Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: Thank you to everyone who has kept reading and reviewing! J-Horror Girl, Beowulfwulf, and Darkness Takes Over, you have all been an amazing encouragement for this story. Especial and heartfelt thanks goes out to Grace Dark whose honesty and criticism are always appreciated!
Every OC in Gotham City has been camping inside my apartment like rabid Lord of the Rings fans flocking to New Zealand for a chance to be an extra for the Hobbit. If you've lost an OC, please come and claim him/her! Or if you need some new OC's as extras or minor characters, feel free to take some off my hands. If not, at least check out the Batman Begins/Dark Knight fics written by the previously mentioned authors, as they all have created their own unique and wonderful original casts. You won't be disappointed!
I blame Peter Jackson, Tom Clancy, and Alan Moore for everything.
This is the last Legacy chapter, albeit split into two parts for manageability and sanity's sake. Martyr: vivire, and Martyr: morrire are one long unit, in the same flashback format used previously.
DISCLAIMER: I don't often find it necessary to make disclaimers but this chapter merits one. All opinions, views, commentaries and ideals expressed by characters of Ernestina are THEIR OWN, and have no reflection on the author's personal beliefs or even tastes towards the use of racial, religious, or ethnic discrimination. With any and all characters expressing religious viewpoints I have tried my best to research and represent them accurately, and in NO MEANS am attempting to mock their faith. While this story is fiction, religious convictions are very real and should NEVER be scorned.
Tuesday, August 20th, 2030: It is more difficult, and calls for higher energies of soul, to live a martyr than to die one-Horace Mann.
Arkham Asylum Audio file Patient #10674 (Alias 'The Joker')
Attending Physician: Dr. Harlene Quintzel
Hitler. Stalin. Mao Zedong. The world calls them criminals, madmen, murderers…yet they, like all true genius, were merely ahead of their time. With their ambitious, innovative minds they conquered kingdoms, destroyed empires, brought their peoples through decades of forced progress and social revolutions-a Great Leap Forward…
You crossed the line first, sir. You squeezed them, you hammered them to the point of desperation. And in their desperation they turned to a man they didn't fully understand.
Their great works are the cornerstones of the modern era. Terrible, yes. But great.
Criminals aren't complicated, Alfred. Just have to figure out what he's after.
And my patient rightfully takes his place among them.
With respect, sir, perhaps this is a man that you don't fully understand.
They told me that seeing him was the most horrible thing-that one look at his scars and you would know what you looked at was not a man but a beast, his hideous visage reflecting the madness lurking within-
What are you trying to prove? That deep down everyone's just as ugly as you?
I found him abysmally mundane. No more than a man with superficial, irreparable cosmetic damage. I was deeply disappointed.
Not in the man. In my profession.
Our culture is flawed. Because a man was made ugly he became ugly? His scars represent the horrors of his past, the failure of his parents, neighbors, community…treated with cruelty he has become cruel, a sociopath?
Imbeciles. Do they not see?
What do you believe in, huh? WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN?
One look into his eyes-those eyes before mine still!-one look tells the terrible, terrible truth: this man is not insane. Not an animal…not merely a mad man. He is much, much more than a man.
I believe whatever doesn't kill you only makes you…stranger.
He...is an idea.
These scars were self-inflicted. A reminder of his devotion- Our society has lost touch with the old ways, the customs and traditions, the imagery and spirituality that have vanished with electricity and the atom bomb. Today we label it mental illness, habits of self-harm…
Well, you look nervous. Is it the scars? You want to know how I got 'em?
The old world called them ritual. His…a true religion. A religion of freedom…a religion of Choice.
Killing is making a choice. Choose between one life and another. But don't worry, I'm gonna tell you where they are…and that's the point, you'll have to choose.
Self-immolation. Self-flagellation…It seems all the great doctrines have endured such rituals. Although not always widely proliferated, they were held in the highest of regards…
It's not about money, it's about leaving a message….everything burns!
So blind by our daily routine and our technology we have forgotten how to think. I have spoke with Milton's Satan, and have found him a rebel worthy of admiration and respect. He is damned nowhere, choosing retribution rather than recant…
He seeks for a Paradise that can never be Lost.
This city deserves a better class of criminal…and I'm gonna give it to 'em!
In fear, they cannot confront him with the truth. Because their flimsy, pathetic excuse for reality cannot hold up to the Truth. He was treated inhumanely and is become inhumane…the blame is not his. Or he is responsible…because every man is capable of what he has done.
They cannot label him criminal without destroying themselves…
You have all these rules and you think they'll save you!
…So they must label him insane.
Cowards. Fools. This is a rape of genius, the silencing of Mozart or Beethoven…a violation of First Amendment Rights.
His…is a religion of choice. All men are created equal…And equally capable of heinous acts. Of choosing heinous acts. There is no innate human goodness. Golding was right-take away the order of society, take away the rules and regulations imposed on us, and each of us is no better than the next. In the end, when put to the test, we will choose self over others. It is innate. It is undeniable. Millions of years of evolution cannot simply be undone. The human animal, though conscious, is no better than any other.
They need you right now, when they don't they'll cast you out like a leper. You see their morals, their code is a bad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show ya, when the chips are down, these uh, these civilized people…
It is, if anything, worse.
…they'll eat each other
I have heard the audio tapes of his interrogation. No false pretenses. No compromise. Pure and utter honesty. His idealism is deserving of praise.
Ya see I'm not a monster…I'm just ahead of the curve.
Christians, Muslims, Jews-all ideologies and religions alike-have slaughtered thousands across the globe throughout their long histories. Many sects have now issued statements of apology or solidarity. They are lauded for their efforts of reconciliation. Those that have not…are scoffed.
People are dying, Alfred. What would you have me do?
And yet they alone remain fundamental. They alone remain grounded in their truth. Such men-such logic-deserves our utmost attention and investigation. They are downtrodden they are murdered, they are mocked, labeled fundamentalists, terrorists, religious fanatics…and yet in the face of judgment they will not recant.
Endure. Take it. They're hate you for it. But that's the point of Batman. He can be the outcast, he can make the choice that no one else can make…
Obsessive? Perhaps. But insane?
…The right choicc.
Here I stand, I can do no other? The 95 Thesis is surpassed only by the Declaration of Independence, and the Constitution in logic and rational thought. It is a founding document-issuing in the era of the individual. Did Luther's pen script the words of a madmen? No. Facing death and persecution are only reminders of how strong one's faith-one's reality-stands against that which is Real. It is a poor faith indeed that at the end fails. Those who recant, who lose faith, whose morals and idealism are neither logically consistent, absolute, nor exclusive-
The Joker chose me!
-these are the men who are truly delusional, living in alternate reality.
Because you were the best of us! He wanted to prove even someone as good as you could fall!
Men whose minds-whose faith-break when shown the Truth.
…He was right.
The strong-the Sane-press on. Nathan Hale. Indira Ghandi, William Tyndale, Simon Bolivar, Che Guevara, Martin Luther King Jr., Benazir Bhutto…
The bandit, in the forest in Burma, did you catch him?
Misunderstood. Misjudged. Maligned…Mad? Perhaps.
Yes.
Yet they are martyrs.
…we burned the forest down.
Tuesday, August 20th
13:57 EST
Gotham City Plaza
White.
The world was white, ash raining down like slowly falling snow, blinding and burning though his eyes swore it must be cold, he must be freezing not burning to death-
Deep breath. Mechanical respirator. Like Darth fuckingVader, clunking through this eerie winter, one oxygen-infused gasp at a time. It wasn't a brave new world. It was the echo of a dying scream. More like the apocalyptic ruins of a former one, an epiphanic glimpse of the nuclear horror that awaited his own. Barren and bleak, silent save his own gasps, his muted footfalls, the occasional curse, it stretched on for an endless eternity, scintillating glass like heavy sheets of ice sparkling on glaciers in the sun, deadly and foreboding, every step, every breath too loud, the threat of avalanche on every side…
This was, beyond question, the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
And yet even there will I fear no evil, for Thy rod and staff they comfort me. The hell did that come from, it'd been years since he'd been to church, even thought about scriptures. And yet here he was. The Good Shepherd, giving his life for his sheep, and for the One, forsaking ninety-nine…
And finally he was there. Draped in ash, buried in soot, blanketed in this horrible holocaust the vague, colorless shadow of a fire truck loomed before him as though through heavy fog.
He dropped to his knees. And began to dig.
Four hours previously…
10:00 EST
Camp David
"-PRC, the Soviets…Hell, even North Korea's made conciliatory statements."
President Geraldo Calderon shook his head tiredly. "And Iran?"
Over the telecom, the appropriate ambassador shrugged, sweating in the heat of the afternoon sun of Tehran. "Their government is playing this cautiously, sir. But so is the rest of the Middle East. We've seen support broadcasted by Al Queda and other Taliban and fundamentalist sectors…but no group is yet claming responsibility. And that scares the shit out of me, sir."
Geraldo sighed. "Thank you, ambassador." The man nodded his head, and the com screen blanked out. POTUS turned next to his SecDef and SOHC. "Please tell me you know something. Anything."
But those bastions of knowledge too, shook their heads in mounting confusion and despair. The former governor of New Mexico closed his eyes in resignation, not for the first time, not for the last, wishing he had never, ever taken the Democratic Party's offer of Presidential Nomination…
…but then again, it had been a governor, a governor and not a president who had been targeted by these unnamed, unknown terrorists.
The crime had been committed. The usual suspects rounded up and interrogated, but not a one of them was singing. So 47 year-old Geraldo Calderon, 4th generation Mexican immigrant, 49th President of the goddamn United States of America, arguably the most powerful, most well-informed man on the state of world affairs, sat bunkered in at Camp David under an elevated terrorist threat level of RED, doing what he had done 30 years ago when the Twin Towers had fallen.
…Praying to God for courage, for answers, for protection…and watching CNN.
10:15 EST
Skylight Hotel
"This is, this is Cameron Shaw, reporting live from the Skylight hotel." Shaw shouted into the microphone, while all around her buses and automobiles honked, patients were crying out in pain, medics hollering orders, families shouting the names of loved ones. "Emergency personnel are requesting family members remain at home, I repeat, we are requesting family members remain at home and attempt to locate their loved ones via the internet. Skylight has set up a special portion of their website GothamCitySkylight . com, that's GothamCitySkylight . com with no spaces, with the name of any patient transferred to this facility-"
"SARA!"
