why that was of interest to him, it certainly was to me. 'Falcone could have reported the drugs and taken the West docks at a lower cost, yet now he doesn't, takes the drugs but doesn't sell his stash.

He then takes directs my gaze to a photo of the trucks heading towards the Narrows, Flass in identifiable in them. 'Open up an inquiry to Arkham Asylum.'

'Even if I did, what would that get us?' I reason with the mysterious voice behind me. 'We have leverage on cops, no one's going to prosecute, not without leverage on Judge Fadden for corruption and not without a DA brave enough to see to prosecution.'

Again, there was silence, leaving me quite on the edge of my seat. What was he going to do, shoot me?

'There's a new District Attorney working Internal Affairs. Look him up, tell him what I told you…' and with that…I no longer felt the cold of metal against my skin. I turned around and found he had exited through the window.

Being the good cop that I was, I ran in pursuit of this Bat Vigilante. Bullock and Cage joined me up on the roof. We secured the area but found nothing, but there upon the next building, high above us, where we could see stone demons, I could see the faintest movement of a cape blowing in the wind.

-=BATMAN=-