The horn of some irate driver blew, the blare coming in from somewhere outside Commissioner Gordon's window. The man himself sat quietly at his desk, fingers scratching against his peppered mustache. Case files sat on his desk, pulled open and documents strewn about as he labored over them. His office was dim, left in some manner of disarray ever since it was broken into by the man dressed like a Bat. He left his window open, but the GPD headquarters had been carefully arranged, he determined, so that its Commissioner could never see the light of day, nor the slightest hint of the sun. His window stared straight out into steel and concrete.
Finding no solace in the outside world, he returned to his work.
It was a man of the law's worst nightmare. Two months, with no sightings of the Batman anywhere. Criminals were a superstitious lot; they feared that symbol, he couldn't deny that now. But with the Bat gone, they were feeling empowered. Crime rates soared, the homicide rate alone had tripled. But that wasn't the worst of it.
He sat in his chair, hands cradling his aching skull as he read the name of his latest case: Wilson. That was all they had on him. One name alone. Not a face, not a race, not even the slightest idea what he wanted. He'd appeared on October 1st, precisely. He meant it literally. At midnight, the first second of the day, Gotham Iron Bank went up in flames. Twenty masked men stole into the building, and made off with over 60% of its tender before his department even caught word. All they found as evidence at the crime scene was this name, and a warning directly to Gordon.
"Our chase begins, Commissioner. Your first task is to determine who will be doing the chasing."
That note haunted him for the next thirty days. First it was the robbery, but things scaled up quickly. This Wilson had led his department on a wild goose chase all over the city. They'd busted into a dozen empty warehouses on the waterfront, thinking they'd found him. So far all they'd found was dust. Meanwhile, he'd been dangling his crimes in their faces.
A knock came from his door. "Come in," he groaned, already knowing who was there. Three officers walked in, taking seats at chairs already set out for them earlier. It'd been a simple choice, in his mind. A man like this had to be pursued, relentlessly, by the best his department had to offer.
His department didn't have a "best". They had corrupt, and they had honest. The three he had staring at him made up the honest portion.
On the far left was a youthful man, ears jutting out just a bit too far, to give him that "good boy" look. His hair was short, brown, and parted to the right in a conservative cut. Narrow brown eyes spoke of personal suffering—though Gordon chose not to ask of it—that seemed only to further his love for the force. This was former-Lieutenant John Blake. Like the other two, recently promoted to Detective to have full operational freedom for the tasks that Jim would be assigning them. By far, Gordon's most trusted man, a by-the-book cop, but fully aware of the fact that justice came before rules. Infamous amongst the rest of the department for the night he participated in a massive drug bust in Crime Alley. Not only did they find the largest meth lab in the state, Blake had brought in the entire ring by coordinating an assault on the single night they'd all be present to pick up their shipments, and coordinate future efforts.
That'd have earned any officer a promotion. But Blake went a step further, arresting every single member of the task force he'd requested for the bust afterwards, using testimony from the suspects they helped arrest, and records from the lab they busted, to prove that they were all either customers, or in on the deal. It was only natural that Jim would love a young man that dedicated to the force.
The one in the middle was a Latina woman, not much older than Blake but with a far more severe countenance. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail hanging behind her, and her eyes scanned the room quietly before settling on the case files. Full features, and a subtly muscled frame complemented the senior-most officer of Gordon's recruits. Renee Montoya was an officer that Gordon worked with on a regular basis, though before he had a say in employment she often hung onto her job by the skin of her teeth. The higher-ups had a special distaste for how personally Detective Montoya took her cases. The red in her ledger came from a case back in 2007, when the Falcones took a busload of people hostage, stealing them away to some dark and unknown corner of the city. Among those people were Montoya's mother and young sister. What followed was what Jim fondly looked back on as a "crusade". Montoya dropped her current case, going on a one-woman hunt through the city and tearing up every punk she could find until she got answers.
Jim and his fellow officers finally tracked her down to a club on the west side, to find more bullet holes than wall, and a sextet of men cowering on their knees. Montoya escorted them out, along with the hostages. Not one casualty.
The cowboy attitude could be a problem, Jim admitted. But then, somebody who cared was a valuable asset. She was perfect.