"MOM! DAD!" and suddenly a scrawny teenager cut in front of the camera, sprinting heedlessly across the crowded sidewalk, bony elbows shoving through the gathered throng to fling herself into the open, expectant arms of her weeping parents.
The scene was heart-wrenching, and the camera man swept over to the reunited family, displaying the intimate scene to over 800 million viewers worldwide. It was a touch of hope. Of life, of renewal in the midst of this tragedy…
But a bedraggled, exhausted, and angry twenty-five year old Cameron Shaw couldn't help but feel that this would only make things worse for the already crowded hotel…
…and she couldn't help but feel that no camera man would have dared interrupt a live broadcast if it had been Trisha Tanaka speaking.
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center
"How's that leg doin'?" Officer Eugene Bradley tore his eyes away from the TV to his elderly companion.
"Well, it's still broken." Fox stated mildly, just a hint of a smile on his twitching lips. "But it's manageable." He gestured with one tired hand to the elevated limb, still packed round with ice. "Anything from the military?"
Eugene shook his head. "No. But that's what concerns me. If they're coming after us, they'd be using encrypted signals-"
Fox shook his head wearily. "They're coming. No doubt about that, Mr. Bradley, they're coming. The only question left is when."
Gotham City International Airport
Temporary HQ State National Guard/Department of Homeland Security
"Colonel Root? We just received reports of a possible security violation with orders to investigate ASAP-" The private was cut off mid-sentence with several long strings of spit.
"You son of a bitch! This is a fucking war zone! I want our medics out there and I want it done yesterday!" Root's face had turned a marvelous shade of red, jaws twisted in an inhuman snarl. "We get help to these people and we do it NOW!"
What the fuck was wrong with the world? FG trying to cover their ass again-they had enough of that with Katrina-Let someone else play babysitter. He had a job to do.
In less than 18 hours, Colonel Julius Root would be forced to resign from his command, and would undergo a court marshal investigation that would find him guilty of defying direct orders. The Colonol would serve three years in a military institution.600 National Guardsmen that year-including the private-would opt not to renew their commitments, citing his unjust imprisonment as their primary objection. Many were only four years short of retirement benefits. Root would serve as acting commander of the Crisis in Gotham City for less than a day. In the time it took to lose his commission, his career, and his retirement, 2,237 lives had been saved.
…in his posthumous memoir Civil Disobedience, his only recorded regret would be snapping at the Private.
10: 21 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
No news from Amy.
Her voicemail again, those cool, professional tones. Detective Aaron Lawless found himself dialing, again and again, just to hear the sound of her voice…
Dialing, dialing, thumbs sore from punching the tiny numbers goddamnit Jimmy just pick up your phone-!
Hell, had it just been yesterday? Calling the Kid over and over again-?
Blink back tears. Wipe your eyes. Be strong.
"Amy Lawless, RN. Leave a message."
"Hey babe." The Detective choked. "I love you."
10: 27 EST
Gotham United Methodist
It fucking figured.
Her husband, her Aaron had called and she missed it in surgery. Missed it standing side by side to Chavez, helping him do the best job he could with the newest batch of critical patients but this one they had lost anyways. Dehydration. Crush syndrome. Septic shock. From the moment the woman had entered the OR the RN had marked her as a goner.
…she hated herself for being right.
Wearily she removed her elbow-length gloves. Diligently washed her hands. And then, only then, did she raise her now pink hands to her face and rub the greying circles under her eyes. Splashed her face. Blotted cool drops with rough paper towel. Looked to her phone again.
Aaron had called. Aaron was alive…and she needed to do rounds again. Had to be strong. Think of others before herself, before her own fucking family-
"Oh, shit!" She shouted, holding the OR door to keep from collapsing in fright. She had rounded the frame only to run straight into Bruce Wayne.
"Is the little girl alright?" She asked nervously, heart still in her throat.
The man smiled. "Yeah. She's…Gracie's fine. I just came to, uh, well, to thank you."
She brushed dark hair from her face, lowered her eyes.. "It's my job, Mr. Wayne. You don't have to thank me."
I never thanked you.
…you'll never have to.
But it was so damn good to be thanked. Appreciated. To know all the Hell you'd been through had been noticed. These people were downtrodden, weary. Losing faith. He shook his head. "No, Miss Lawless. I do."
Tears pricked those deep blue, bloodshot eyes. She rolled her head, gave a grimace. "You're a good woman-" He continued. But he was cut short by a sob. She was trembling now, small frame shaking, hair gently tossed by her denying head. "No." She whispered. "No I'm not. You have no idea what I've done-"
She was breaking down. Losing it. She was a woman, a stranger, but these were drastic times, exceptional times, the worst of times. So hesitantly, awkwardly, he moved to put a comforting arm around her-
But she stopped him with chapped, slender hands. "No." She whispered, still shaking her head, backing away slowly. "No." For Amy Lawless, RN, had made that mistake before. Turning to another man's arms in times of doubt and duress. And until this nightmare was over-until her life or marriage was over-she would not make that mistake again.
Bruce Wayne stood silent, shocked, watching the trembling woman stagger away down the hall. And he wondered, for the first time, if he had met someone with a secret even guiltier than his own.
10: 31 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
…coffee.
Commissioner James Gordon took another long swig of the dark, steaming liquid. Tried to clear his mind of the day's events, just think straight for once since this crisis had started. But his mind was a whirlwind of horrible images, terrible fright, of the haze and weariness of the unknown. But he remembered coffee.
Lawless had told him a story about coffee. About coffee and purple shirts and the YWCA and he had laughed, laughed for the first time in many weeks…the last laugh he would laugh for many more…then Lawless' jibe about Paltron-
-and suddenly he knew what this day had been lacking. Direction. Decisiveness. Action. God, could Gotham use her cowgirl spirit right now…but she was gone. Gone. He hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye, apologize, make things right…
The envelope fell with a heavy thud on her immaculate desk. Lt. Commissioner (MCU) Gwen Paltron didn't even raise her steely eyes, merely glanced at the envelope contemptuously and continued her report.
…she, like him, could now recognize an official Internal Affairs summons by a mere cursory glance. And she, unlike him, could completely disregard it. "Goddamnit Paltron." He said.
Her icy eyes finally rose from the computer screen. "Yes, Jim?"
"You know." She cast a cool stare to the waiting envelope.
"I know."
He leaned against the desk, rolling his eyes in disbelief. "And-?"
She shrugged. "And."
He shook his head, frustration and anger mounting. He had sacrificed much for her, had wheedled and whined and goddamned compromised with Garcia on this for ages. Garcia had wanted an MCU to deal with major terrorist crimes, finding the missing Fear Night patients from Arkham, the majority of which had been labeled criminally insane for heinous crimes beyond Gotham's imagination…and he wanted to get rid of Paltron. IA had been trying to sack her ass for years. It had only been Harvey Dent's reputation-and recommendation-that had saved her.
"You really think she'd be a good fit for the job?" He had asked the newly appointed DA with skepticism.
But the lawyer had grinned mischeviously, handsome face stretched into that famous-and oh-so-charming smile. The man had charisma. Charisma and intensity. "Hell, no.. But if she's sitting on her ass behind a desk, it'd be pretty hard for her to be accused of recklessness, wouldn't it?" Recklessness, as IA said, was a polite euphemism for failure to obey a direct order, pre-emptive brutality and a rising body count of 'bad guys' that no one in Gotham would mourn…"Besides," Dent said softly, pain clouding his bright eyes, "she deserves another chance."
He sighed. Let his eyes wander around Dent's spacious office. She had another chance…and another and another…how many second chances did one person deserve-?
The lawyer was shrewd, and sad. "One more, Jim. At least one more."
The Lieutenant nodded. One more. It would always be one more. After what he had done to her, regardless of how ugly, how hard, how dangerous it became, he would always give her one more chance…
…some things could never be fully forgiven. Some things you just could never erase.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Dent? Now? With this case just beginning? It was a gutsy move, you're lucky Surillo let you do it…but you've made a lot of people mad-"The DA and his assistant had finally done what GCPD should have been doing for years: bagging Gotham's criminals, regardless of profession or class. For too long he'd put up with partners and captains, IA directors and judges as corrupt as his hold partner, foul-mouthed Arnold Flass. No longer.
The younger man stood, paced the room, footsteps echoing eerily as they had so many years before. "It's now or never, Gordon. It's taken them a year to get around to Fear Night…but it's going to be ugly. If I back her, we can smooth this whole thing over. I'll put in a good word, and who knows? Six months from now she might be sitting behind a desk for the rest of her career."
Which meant retirement benefits, someday. And a whole hell of a lot less paperwork for Dent. The attorney had spent the last 9 years of his career in IA, spearheading WATCHDOG, and was single-handedly responsible for Paltron's continuing career in GCPD. Harvey Dent had been born with a silver tongue and a compassionate heart. And the woman whose case propelled him into the national spotlight would always hold a special place there.
He was a good man. A noble man…and a man-perhaps the only man-who shared Jim Gordon's guilt and regret.
He nodded. "Alright. I suppose if it's anyone's call, it's yours, Dent."
The DA leaned sat again, leaned back in the rich leather office chair with an impish grin. "Damn right it is."
Both chuckled.
"You know Rachel bitched at me this morning, told me you were an old friend and to…'be nice' was the exact wording, I believe."
Gordon smiled tiredly. Thirteen years ago they had both been participants in one of the most controversial sex crime cases of the 21st century…and ADA Rachel Dawes had still only been the captain of the Debate Team at the most prestigious preparatory school in Gotham City. They would never be…friends. He was a Lt. in the force, keeping criminals off the streets…and Dent? Well, Dent had worked for that mysterious agency that was supposed to keep the criminals on the street from carrying a badge...
And both had to admit less victories than defeats.
Dent sighed. "The shit's hit the fan, Gordon. We're in this. All of us." Garcia, Dawes, Surillo, Loeb…they were in it all right. And James Gordon found himself praying-not for the first time and not the last-that all would make it through alive.
He sighed. "We'll pull through."
The younger man's eyes flashed. "Yeah. And maybe your 'friend' can help. Irradiated bills? Isn't that a little high tech for a simple cop?"
Lt. Gordon didn't even blink. "We have the support of various agencies-"
"Bullshit." Dent grunted. "I want to meet him."
Gordon was instantly wary. "Official policy is to arrest him on sight."
"I might know you, Gordon, but that doesn't mean I entirely trust you. I don't like that you lie. Go behind IA's back….I don't like that you have your own unit, Gordon. I don't like that it's full of officers I investigated in Internal Affairs-"
Jim sighed. "If I didn't work with cops you investigated while you were making your name at I.A. I'd be working alone. I don't get political points for being an idealist, I have to do the best I can with what I have."
Yes. GCPD was full of corrupt cops. And WATCHDOG was no exception…but Gordon was no fool. He had vouched for his men-and women, and he knew who he could trust. Lawless. Ramirez. Paltron. Montoya, Milton and Bradley were career cops, loyal to a fault…even if they weren't without others. And Allen was one of the most respected officers in the United States Police Force, Metropolis' golden boy. No…James Gordon knew who he could trust.
…or thought he could. For District Attorney Harvey Dent, Gotham's White Knight, self-proclaimed savior and deliverer, had himself in madness and regret betrayed them. All of them. And any secrets he had concerning corruption in the GCPD had died with him that cold night. No, Dent was dead. And he himself had covered it up, covered it up with the Batman's help, watched Gotham's Dark Knight take his place in the shadows, the villain instead of victor. And it had been months, many long, thankless months, since he himself had shattered the glass of what Milton jokingly called 'the Bat-symbol', since GCPD headquarters had been re-christened, since that young woman he knew and respected so well met her death in that fiery hell...
"Goddamnit, Paltron! You've got another hearing with IA-"
She rose coolly. "Your point being?"
"My point being Dent's not around to bail you out anymore! Do you have any idea how many laws he had to circumvent to keep you on these past six years? I've pleaded for your job eight times, Paltron! Eight! And each time it's been harder but I've always had Dent to back me up-"
She scowled. "I don't see how Dent's death makes any difference. You've vouched for me before-"
"And I'm getting goddamned sick of it! Do you have any idea how hard it was to get you hired, let alone keep you on…and this promotion? I had to bend over backwards for Garcia to even consider-"
"And I haven't done anything I haven't done before." Miguel Ramirez. MCU parking lot. Triple round burst to the chest. He was still unconscious in Methodist ICU…perhaps never to recover. The only good news-well, the good news was he would never lay a hand on Anna again. And she would get full custody of those kids…
"You shot a man. Practically killed him. You didn't shoot to disarm you gave a killing shot-"
"Man pulled a gun on two of your officers what the hell did you want me to do-"
'Didn't even stop to consider the consequences you just rushed in there guns blazing-"
"While you were still fucking thinking about what to do-"
"You never think you always act! Does taking a life mean nothing to you anymore-"
"I did it to SAVE lives, Jim!"
"I've had enough of your bullshit, Paltron! You're reckless, you're dangerous…and, and you don't give a damn about human life-!"
Lips part, sneer turns into a shuddering sigh, tears are below her she will not cry but her nose is running she takes a step away flinches as though struck…
…and you can't take it back.
"Paltron…Paltron, I-"
"Fuck you." She gasps. "Fuck you, Jim. Fuck you-!"
You've backing away, she's terrifying when she's angry God knows how many men have died looking into those same irate eyes but she's not that heartless she wouldn't but you backed up anyways she can smell that unconscious fear and it brings out the ugliest hatred in her…
…you know as well as anyone that actions speak louder than words.
A sudden crash. She's thrown her desk over, wood cracking computer crashing acrid scent of sparks outlets unplugged papers floating everywhere-
"Damn you, Jim! Goddamn you Jim-"
Then the door slammed open, her mouth still twisted in that choking scream, teeth barred across that desk, muscles taunt, ready to spring-
A young man stood in the doorframe, pale and wide-eyed in shock at the scene. "What the fuck do you want?" Paltron snapped.
Connolly. Lawless' rookie partner. He blinked, swallowed nervously. "I, I heard raised voices-"
Raised voices. No shit. His dark eyes flickered back and forth between them. Small, whispered doubt: "I..I…d-did he hurt you?"
Not physically, no. But he had. Wounded her deeply. Perhaps permanently. He turned back to her. "Let's…let's talk about this later. Just…just forget I brought it up-" He mumbled.
"Get out. Get the fuck out!" She shrieked, and he didn't hesitate. There was no point in discussing this now. Nor ever. One of his shoulders brushed by the young man in passing, still standing there, uncertain. "Both of you!"
Connolly started skittishly, and the door slammed in his milk-white face.
"Mr. Gordon…" The boy whispered. "What did you say to her?"
What had he said? He remembered it. Remembered it like it was happening now: "I am, convinced, in light of these evidences, that Officer…that she, that the defendant, my partner, Officer Guinevere Paltron, returned to the house on Decmember 8th, kidnapped the boy from his remaining parent, then proceeded to take him back to her apartment where she…abused him, before delivering him to Emergency Services personnel at Gotham Memorial Hospital."
He turned, couldn't quite meet the young man's accusatory stare. "Nothing she wanted to hear."
She'll never forgive you. She'll never forget. You took her life. Took her reputation…took that goddamned little boy. And you can never ask for forgiveness for what you did or what you've done. She'll never give it to you. Your trust nothing but pity, friendship nothing but guilt and if there is one thing she cannot stand it's pity.
…not even from you.
Staring at his reflection in the dark water between his hands, he found he despised it. He rose. Poured the rest down the drain. Sometimes reflection brought clarify of mind…but years on the field had taught that at others, after times of grief and loss, a moment alone could only make things worse.
This was one of those times.
10: 37 EST
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center
"Neeurgh." Eugene Bradley stated to the world at large.
His elderly companion was instantly alert. "Mr. Bradley?"
The officer shrugged sheepishly. "Oh, didn't mean to wake you. But I've had just about enough of this waiting around shit. I feel so damn useless."
Fox smiled. "Well, you could get this old man another cup of coffee."
Eugene shook his head. "Why? You wanna be awake and alert when the Feds or whoever comes for us?"
"FBI?" Fox asked, taking the proffered Styrofoam cup, and sipping gratefully. "No, Mr. Bradley, this goes well beyond the jurisdiction of the FBI."
The officer sat, leaning on the edge of his seat, intrigued. "No shit?"
Fox nodded to the blackened monitors of the EMF machine, now still and silent. "The United States military owns the contract for that machine, Mr. Bradley."
The technician whistled, impressed. "We ain't in Kansas anymore, To-to."
Lucius Fox winced, shifting in his chair. "No, indeed, Mr. Bradley, no indeed."
10: 41 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"Coffee?" The billionaire asked gently.
"You'd be my hero." James' muffled voice came from the hospital bed where she lay cuddled next to Gracie's sleeping form. The young girl's shaven head was swaddled in bandages, but her color had returned, and her small chest rose peacefully up and down, up and down in a relaxing, regular rhythm. Bruce Wayne had never watched a child sleep before, and there was something…something so…
…spiritual was the best word he could think of. But perhaps, he thought on reflection, taking on last look at the woman and child from the already open door, there were some things in life you couldn't describe with words at all.
10: 43 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
"You alright, Jim?" A familiar gravelly voice growled.
The Commissioner raised his eyes, attempted a wry grimace but couldn't muster the strength of heart. Who knew in how many hours time what government agency would bang through the doors and demand he take responsibility for what they'd done? Who knew if he'd ever see his family again? See Barb, Barb the one love of his life he'd pursued since that day in seventh grade he'd first caught her eye and she had smiled shyly back…
…and James Jr. Little BB. God, he needed them…
And they needed him. If he was anyone else, if he was any other man he would be home right now to hold and comfort them. God knows how many times his family, his own family had been the ones left alone in fear and doubt. And Jim Gordon didn't know if it made him more or less of a man that he could leave them so. Wasn't it a man's first duty to the ones he loved-?
"I don't know, Lawless." He finally stated. "I, there, there's a lot of things I'd like to tell my family. Things I regret. Things I'll miss. That I love them. Always have. That too often I've let this job get in the way of making sure they know."
That strange look was back in the Detective's eyes. "They'll be alright, Jim."
"God, I just…I feel so guilty. But I suppose you of all people would understand-" Hadn't the three of them made the decision together? Himself, the Batman, and Dent? "All this time I've felt responsible. Surillo. Loeb. Dawes, she was so young…and Dent. Harvey Dent." The Commissioner shook his head. "And now Paltron too."
Hazel eyes winced in pain. "You don't know that."
Gordon shook his head. "Lawless…I'd like to hope as much as the next person-God knows I, I left too much unsaid-" Tears pricked his earnest eyes. "Never told her I was proud of her. Never asked forgiveness for what I did...but she was right there, Lawless. She was right there when Richard's convoy exploded and, and even if they survived that she was in the plaza itself-"
35,000 people gathered in the plaza proper. More ringing the streets for blocks upon blocks. And the survivors? Well, they were men like Lucius Fox and his two granddaughters. Lucky….and late. And with the collapse of the Fountainhead and the structural compromise of a dozen other buildings…the epicenter was still widely untouched. People there would be buried. Buried beneath twenty feet of smoldering rubble. And they had been for nearly 24 hours.
"You shittin' me?" Lawless asked gently. "Life or death situation, impossible odds? Hell, the only person I'd count on surviving would be her. She's gotten out of some pretty deep shit before." The Detective sat down across from him, hands on his knees. "And if the last 24 hours have taught me anything, it's to focus on what you know. To wait. Pray. Hope for the things you don't. But you can't dwell on them, Jim." He said with finality. "You just can't."
…no, no you couldn't, Commissioner James Gordon agreed. They'd eat you alive.
10: 47 EST
Arkham Asylum
What's wrong, Bats? Too afraid to come out and play in the daylight? No, no you're trying to fool me, you naughty baddie-batty-Bat! Trying to test my uh, faith. You want me to think you've called it quits. Hung up the cloak for good, have you? No, no you haven't. You CAN'T. And you can't fool me.
We're alike, you and I. Some things lost just can't be…recovered. Some scars just go too deep to heal. Some dead bitches just can't go without being avenged, or whatever the hell reason you say you're doing this for…
Really Bats, this is below you. She was below you. High class cunt with a misplaced sense of morality that just didn't quite extend to not fucking her boss? Tsk, tsk. One day you'll see. You'll see I did you a favor. Got rid of the one thing that gave you hope and happiness and love and all that other crap it is that the wee mortals want and so much misery besides. She made you miserable, Bats. Miserable. She chained you, caged you, she nearly destroyed you…and I did what any true friend would do. I set you free. Released your bonds. I, and I alone cut your last string. I took your one damn rule and backfired it in your face…
Backfire. Ha-! The world's a sick, sick joke-and that one was unintentional. But it's a joke. It's all a joke, Bats. And you'll see. Someday you'll see. You're a puppet with no strings, just like me! And a puppet without strings becomes something else entirely…but you keep grabbing for them and trying to tie them back on…it's-I'll be nice-fucking pathetic, really. But don't worry, Bats. I forgive you. I'll preach to you 'til I'm blue in the face from talking to your thick, cowled skull or because you finally grow the balls to blow my fucking brains out.