The last man on their force… perhaps a little less perfect. The man furthest right was younger than Montoya, though he didn't look it. He didn't have a face, he had a mug. A surly, scowling type with a prominent lower lip from getting it swollen so many times in fights. Blue eyes that shimmered with a distaste so broad that no list could ever be compiled of his hated subjects. His messy red hair was slicked back with the barest minimum of effort, and he slouched in his chair with arms crossed as he stared at the Commissioner. This was Victor Sage, the black sheep of the Gotham PD. A laundry list of misdemeanors and brutality so long it could stretch all the way to Metropolis. Jim could define Blake or Montoya with a single shining moment. Sage had a dozen, and none of them were shinier than mud.
He'd beaten a drug dealer within an inch of his life after finding out he sold goods to children. He'd tossed two petty thieves off a third-story rooftop after breaking their hands in the most one-sided fight Gordon had ever seen. Naturally, this was before Batman appeared. He'd shot a bank robber in the head after he took a hostage, shaming the department's sniper team—and with a handgun, at fifty yards, no less.
Then there were the mental issues. To call Sage a conspiracy theorist would be an understatement so gross that proper, lesser nutjobs would feel offended to being compared to him. Jim had been in Victor's apartment precisely once, to consult privately on a case. He'd sworn never to go back. Polaroids were glued and taped and stapled to every inch of the walls, frantic streaks of permanent marker connecting their contents in confusing, eldritch patterns. He'd gone on muttering how it was all connected, one big scam pulled on the entire human race. Jim was sure he'd been told the details, but he was a man of strong will, and he'd repressed more traumatic memories than that.
But, he supposed that wasn't giving the newly minted Detective enough credit. He'd earned his spot on this team. Despite his eccentricities, or maybe because of them, he was utterly incorruptible. A would-be briber could expect a healthy dose of hurt after striking up a conversation with him. And he was a downright genius when it came to investigative work, shockingly; enough to earn a saner man the promotion without any involvement from the Commissioner. And, skewed as it was, the man had a heart. That was a precious resource, and Jim was certain he wouldn't waste it.
But between Blake and Montoya was an empty chair. Not one of Gordon's choices, a new man being shipped in from Central City's department. Supposedly quite the dependable detective, though from what the Gotham native was seeing, that didn't apply to his schedule.
Jim sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand as the other fished a cigar from a desk drawer. He shoved it into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth and thankful for the texture, before asking "Anybody have a clue where the new guy's at?"
The trio made motions to begin speaking, likely with wildly varying guesses, before they turned around to stare out the door. It could barely be heard, but there was some kind of commotion at the front desk. Voices were exchanging harsh words, one of them in a thick city-slicker accent; one could be forgiven for thinking he'd come from Chicago. Victor turned around quickly, apparently satisfied with what he'd heard, but Blake opted to stand and step outside, looking over the railing down at the source of the noise. Gordon followed, with Montoya pursuing a moment later.
Whoever was responsible for this was a very husky man, and with a height to match. Caucasian as best as they could tell. He was dressed in khakis and a dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, a red tie hanging loosely and poorly knotted. A brown trenchcoat went over all of this, hanging down to just below his knees. He wore a matching fedora cap, sending strands of messy black hair in every direction beneath it. A cigarette hung precariously from the corner of his mouth, looking closer to dropping with every word.
"…don't care who the hell failed to call ahead! Look at my badge! Is that me? It's me! Good day, lady!"
The man stormed past the desk, ignoring the secretary's protests as he marched up the stairs, coming down towards Gordon's office and stopping three paces away. He held up a badge, and Jim recognized their late arrival.
"Detective Harvey Bullock, reporting in."
Jim nodded vacantly, his mind already analyzing what he'd seen just there. Loud, boisterous, and a temper like a rabid wolf. I hope this isn't some kind of prank…
With a wave, Gordon directed the three detectives back to their seats before taking his own. He slumped back down into his chair and got a better look at this Bullock fellow.
His face was pudgy, and scowling, with beady brown eyes and a Neanderthal's brow to go with his second chin. His lips were large and puffy, and his nose was bulbous. A thoroughly ugly man; not that Jim cared much. He was just praying that the heart of his new recruit was a bit prettier.
Victor gave an aside glance to the newcomer. In a low, smooth voice, he commented, "You're late."
Harvey gave a dirty look back and responded, "You ever try getting somewhere fast in this rathole? I swear, not more than one cop per ten square miles around here."
"Might as well be." Montoya informed him, a distinctly formal tone being used. "We don't have time to dole out speeding tickets when half the force is trailing a psychopath."
"That's enough." Gordon announced, raising his thin voice a little to get the message across. He gestured to the case file. "No point in squabbling when we've got a job to do. Have you been briefed, Detective Bullock?"