But you won't, darling. You won't. We're destined to do this forever, we're legend and myth, prophets and martyrs, and we're been fighting since before either of us ever really existed. We're not men, you and I. No, no we're ideas. We're gods. The yen and yang. Equal and opposite. I'm logic. And you're sniveling little sentimentality, still convinced in the good of the people and the sanctity of civilization. But we both want the same thing: justice. True justice, and personal responsibility.
…but if people were really good, if civilization was really civilized, they wouldn't need little old you, now would they?
And we're willing to do whatever it takes-well, almost whatever it takes, Bats-to get them to see. To understand. To choose. But until you're willing to sacrifice, uh, everything…you're not a prophet, Bats. You're only pretending. You're just…another politician. I'm a prophet. And you're my disciple. And I will teach you, refine you. I can't force you or them to change but I can force you to choose…
…again and again and again-!
Equal and opposite, did I say? And yet we're alike. I know you, Bats. And we're so alike, you and I, so very much ali-kuh…
…I just need to hear you say it.
10:53 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
Smoke and ash still belched from the sky. There was a deep, steady roar like the distant crashing of waves upon the beach, magnified a thousand times until the air itself was vibrating with resounding force, echoing against the buildings, punctuated by the treble of tinkling glass as plate windows cracked and came tumbling in deadly sheets to the ground below. The ground was shaking, shaking, groaning in anticipation as a volcano before its eruption, threatening to spew molten lava thousands of feet into the air above. And everywhere, in the shaking, the groaning, the unsteady lilt of paces there was an eerie, underlying hum…
It wasn't a fault line. It was far, far too mechanical for that, Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, Fire Marshall, thought. But the cause of the Legacy 'bombing' as the news channels had so naively put it was now the least of his worries. The Legacy had Fallen, Old National was gone, a parking garage had crushed a retreating ambulance en route to Methodist, and the Fountainhead had been the most recent to go. Glass wasn't the only thing falling. Seismic sensors couldn't get anything close to an accurate read-there was that strange, throbbing pulse as though a sleeping demon had been roused under earth, enraged to find that a city had been built upon its place of slumber. But even if these machines were momentarily worthless, one could rely on an age-old principle that needed no technology at all: geometry.
Buildings should stand as a 90 degree angle from the ground. Any more, any less…well, the tower of Pisa wasn't famous for being fucking old.
Victims were still being found. Crushed. Burned. Dehydrated. Dead. The survivors were getting fewer and fewer, and as bits and pieces of leaning buildings began to slough off to the streets below, Yosef was left with little choice.
It was Firemen who climbed the Towers on 911. Firemen, doing their jobs, following orders, who were trapped and crushed when the buildings finally fell. Yosef's parents were Lebanese. Immigrants. His father drove a taxi cab, his mother stayed home and raised himself and seven sisters. His father had been shot the next day, shot for being an Arab, for being a Muslim, for being 'a Godfuckingterrorist', his father had quoted. But he must not be angry, he must forgive. Must pity their narrow-mindedness and ignorance, his father insisted, for believing any god could desire vengeance of his followers, not compassion. Yosef was twenty-two, twenty-two and his name would be placed on the Terrorist Watch List simply because it didn't sound American. But the United States was a melting pot, who craved the tired, hungry, sick and poor…there had been many, many others here in Gotham City who had foreign names, the Chinese sector, the growing amount of Japanese businessmen and their families, many Indians, Italians, Russians, Mexicans and a host of immigrants both legal and non pouring in from the Central and South Americas. But it was men like his father, families like his family, places of worship like his mosque, not the great Catholic churches nor a small, Buddhist shrine that faced prejudice and persecution.
At twenty-two years old, holding his father's hand in the hospital, Yosef had watched the television, sick at heart for the loss and grief a city and a nation-his nation-had suffered. And he saw those men, those heroes, those firemen, and something told him deep down inside that those were patriots. Men who loved their country. Men whose honor and allegiance would never be doubted. And Yosef was American. Muslim, yes, but American. And he made the decision to clear his family's name and honor, to take up his patriotic duty, to ensure his own children and wife would never have to endure what his mother had, that no one would look down upon them for their face, name, or religion. He would prove to these ignorant masses, misguided by terror and distrust, that his indeed was a God of mercy and peace. So Yosef became a fireman. Worked as a public servant for Gotham City for nearly 30 years. He was 51, not only a fireman but the Marshall of the Firemen, and damned if he was going to be called a terrorist or a murderer, damned if he was going to let American servicemen and women die just as careless and enraged as those young jihadists crashing those planes…
Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, Fire Marshall of Gotham City, made an executive decision. Too many innocent people here had died already. Too many of his teams had been crushed by the weight of falling debris, sliced into shreds by plate glass taller than a man. Policemen, paramedics, Red Cross volunteers and National Guardsmen, all courageous, all giving, all dead. The plaza was burning, filled with smoldering debris in places over three storeys tall. The roads leading in and out were filled with fleeing victims, unearthed like eerie, terra cotta soldiers, rushed away to safety and rescue. Any victims left in the plaza proper…
Yosef wiped his bloodshot eyes. Thought of twisted, charred corpses, smears of blood and bits of bone. 35,000 people in the plaza proper, more lining the streets, ringing the parade for blocks upon blocks…
…The poor bastards never had a chance. Yet if by some miracle there was anyone left out there, any one still alive…well, may Allah, Ar-Rahím, Al-Muhaymin, have mercy on their souls.
He made the call. Over every emergency broadcast channel, the message went out that Gotham City Plaza was being sealed off. There would be no more ill-fated rescue attempts. There would not be another Twin Towers. Not when he, Yosef, a muslim, an American and a patriot, had the power to prevent it.
10: 55 EST
Gotham United Methodist
Coffee. Sugar. Creamer?
…check. Bruce Wayne walked purposefully back to the hospital room, but the nurse's station distracted him. That nurse, Amy Lawless, was sitting there charting frantically. Methodist was still trying to make bed room for critically wounded patients. Push al those 'stable' and….well, 'almost stable' wasn't a precise medical term but no one was bothering with micturation and physician check outs. If you weren't bleeding, in need of surgery, blood, or advanced life support, you were going to Skylight. No exceptions.
"Coffee?" He asked gently.
"Thank you," She said, taking the hot beverage gratefully, allowing herself to relax ever so slightly, sit back in the chair and take a few deep drinks and a few deep breaths.
Bruce couldn't imagine the stress the medical personnel were under. He himself used to deal with life and death scenarios every night…but he had signed up for them. These people, these ordinary extraordinaries…the guilt and strain was eating them alive.
He sighed. Watched the RN return to her work, and turned to begin the second long trek to the Med/Surge floor's galley for another cup of coffee.
…but something held him back.
GCPD Tracking Room
"Gordon?" Renee Montoya peeped around the corner.
Aaron Lawless watched as the haggard Commissioner looked up from deep thought. "Yes?"
"Phone. It's the Mayor." She said apologetically, white teeth flashing against her dark face. Gordon rose and followed her. The Detective sighed, suddenly alone, said a silent prayer of thanks that Garcia had awoken, and leaned back into the padded leather chair.
Pain in his right buttock. He sat up, fished around the pocket of his uniform for the offending object: a phone.
The Kid's iphone, a Christmas present to replace the unreliable piece of junk Jimmy'd been toting. Jimmy's phone, still smelling of coffee. The screen was cracked now, coated in dust, parts of the casing chipped. He gripped it tightly, sudden pang in his chest to know he had carried it with him this entire time.
Gotham United Methodist
There. Over her shoulder. Subconscious reflex. Mind playing tricks. You only saw it because you were thinking of him.
But some tiny, hidden part of him doubted . Some part of him needed to know for sure. Bruce Wayne stared intently at the screen over Lawless' thin shoulder, and through the curtain of her dark hair he read PENNYWOR-
GCPD Tracking Room
That goddamned purple shirt. If only the Kid hadn't worn it he'd have his cell on him. Someone could've called. He could've called and they might have found him. But Jimmy Connolly's phone had been drowned and dead, forgotten in his pocket since yesterday morning.
No one could have called the Kid. No one could have found him no matter how hard they tried.
"Christ," Lawless breathed. But even he didn't know if that name was a prayer…or a curse.
10:56 EST
Gotham United Methodist
Bruce blinked. Squinted harder. PENNYWORTH, AL-the rest was obstructed by the RN's small frame, busily jotting notes on at least 10 different patients.
All but this: Caucasian male. Age 67. Sudden cardiac arrest.
GCPD Tracking Room
Then he remembered. With a jolt he remembered an endless night like this day so long ago standing on a ferry deck with a thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate in the engine room. Amy crying over the phone pleading for him to say it would be alright but it wouldn't it wouldn't you know it won't you won't lie you ask to talk to Ian tell him you love him he's silent doesn't talk doesn't quite know what to think she's back on sobbing, whimpering begging tells you not to hang up to stay on the line but you whisper I love you, babe and shut the cell need a moment of silence need a moment alone you have to prepare yourself to meet God.
If there is a God. If someone who would leave your wife a widow and your son fatherless was worthy of being called God…
She's silent. Staring out over the waters. Hasn't moved. Hasn't spoken. Your watch reads thirty seconds till midnight…more or less, give or take however many microseconds the detonator is off by.
Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine now. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Pain. Guilt. "Paltron, I…I didn't even ask if there was anyone you needed to call-"
Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three…
She turns. Face blank, phone held limply in her hand. "You're here." She says. "There's no one else for me to call."Silence. Pull her to your chest. Stare out at the city together, lapping lazy waters scintillating skyscrapers like the sparkle of a million stars your watch is slowing seconds, heart beats last eternity in the final moments til midnight. Her crystal eyes close. She is tense, unbelieving. You cling to her, press her tightly. Too terrified to die alone. Five seconds til midnight. You're not ready. Don't want to die, don't want to leave a wife a kid alone behind all alone-
Three seconds til midnight. Two seconds til midnight…you close your eyes. And think of Amy…
...Paltron.
Paltron had a phone. Her phone. She had it on her when the Legacy fell.
"You're here. There's no one else for me to call."
Paltron's phone. And Lawless knew he was the only one she ever called. The only one who would have thought to call her…and he hadn't. The Fountainhead had fallen, it was far too late.
10:57 EST
Gotham United Methodist
Fear.
Amy Lawless nodded her thanks and stood up. Bruce smiled nervously, watched her walking down the hall…
…then crept around the desk, perused the file from a closer view to calm nis mounting dread. It was a coincidence. A mistake. A different Alfred Pennyworth…
It couldn't be his Alfred. No, no in a city the size of Gotham there could be thousands of Pennyworths, perhaps a hundred Alfreds…
And Alfred wasn't even at the Legacy. He was safe in the Penthouse, right where you left him he was safe…
GCPD Tracking Room
He knew it wouldn't do any good. He knew it was too late. Knew even if she was alive he had no chance of rescuing her-
But he had to know for sure. Had to try. He speed-dialed her number, hoping to God a nurse in an ER somewhere would hear and answer, calm his fears…they had located hundreds, if not thousands of victims through Wayne Enterprises. He prayed, cursed, pleaded that his former partner, that his son, might be among them-
10:58
Gotham United Methodist
PENNYWORTH, ALFRED Age: 67 Gender: Male Code Status: FULL
Social Security Number: ________
But that had been left blank. Why? Patient unconscious at time of delivery? Yes, yes that must be it no one walked around with their social security card on them…and an unconscious man couldn't just rattle of a 9 digit number, could he?
…Unless there was a simpler explanation, Bruce thought with dread. Unless this man didn't have a social security number. Unless this man wasn't a citizen. Had a working Visa. Had lived in the USA for over thirty years now but still considered himself to be a citizen of the UK…
Papers, charts, chair overturned the Batman was sprinting soaring slamming through the crowded hallway shouting movemovegetoutofmyway-!
10:59 GCPD Tracking Room
Milton speaking over the comm, Gordon and Montoya talking lowly, Allen's deep voice, Anna's soft tones he heard none of it not the click of fingers on a keyboard the steady thrum of electric lights the distant shriek of singing sirens…No, he had ears only for this. The phone was ringing, a dull, steady brrrr punctuated only by the sound of his heavy heart-
Gotham United Methodist
The door snapped from hinges a man was yelling the Batman was yelling let out a bellow like a dying bull. "ALFRED-!"
11:00 EST
Gotham City Plaza
A noise. A light. Small hand moving in the darkness. Five miles away, Detective Aaron Lawless heard silence as the line picked up...then whispered words from the last voice he ever expected to hear:
"…h-hello-?"
Under 35 thousand tons of the Legacy's glass, steel, concrete and smoldering dust, twenty-two year old Jimmy Connolly was Alive. Awake. Afraid...
...but no longer Alone.
11:01 EST
GCPD Tracking Room
Detective Aaron Lawless staggered nearly to his knees, and instantly all eyes were on him, staring in wonder and in doubt.. "Kid?" He asked sharply. "Jimmy-!"
"Dad-!" The voice was tinny and shrill. "Daddaddad please dad-!"
"Jesus, Jimmy! Jimmy, Kid where are you? Where did they take you? Paltron-she's with you where the Hell are you guys-!" Jim Gordon stood, staring at the Detective in wonder. Montoya and Crispus Allen cast worried glances,
"Don't hang up please please please dad I, I-"
"Jimmy, Jimmy-!" It's not right, no bustling in the background no sirens no static just cold dead silence fear growing in your gut,"Where the hell are you, Kid?"
"I...I don't know I can't see-"
…and instantly he knew. "Milton!" The Detective snarled, "I need a trace on a cell and I need it fucking now! Get Bradley working on it too-!"
"I need you to hold the phone away from your face, Kid. Use the light. Tell me what you see-"
"I, I, don't leave me-!" Silence, gasping, panting breathing, squeal of terror-
"Kid-!"
"Dead people, there's, there's people and they're, they're dead all dead everyone's dead-"
And he's crying crying crying like your son your son's crying he's alive he's scared he's terrified outofhisfuckingmind and you want to hold him hold him like you've done through nights of nightmares and memories of years and years of abuse but you don't even know where he is you want to hold him fight those fears away but you're god knows how far away and nothing scares you like not being able to reach out and comfort him you only stand there helpless emasculated no worse feeling in the world-
'Paltron?" The Detective asked sharply, "Paltron? Kid, is she with you?"
"I...I think so..."
"Is she alive?"
"I, I, I don'tknow! She'sstuckshe'ssostill she's not moving, I...they're all dead all of them all those people a-an-and the little kids they're all dead aren't they-oh God-!"
"Okay. Okay." Take a deep breath. Push on. "You're gonna fine. It's gonna be okay, you hear? You just…you'll be alright, okay?"
Scared little voice. Shrill and gasping. Aaron Lawless' heart sank further in his chest. He knew this wasn't Detective Jimmy Connolly…and that meant it was that little boy, the one who still woke screaming from his sleep during night terrors, the one he'd held through the tears and the shaking, the boy whose frightened face looked all the world like an Angel weeping, gave those goddamned Stop the Violence ads the horror of a holocaust survivor…
"What do you see? Can you see anything? Kid, I need you to look around. I need you to look around like we did on that Meroni-family case, remember? When you found the cigar butt the FBI missed and we busted Gaetano's ass for accessory to murder?" Their first case, the Kid's opportunity to live up to Allen's glowing letter of recommendation, and he'd passed with flying colors. "You remember that?"
There was silence for a long moment. "Yeah," came the panted reply.
"Yeah?" The Detective prodded desperately. "Alright. Alright, Kid, you have to walk the grid. I need you to walk me through the grid. Step by step. Just like the fucking academy. Tell me what you see."
Silence. Sharp intake of breath, scratchy and weak. "I see…I see nothing. I can't see anything I-"
"Hold the phone away from your face," Lawless coaxed, near pleading as Milton worked furiously to trace the location of the call…but police standard equipment had only so much resolving power. NSA could've told GPS location down to the microsecond, but the lead flashing on the GCPD screen in bold red letters was only a glaring dead-end: Legacy Plaza. But a three block radius would hardly narrow his search.
"It's a truck!" the boy's tinny voice cried. "It's a truck a truck the red truck-"
"A truck? You see a truck-?"
"We're under a truck-"
Under a truck. Shielded from debris. The only way they'd made it this far…"What truck?"
"You know, the, the red truck-"
"No, I don't know what red fucking truck-!" But suddenly he stopped, shocked and silent. It's July 4th. And you're holding Ian Amy couldn't come the parade's going by sirens whirring lights flashing in an hour or two there'll be fireworks and the boys look at you smiling wildly hands over their ears the FD goes by water tanker by water tanker and your three year old son turns to you and says "The red trucks, Dad! I hate those guys!" The whole department is laughing, laughing giving your little guy high fives he's too damn young to understand and you're blushing goddamn pink-
One hand held the phone to his ear, the other grabbed the remote rewound car recintegrating billowing smoke disappearing to a pinprick a snapshot a picture a pause in time when all those people were still alive...Tanaka's smiling face and there they were Paltron and Connolly standing in the background long shot camera panning a flash of red of brilliant, fire-engine red. "Milton! Forget it! I need a listing of all FD equipment issued for the parade, and GPS locations for all of them!"
Lawless ran to the door, still on the phone. "Wait!" Fred Milton called, standing and sending his headphones flying. "Lawless, what the HELL are you doing?"
The door swung open, and the Detective looked back for an agonizing, apologetic second, staring not at his questioner but into the eyes of Commissioner James Gordon.
"I'm going after my son."
The door swung shut. Four pair of eyes turned questioningly to Gordon, only to find their leader had no answers. It was both a statement and a plea, the Commissioner finally decided. But a plea for what-?
11:10 EST
Gotham United Methodist
Enraged.
The momentary panic was gone, the sighs and sobs of relief long since subsided, the terror and horror he had not felt since watching his father twinging in the throes of deep shock, since the hand that was caught upon his mother's pearls pulled the trigger with sudden solemnity, and everything that was his mother fell with agonizing slowness to the pavement below-
No, the rage was back. The Batman was back. The Batman was here, as he had been, all those years ago in the courtroom, staring into the eyes of the man who had murdered his parents, wishing, waiting, willing him to be released so he could finally be at peace. Joe Chill would be freed, freed from protection and imprisonment, and he would die by his hand.
"This just in, emergency officials have closed off the plaza, I repeat, the plaza is now sealed off due to increasing concerns of structural stability. Five buildings have fallen in wake of the Legacy, and at least six more at considered compromised-" the voice of Cameron Shaw came tinny and muted through the television speakers.
But trembling in sorrow and shock, Bruce Wayne heard only one thing: Legacy. He stared at the man who had been his father's most faithful servant, who had served for years as both surrogate father and mother to a lonely adolescent, a former soldier who had never given up, never left a man behind, who had only and always had faith in a young man who had repeatedly disappointed him.
No more. He was drunk with a righteous anger, glutted with a desire for vengeance, for justice, for punishment, for blood-! Unfeeling, unthinking, unknowing, he left the room, the hall, the hospital, a burning mantra like a scorching scream growing louder and louder with every heart beat until it consumed him. Bruce Wayne was no more, and it was the Batman who repeated over and over and over again: I made a promise on the grave of my parents that I would rid this city of the evil that ended their lives.
A promise. To rid. This City. Of Evil. That Ended. Lives.
Promise. To Rid. This City. Evil. Lives…
11: 13 EST
Arkham Asylum
Seconds ticked by. Minutes. Hours. In the shadows of the late Gregory Morrison's ward room the man known as the Joker crouched in the alcove of the door. Sure, the floor was uncomfortable…but all the better to scare the hell out of ya with, my dear.
But he could wait. Wait for the Batman. For the Batman he could wait forever…
…but forever was a very long time. And waiting could get so…boring. His plan-his genius plan-had failed even in all its cleverness, but its failure was so much more… en-ter-tain-ing than its success could ever have been. Because now he had a puzzle to solve. A puzzle. Like a game.