The trenchcoated man shrugged, scratching a bit of fat on the left side of his neck. "They didn't tell me much," he admitted. "just that we were tracking some up-and-coming crime lord named Wilson."
"That's about all we know, actually." Blake chimed in. "We know his last name is Wilson. We know that he's been hitting areas that either fund him, or grant him some kind of technology."
"Precisely." Gordon agreed, pointing out several hits that had gone down in the last month. "On the 7th he hit the steel mill the next county over, made off with more machinery and building materials than one man should know what to do with. On the 18th he hit Powers Robotics, stole an entire production line's worth of circuitry and more trade secrets than a CEO could shake a stick at."
The last one worried him the most, though. "And on the 27th, he hit an armored convoy being delivered to WayneTech from Star Labs, over in Metropolis. Ransacked the entire convoy, and made off with over three dozen "WorkerBeeZ" droid shells."
"Worker-what what shells?" Bullock asked, the cigarette nearly dropping out of his mouth as he tried to make sense of the tech speak. Luckily, Detective Montoya stepped in to inform him.
"They're experimental tech," she informed him. "a type of mobile, humanoid robot meant to replace living workers in dangerous environments. It could revitalize American industry by providing an impervious workforce."
"Impossible." Sage scoffed. Renee leaned over to give him a steely glare, which he took in stride. After a moment he opted to explain his skepticism. His gestures started off subtle, but began to grow wilder and more animated as he spoke. "Even if implemented, the droids will still require maintenance, upkeep, a staff of tech specialists to keep them running. No, they want the droids for a different reason: they're stupid. No free thinking, no civil rights, no unions. They're the perfect, complacent replacements to humanity. Wilson knows this, and he's beating the corporations to the punch. Constructing a robot army, to weed out the weak and the fleshy, monopolizing the tech to place himself as the sole remaining man standing at the top of a mountain of blood and steel—"
"OKAY, Detective, I think we've heard enough." Gordon yelled, reprimanding the zealous officer. Sage sulked in his seat, muttering to himself.
"Maybe you've heard enough. But have you seen enough?"
Jim made the wise choice not to respond to that, instead turning back to Bullock. "There you have it, Detective Bullock. That's all we know on the man. His name, his crimes—"
"And his toothpaste."
The other four heads in the room whipped around to stare, befuddled, at Victor once again. The man was looking unusually calm as he caught their glances.
"Colgate." He mentioned. "The smell's been at every crime scene, even where it doesn't belong."
He paused, drinking in the silence as a look of confusion grew on the detective's face. "You're telling me none of you caught that?"
The other officers shared a glance, a silent pact to pretend that hadn't happened. Gordon continued as if he'd never been cut off.
"—and now we're almost certain he's planning something for the last day of the month, considering he started this chase on the first day. Twenty-four hours to catch a man we have zero leads on."
"And how do ya suppose we do that?" Harvey asked incredulously.
"Any way we can." The Commissioner informed him, slamming his hands on the table to support his body as it stood. "Because we cannot allow ourselves to fail."
He grabbed four case files, and handed them off to the detectives. As they took them, he explained, "We'll be splitting up to cover ground, but I want to be in constant contact with you, and I want you to keep in touch with each other as well. Share any leads you find, any clues. Detective Blake, you'll be with our immigrant here."
"Aye, Commissioner." John acknowledged. He stood up with Harvey and shook his hand with a strong grip. "It'll be pleasure working with you, Detective Bullock; should we take your car, or mine?"
"Eh, let's go with yours." Bullock said, walking out the door with his partner. "My car's a little too nice for this city; don't feel like getting my hubcaps jacked."
After they were gone, Montoya raised a hand and stated "With all due respect, Commissioner, I work best alone."
"I know you do, Montoya." Gordon assured her. "You're free to go. You'll be going solo on this case."
"Aye, Commissioner." She replied. She took her case file and dutifully marched away, leaving only Sage fidgeting in his seat. In a manner both repetitious and mocking of Montoya's, he raised his hand and said, "I work best alone as well, Co—"
"I have yet to see that, detective." Gordon cut in. He picked him up out of his chair and motioned for the man to walk with him. "You'll be working with me on this case."
Victor raised a wary eyebrow at Jim, questioning this move. "If you're leaving the station, I suppose you have a lead."
"A couple, actually. I'm not trying to imply anything, Sage, but have you ever been to Arkham?"