…all the world's a stage. One giant production. And art reflects life, life reflects art, and art reflects life reflecting art reflecting life…But if you looked closely enough, if you knew where to hmm…look, you'd find the strings…and that was the game of course! All the world's a stage and these pathetic little Gothamites were just the puppets therein. But he wasn't the puppeteer, oh no, not that arrogant-wasn't sure he believed in one, either-but he was a rebel, a puppet with no strings-or better yet one who'd cut and burned them-
Yes. Yes this was the game. God and Satan, playing checkers over Job…No, no this was a different game. A better game. Where God was make believ-vuh but people still liked to blame Satan for all the shit in their lives instead of, uh, wa-king up to realize that all their problems were caused by themselves-!
…No, no instead they went ahead and blamed mom-my and dad-dy and everyone else on the fucking planet back generations and generations because some kike bastard (make that the uh, father kike bastard) of so-called psycho-tic-analysis said so?
He'd heard some baaaad jokes before. But this one, this one took the hmmm, cake. No, uh, this one took the whole damn sweet shop…and probably ate the fucking baker, too.
And even then they were sooo weak. So bor-ring. Too willing to take a hundred and fifty years of psychobabbling bullshit at face value, too complacent with their electricity and mass media their computers and their ipods to learn to think…
And you know what the problem with faces is, don't you? DON'T YOU? Faces…can be chang-ed. All those things these pathetic, Hobbes-ian creatures with their short and brutish lives, all their beliefs were only skin deep. Too weak, too stupid, too unfeeling and glutted with their constant barrage of instant satisfaction to reach out and grasp the Darwinism they so mindlessly proclaimed.
Cause you can't have it both ways, folks. Ya can't shirk personal responsibility without blamin' the other guy. And if you're gonna blame him…if it's reeeally his fault and there's no God-duh to stop ya…
…why the fuck don't you blow his goddamn head off?
What's stoppin' ya? What's. Stoppin'. Ya.
That, THAT is the question. The question for which the answer was so elegantly simple:
…Nothing.
He'd show them. Show all of them. But especially whatever uh, mob-fools or him-hawing hooligans thought to capitalize on his hmm…re-pu-ta-tion.
Sorry, boys. A martyr only dies for his own causes. But I'm…only happy to oblige you! Ya wanna die for something? Pick a cause, any cause, cause you're dying. Oh, yes, you're dying. And I'm a man of my word!
And that elicited only the tiniest little giggle from the shadows. So, shrouded in sinister silence broken only by the slimy sound of smacking lips, the Joker began to think
How could anyone else have known?
…and know-ing, who would want to take his little fireworks and turn them into a uh, atom bomb?
11: 23 EST
Situation Room, The Pentagon, Washington DC
"As you can see we have increased activity from the Soviets, Iran is glowing hot, and PRC's pushing aerial drills as close to Taiwan as they can."
"Chink bastards." POTUS snarled via telecom. Without a doubt, the twenty-first century had inherited the problems of the last. The Castro's were long dead but communism still crippled Cuba, Hong Kong might be part of China but Tibet sure as Hell didn't want to be, and he'd grown sick of playing Good China, Bad China and where in the fucking world was the new Dhali Lama. No Soviet leader had ever stood under anything remotely resembling the Nuremburg trials, and even though Stalin and his successors had killed more than Hitler's or Mao's ever did, that great Iron Curtain Reagan had dispelled had descended again to the North and East, casting an eerie, solemn shadow, looming and ominous. Mother Russia still had Nukes. The Chinese had Nukes. The goddamned North Koreans, the Iranians…and his homeland was still the land of the free and the home of the Great Satan.
The UN had been, and would remain, simply a sorry, silly shadow of the League of Nations. But he was no Wilson, no FDR. His century had inherited the plagues of the last, and sitting here where 48 other Presidents of the United States of America had sat, he couldn't help but wonder if in some spirit of spite they had let the world run amuck on purpose.
If I have seen further than others it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants, Newton had said. But none of his predecesors, those men both great and dangerous, could possibly have foreseen that in their sincerity for security, their pandering for votes, their compromises and trade agreements that in the first year of its untimely infancy, this century would surpass their plagues by far, exacerbating every long unsolved global crisis. For September 11th, 2001 hadn't changed the face of a city, a building, and a Pennsylvania field… it had changed the face of the world.
"We've had an extreme fluctuation in chatter from the Middle East."
Middle East. Sure as hell, breeding terrorists and imams who weren't quite terrorists but instilled enough hatred amongst their peoples they may as well have been. To Geraldo Calderon, that made sense. But what about these other regimes? The ones who weren't exactly allies but weren't outright enemies instead, who had nothing to gain and everything-trade sanctions, disaster aid, UN membership-to lose by arousing suspicion or even animosity from the American people? Sending condolences and public statements of solidarity meant nothing compared to a China on Taiwan's doorstep the moment her protectorate had an internal crisis of her own…Calderon had been governor of California. Dealt with economic crisis, the poverty level, increasing unemployment, unrest over immigration, both illegal and non, education reform, health care, gay rights, the importance of a tightly held budget…but internal affairs was only half of the Presidency, and no amount of preparation on the home front could ever compensate for his inexpertise in foreign affairs.
"But why the upset? Why the sudden mobilizations?" POTUS asked tiredly, and for a moment the room went silent, a silence such as had not been heard since Old Ike and the Manhattan project, that flinching moment of dread, wonder, guilt, relief oh God what have we done as the Enola Gay broadcasted half a world away that her mission had been a success…and for a moment, like that long moment, no one dared move nor speak. Then-
"Isn't it obvious, Mr. President?" SecDef asked weakly. "The last two times the United States was attacked, we went to war."
11: 24 EST
Arkham Asylum
Wanton killing. No heed for collateral…Not his style. Nobody in their right mind would believe it was him…but hell, these Gothamites weren't in their right minds to begin with, were they? And he of all people knew what a little uh, fear could do to ya…
…unless he broke out the same day. Unless even the most rational and logical objective and unbiased observers could make no other claim. This…this whole thing-
…was an elaborate set-up.
That was it. Someone knew about his plan, that punk latino pipsqueak Jesus Gonnagetmygutsrippedout wasn't smart enough to think to come to him on his own. No. No, the little runt was just a puppet, a little harmless puppet and someone wiser was pulling his strings, pulled by their own strings as well…
…Someone wanted him loose. And not only loose, they wanted him big. Bad. Back. Public, messy, maniacal mayhem. Tried to take his zeal and fervor and make it into a fucking kids movie, had to dumb down and Disney-fy his act for the masses like the newspapers written at less than a third grade reading level…
And whoever they were, they wanted the same thing. They wanted chaos. Disorder. Military law. They wanted the people of Gotham to eat each other…
…in short, the Joker realized with a spark of fury, what they wanted was the Batman…
…His Batman.
"No, no, no," He whispered in the darkness. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all-!
11: 35 EST
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center
"It's still burning." Bradley said. "Still burning. And that's what I don't get. There wasn't a bomb, no like, jet fuel or anything like that…"
"The majority of the secondary destruction's been to the Southwest as well." The elderly man wheezed. And even over the scanner, Eugene had to admit, they'd heard reports of crumbling, if not collapse, of many more-
"Hell, Fox, look at this!" He cried, bringing up a city map. "These intersections, the one's they've reported as blocked off, sure there's a ring around the plaza-the initial shock wave-but we've got way more damage to that side."
"Yes, Mr. Bradley," Fox panted, "but the gas lines and electric mainframe run parallel, north south. So what does it mean?"
The officer glanced up, concerned. "You're hurting. I should get you to the hospital."
"It's just a broken leg." The elderly man grimaced. "They'd tie a better splint, maybe get me some morphine…the hospitals are overflowing with burn victims and the dying, Mr. Bradley. Families. Children. Do you really think they'd give a damn about an old man with a minor injury?"
"Yada yada we stay put," the younger man sighed. "Just warning you now I have a very low pain tolerance-"
"Then I'd say it's a very good thing it's not your leg that's broken." Fox smiled.
"Yeah," the officer agreed. "But watching other people suck it up just gives me the heebie-jeebies." Quit being a pussy, Bradley thought scathingly, but what the hell could you do when gramps here was manning it up more than you ever could?
11: 42 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
Yosef had seen it before. Had expected it, really. But it still cut deep, deep inside to see grateful smiles on upturned faces disappear into suspicion and mistrust, to hear the relief of worried family members fall into hushed whispers, silence, or accusations.
They were all tired. No, no they were exhausted. Had reached the end of their strength, their patience, their humanity. The sun was high, the heat in the nineties without the plumes of smoke hovering overhead reaching temperatures of over a thousand…
He took another long pull at a Gatorade offered by Elliot Goldfinger. He thanked the young man, absently staring off over the wreckage when he saw it. Agitation. Raised voices. Another problem at the barricade…
"You've got to let me through MY SON's in there you've got to let me through get out of my fucking way-!"
He was well beyond weary. Felt pity and compassion for victims, for families…but was it too much to ask these people, this city he was trying to protect to respect if not his religion or skin tone but his position? Yosef plodded over, dreading to have this conversation with yet another concerned parent, spouse, lover, or friend. Yet he must. The Fire Marshall took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, sir, but the Plaza is closed to civilians and rescue workers alike."
"The fuck it is," The man snarled, reaching for his waist in a manner that had Yosef's pulse racing, memories of his father after 9/11 swimming to his mind-
But it was a wallet, a wallet with a bronze star and not a gun the man placed before his dark eyes. "Lawless. Aaron Lawless. I'm in homicide. My son's in there you've got to let me through-"
Yosef removed his helmet, wiped the sweat off the top of his balding head with a dust covered handkerchief. He wasn't a young man anymore, and years of experience hadn't made the job any easier, hadn't made dealing with distraught families and missing loved ones any less difficult.
"Sir, I'm sorry." The Fire Marshall said. "I truly am. But going in there is suicide. You're looking at an area of nearly six city blocks under thirty feet of rubble, uncontrolled fires and flare-ups with buildings threatening to topple at any second. It's too dangerous. I cannot in good conscience let you pass."
"Yeah? Well this is my son." The cop thrust a cell phone in his astonished face. "His name is Jimmy. He's in there. He's alive. He's under a goddamned firetruck and you tell him, you tell him it's too fucking dangerous-!"
11: 55 EST
WE/USM Arhival Wing, The Pentagon, Washington DC
"What the fuck do you mean it went missing?" SOHC asked the young Petty Officer furiously, only now being briefed on DRAGONFIRE. A program that had been around since before the 1990's for God's sake, microwave emission technology from Wayne Enterprises envisioned for the vaporization of enemy water supplies. Cold War Era. Afghanistan. Soviet Resistance fighters. Of course, it was only years later that the technology had been developed on a practical scale, now available not only for military or Black Ops but Police crowd control as well-senior year of debate team at Hanover, if he recalled right, MEDUSA and the ethics of using such 'non-lethal' military devices against American citizens…
But that was twenty-odd years ago. And the connections he'd made through that team led him down the long, weary road to where he was standing-or rather, sitting-now. And that same damn technology, that same damn code-word program had come back to haunt him. The thing wasn't so much classified as long-since buried into the abysmal archives of the US Military…although they amounted to much the same.
"Sir, Wayne Enterprises briefed us last year as soon as the weapon was stolen, presumably by Somali pirates, although the data there is incredibly sketchy. Point being, we know for certain this weapon or one based closely on its design was responsible for the incident known as Fear Night." The soldier replied.
Fear Night. Unprecedented level of terrorist hostility and no warning, no chatter through any channels. Ass-raped, is what his predecessor had called it, the seeming incompetence of the Department of Homeland Security and FBI had led to a complete regime change in Washington, landing Calderon, and the secretary himself, with the fall out. SOHC had enough decency not to shoot the messenger, instead turning to the official in charge of the briefing with his best demanding scowl. "And why wasn't my office informed?"
The Pentagon official ruffled his notes with the height of arrogance. "Frankly, sir, it was a need to know basis."
"And what about the largest terrorist attack on US soil didn't make you think this was a dire piece of information about national security-!"
"Until the time of the attack, we had no information to suggest it would ever be used as a weapon against America, let alone civilian populations. And afterwards, our engineers had concurred the weapon must have been destroyed in the blast." The man said dryly.
"Clearly you were wrong." Secretary of Homeland Security snorted, turning back to the Petty Officer. "And if I understand you right they're re-engineered it."
"Yes," Petty Officer Sylvester MacDonald replied, to the consternation of the Pentagon official. "They've amplified the effects. It takes a certain frequency to excite water molecules-that's how a conventional microwave oven works, sir. It doesn't generate heat, it uses electromagnetic waves to cause excitation of electrons, whose movement is what we term 'thermal energy.' My theory is that this device has been re- calibrated to excite not the bonds of water molecules but those found in metal, specifically those of the steel alloy compound found in the perimeter and core weight-bearing columns or caissons of the Legacy's foundations."
The Secretary blinked. "And-?"
"And it would create the same thermal energy, exciting the particles and creating a flux-"
"Goddamnit, Petty Officer!" SOHC bellowed. "English! Speak English!"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary." The former Naval Academy engineering student replied nervously. "It, it would, for all intents and purposes, melt the metal. The building's weight would lean towards the weakened side, but the open engineering of the building would shift weight from the perimeter to the core-"
"That's one theory." The OIC cut across the younger officer's speech. "Which we have considered but have deemed impractical and therefore improbable. We are required to present this information to you but our committee in no ways believes this theory has any credence. The energy expenditure required to do so would be enormous and its applications would be inefficient as a tactical weapon-"
"The first atom bomb was an embarrassment as far as engineering efficiency, sir," MacDonald added nastily. "But it was just as effective for its crudeness."
"What are you saying, son?" SOHC prompted, having decided the younger officer was by far the more honest and intelligent of the briefing committee. He'd see the youngster promoted when this was over, or a medal at the very least…
"What I'm saying, Mr. Secretary, is that we are NOT looking at a conventional weapon designed for tactical warfare," He here glared at his superior, " at least not in the standard sense. What we're looking at is Hiroshima. Or better, 9/11. A single-use, one time only event, a weapon crudely but effectively adapted to one purpose: to suddenly and silently collapse a major structure and there's only one reason for that-"
"Terrorism."
"Bingo, sir. It maximizes the civilian casualties."
"That is one theory-" The Pentagon official declared again, only to be silenced by a weary wave from the SOHC. He sighed, removed his bifocals-damn! when had he gotten so fucking old?-and wiped the sweat of his beading brow. For several seconds there was silence, and the Secretary straightened his spectacles and looked to the young Sergeant, feeling for the first time the fifty-three years and forty-odd extra pounds he was carrying. Hell, he was old, he realized. This wasn't a new playing field but a new game, a new game entirely, and the best thing an old fart could do was wisen up and listen to the youngsters who understood inherently what was going on…it was their world, after all. The Hanover alumnus turned to the handsome young officer, who, for having the weight of responsibility thrust suddenly on his strong shoulders, seemed to bear it and bear it well.
"How do we counter it?" He asked the younger man with frankness, not a general looking for advice from a trusted academian but more like a father, pleading with a son for instructions on the ever-changing modern technology kids these days seemed to have programmed into their genes. 'It was a brave new world out there' his ass. Hope your generation does more with it than mine ever did, Kid. His had left it in a shitty mess….
"Fight fire with fire." The Pentagon official said coolly, missing the gravity of both the request and the moment. "Drop an EMP over the plaza. It's essentially the same technology, and it'll fry any circuitry. Stop the motherfucker dead."
"You're an idiot if you think Wayne Enterprises hasn't hardened that product for protection…sir." MacDonald quipped, emboldened. "Besides, you really want to EMP the largest city in the US? One with the highest rate of violent crime in the world and currently a federally declared disaster area? No sir."
"We've got to stop this thing and stop it now, damnit!" SOHC swore. "And Petty Officer-?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary?"
"English? For this old fart?"
A strained smile stretched across that youthful black face. "HERF, stands for High Energy Radio Frequency. We can convert light into lasers, and we can convert it into other things as well, think radio waves and microwaves. At any given moment, there's thousands of radio waves crossing through your body but there are no effects because their energy is so low-they have a longer wavelength and a low frequency. In essence, they're weak, just like ordinary visible light. But we can excite and focus them-like a laser, sir. HERF can be used to temporarily interfere with communications through a continuous signal. An EMP is…let's say the atom bomb of HERF. It's simply a pulse or burst instead of a constant stream of electromagnetic energy-"
"Come again, son?"
"Light. Not visible light, sir, although it includes it." MacDonald began again. "Think of UV radiation-sunburns. We've harnessed similar energy for making X-rays and gamma rays for medical procedures, just like we've harnessed radio waves for broadcasting…well, radio. So this EMP is what's emitted during a nuclear explosion, that's why it's so deadly not only to living tissue but technology as well. Luckily, the military's known this since the MANHATTAN project and we've worked to protect our systems against it-"
Just the mention of the 'M' word caused the Secretary's eyebrows to disappear into his receding hairline. "This thing is nuclear-?"
"Hardly." The Petty Officer soothed. "That's just where we discovered it first. We've been developing that same technology in a non-lethal fashion for taking out enemy communications. Hardware-like this thing WE's made-can be and will be protected by a Faraday box. The thing was developed right around the time our government was developing, using-it's not classified anymore, sir, but we were-and absolutely paranoid about a non-nuclear EMP attack at home, sir."
"And this Farley box-"
"Faraday, sir." He continued, not unkindly. "Think of it as a… surge protector, for your television or computer, acting like a buffer against…oh, let's say a lightning strike. But anything not 'hardened' would be…say an alarm clock or microwave. There'd be no evidences of burning, no physical signs of having been tampered with, but the resistors would be fried."
"What you're saying is-"
"Any device that uses capacitors and resistors-anything that runs on electricity or electric circuits, cell phones, televisions, city lighting, even your watch, sir, would be permanently destroyed." MacDonald said with levity, sending the Pentagon official a scathing look. "And while effective for war time efforts, it is hardly appropriate over a civilian population as the destruction would include any and all unprotected emergency generators as well."
As slow as he had been to understand the young man's techno-speak, SOHC rounded on the Pentagon official with the speed and venom of a striking snake. "You fuck-face, what the hell were you thinking-!?" He spat. "Shut down ALL power? Inequivocably? Are you out of your fucking mind-!?"
The tiniest and most professional of smirks twitched across the young Petty Officer's face.
"No." SOHC said quietly. "No. I can't do that. It's tantamount to murder. No." He turned to the engineer. "Soldier, I need more options."
"Emergency shutdown. MSB and UOB. Tell the Northeastern sector to shut off gas and electrics to Gotham City. Whatever the hell that thing's runnin' off, it's runnin' hot, sir. But if you shut down the main power grid, it'll be a few seconds, maybe more until that thing's just a pile of useless shit."
He closed his eyes, prudence screaming no but logic craving surety. "Is there a possibility that…that thing's on… 'backup' power as well?" Could the bastards who'd planted the thing have known-? Would they have known and gloated at the situation they faced his government with-?
"Unlikely." The Pentagon official said hastily, trying to make some contribution, a move and tone which all politicians world wide had dubbed (in their own respective languages) cover-my-ass. "The amount of energy-and time-required to thoroughly heat a perimeter column to the point of compromising structural integrity would be tremendous, perhaps unheard of. The sheer volume of storage you'd need for such a device is hardly conductive to secrecy, if indeed this is a terrorist attack-"
"-in which secrecy and concealment would be of utmost concern, it would have to be the mainframe." The Naval officer finished.
The Secretary thought long and hard. It all made sense, but then again, the world on paper always made sense, black and white, cut and dry, not messy and red and wet and squalling like a newborn, like the chaos that life really was. For all their talk, they were back to square one: cutting power. "Along with every other appliance in the damn city that runs off electricity. I can't do that, not with hospitals-"
"The Hospitals in this instance would maintain their emergency generators as backup power." Petty Officer MacDonald reminded him. " And yes, you'll lose power but in a much more controlled fashion. You'll still have emergency generators functioning, both commercial and private. But if you drop an EMP or just use HERF you'll run the risk of taking out everything, sir, and I mean everything, down to pacemakers inside the blast radius. It might be on the mainframe it might not, but you've got to make a choice, and you've got to do it fast. Buildings are falling around the epicenter, sir, maybe from shock waves of the initial collapse…or it could be something far more sinister. I could be wrong about this entire thing, it's only a theory and a sketchy one at that. But if it IS this thing-" he gestured to the monitor in front of them, where DRAGONFIRE's prodigy spun in slow 3-D, " and it IS still running, it's only a matter of time before the beam reaches a gas line-"
"And-?" Secretary of Homeland Security asked, already dreading the answer. The Pentagon official suddenly paled.
"Best case scenario?" MacDonald said earnestly. "It'll heat the pipelines, expand the gas, increase the pressure and you'll be looking at Fear Night again, sir. Only this time it's not a psychiatric compound it's an explosive material. If it sparks, or is exposed to flame or electric current, goodbye Gotham. Not just the plaza, but the whole damn city. Anything. Everything connected to natural gas-"
12: 03 EST
FCC Secure Emergency Broadcast Channel
"This is Governor Stephanie Miller, commander in chief of the National Guard, and I am ordering a mandatory compliance with emergency shutdown procedure FAILSAFE. Our engineers have discovered a threat to Gotham City Plaza and all onsite volunteers. The threat of explosion due to interference in the main gas lines could level this city. You are on shutdown procedure FAILSAFE, and failure to comply will be considered by this administration as no less than accessory to terrorist threat-"
Gotham City Utilities Switchboard
"Sir, we have an authenticated order from state to shut down the mainframe."
"Shut down?!" Shift manger Emilio Gonzalez spat. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Although it could not yet be confirmed, the panic had risen and the terrorist threat level had been raised to RED, making this the largest ever terrorist attack on US soil, in her largest city, which tourism industries the world wide recognized as one of the most dangerous places to live. The CIA disagreed: Warizistan still held that record. But when was the last time someone had opted to immigrate there?
"The fucking hospitals are overloaded and you want me to turn power OFF-?-!" And with that, Gonzalez choked on his own rage, making apopletic sputtering noises, momentarily speechless. Taking down the power grid was unheard of. The panic that would ensue…sure, communications would remain up thanks to cellular phones but television, traffic lights, city lights, everything but the fucking airport and the hospitals would be pitched into blackness…and there was only so much power to be had from emergency back up generators…
"Absolutely not. It's fucking crazy." If one pushed a panicked crowd to far…well, you were looking at riots, shootings, pandemic violence, hell, even urban war…not even after Fear Night and thousands of yards of damaged sewer, gas, and electric lines was the mainframe taken off line completely. "I don't give a shit what you hear from these beaurocrat bastards, no one, NO ONE touches the mainframe, do I make myself clear?"
Pansy politicians sitting on their fat asses behind their immaculate desks never walked the streets never looked into the eyes of a woman selling herself to keep her kids from starving to death, never seen the gangs who for fun drove the streets and gunned children down…no, no none of these people, none of these gringos had ever lived on the frontera, none of them knew what it would be like-
The technicians blinked. "Sir, it's an authenticated order-"
12: 04 Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
GCPD Dual Headquarters
"We repeat, this is a government-organized emergency shutdown of power. We repeat, there is no need to panic there will be a temporary shut down of all power through the Greater Gotham City Area. Police and National Guard are making appeals for cooperation and compliance-"
Officer Fred Milton turned away from the image of Cameron Shaw on the news screen to radio the Ops center. "You gettin' this, man?"
"Hell yeah." Bradley's voice echoed through the speaker. "You know what it means?"
It means someone just got smart. It means we're about to get our asses busted for what we did. But fuck, we'd do it again, wouldn't we-? The technician wondered. "It means you take care, you hear?"
"Yeah." Eugene's voice came faint and muffled. "Will do." Milton hung up the Comm, turning with Crispus Allen, Renee Montoya and Anna Ramirez to watch the coverage of the Legacy while they still could. That blonde reporter droning on and on, repeating the message that this was not further hostilities, that the loss of power would be purposeful and indefinite. Fred Milton rubbed his eyes wearily. Only yesterday he'd kidded Lawless and Gordon, made some dumb-ass remark about Tanaka's tits. But that sort of juvenile humor just wasn't funny anymore, and it would be a long, long time before he joked again.
12: 07 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
"Sir, I'm asking you to get the fuck out of my way."
But Yosef was firm. This man, this father was not thinking. Crazed, delirious, desperate for news and aid for his son…it was cruel, yes, but could not be helped. Sometimes in disaster, like war, calls had to be made, orders followed. Had the smoke been less, helicopter access possible, perhaps they could have rapelled into the plaza, could have searched for this missing son…but to try to gain access by foot, to walk between those towering buildings, looming over the streets like the horns of Hattim…no, no it was impossible. No man could walk where sheet glass sparkled, scintillating and sinister in the summer sun, could make it through that pass where bits of buildling came crumbling down with every whir of every siren…
Perhaps if they had more time. If the military's seismic sensors weren't interrupted they could formulate a plan, deliberate demolition of the remaining structures, bring them down under control…but more debris meant more fire. Less air. More shit to search through, to dig down…Yes, yes this boy was alive. But to reach him would be to kill him and anyone sent on the rescue. It was…impossible.
"And as Fire Marshall of Gotham City I'm ordering you to stand down, officer." Yosef said, standing ground. No one else would die here. Not today.
12: 10 EST
Gotham City Utilities Switchboard
Emilio Gonzalez was exhausted. He was also panicking. And truth be told, he was more than just a little mad. Psychiatrist Harlene Quintzel would later quip it was obvious that Gonzalez suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and her oh-so-professional opinion would be forever immortalized in an official military inquest. But hindsight is always 20/20, and emotional trauma by definition is made manifest only in times of extreme duress.
Had Quintzel been present, she herself would have been hard pressed to find anything conclusive. Her trained eye may have noticed his obsession and aggression compared to his sorrow-shocked co-workers, but there were also the variables of gender, age, race and socio-economic upbringing that must be considered.
But Emilio Gonzalez was unaware of all of this. He knew and knew only that his job was to keep the mainframe running, running at all costs because terrible things would happen were it to shut down, now someone was ordering him to shut down the mainframe but it was his job to keep it running it had to be kept running…
Adrenaline. Testosterone. Gonzalez's adrenal cortex was on overdrive and his mind on autopilot-
"Sir, you are acting in direct defiance to a government emergency manual shutdown order. I am relieving you of your duties-"
But the brave technician never got the chance to finish. Something suddenly snapped, and Gonzalez reared back one of his huge fists, punching the smaller man dead on in the solar plexus, the technician's earnest eyes going wide, then blank, the body tumbling in a gracefully arc to the machinery, then falling heedless and limp to the floor below-
Natalie Hendricks and her two remaining co-workers screamed.
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
And that's when it happened. The unthinkable. That inescapable, agonizing click, chambered round, a hollow muzzle dark and cold like the throes of death, and Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, nearly 30 years after 9/11, was staring down the barrel of firearm like his father, yet this was held not by a blood crazed civilian for his religion or race but by an officer of the self same nation he had sworn to protect-
12: 12 EST
Gotham City International Airport
Temporary HQ State National Guard/Department of Homeland Security
Root's men were already aboard the choppers, less than a minute out, guns up and at the ready. The power plant's eerie desolation of pipes and towers stretched across the suburbs like an alien nesting ground, full of unearthly, metallic eggs and pavement.
"This is Governor Stephanie Miller, authorizing a seizure and manual shutdown of Gotham Utilities effective immediately. I repeat, authorizing a seizure and manual shutdown of Gotham Utilities ASAP. You are authorized to use deadly force if necessary-"
Miller's message ran looped over the National Guard Channel, her soldiers already above their target, ready to defend their country, their state, their friends, neighbors…under attack by unknown forces, a mission a reason a purpose the only thing between their professionalism and the panic of the masses. No, someone had attacked their country. Their city. And the motherfuckers were going to pay for it. The military chopper touched down, spewing 16 soldiers, armed and ready to kill.
Gotham City Utilities Switchboard
"You heard Miller we have to turn it off-!" Natalie Hendricks shouted, last of the resistance. She could give in she should give in she had her life ahead of her just bought her dress engagement ring gouging her manager's skin with her feeble attempt at a punch-
"NO!" Gonzalez roared, hands on the young woman's throat, shaking her, shaking her like some tossed rag doll, a child's plaything, even in his rage unable to draw back an arm and hit a woman. But he had to stop her, yes, stop her she didn't understand none of them did no one but him he'd been there, been there along the border seen drogas and pandillas people killing people raiding shooting chaos mayhem murder wouldn't couldn't no se puede occurir aquí-!
12: 13 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial ParkwayGCFD Barricade
The man's hands were shaking. Yosef was rooted to the spot, transfixed; the eyes of his men now drawn, widening, sudden deadly silence men in firesuits jumping up to their feet in slow motion, not knowing, not comprehending running running like all his other comrades like those brave souls on 9/11 like those slaughtered here today-
Gotham City Utilities Switchboard
M-16 raised ready to shoot plastic explosives steel core door flying off hinges, Julius Root shouting Gogogo!
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
"LAWLESS-!"
Gotham City Utilities Switchboard
Soldiers spilled into the room smoke blast screams guns shouldered and ready three bodies on the floor a young woman standing covering in blood Root turned on the spot shouted "CLEAR!"
12: 14 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
He's in control he said but he had been wrong he wasn't in control even the Batman had his limits and Jim Gordon was running, running in the past and present who are you going after he'd asked and the Batman growled he was going after Rachel-
Not Rachel. Not Rachel but his son-
He placed one shaking hand on that strong arm. "Put the gun down, Lawless." Commissioner James Gordon ordered gently. "Put it down." Detective Aaron Lawless shuddered. Blinked. Hazel eyes owlish and squinting as if in sudden sun-
Yosef Abdullah Salim Hadded watched numbly as the dark pit of that hollow muzzle wavered once, then slowly lowered under that authoritative plea. It was over.
12: 15 EST
Gotham City Utilities Switchboard
…and it was over. Root's second in command was performing CPR on the fallen technician, more National Guardsmen were knelt over the unconscious forms of two more workers, using field issued flashlights to test for pupillary reflexes. Startling and grotesque against the computer hardware was the shredded shrapnel of the once-was-security door, a bright red shock of scarlet pooled around its base, the only evidences of Emilio Gonzalez's death. Root's men had accomplished their mission without firing a single shot.
Sitting at those same computers, spattered in blood and blinking back tears sat a young woman, studiously initiating the shut down procedure. Finally she looked up, face blank and shell-shocked, freckled with blood and bits of bone.
"Is it done?" Root asked.
She nodded. And then, only then, did Natalie Hendricks-soon-to-be-Holden fall sobbing into the Colonel's chest.
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
Aaron Lawless staggered back, nearly collapsing against the Commissioner. Gordon tightened his grip on his friend's arm, steadying him as he breathed, "Oh shit-" With his other hand, he coaxed the gun from the Detective's fingers, then released him.
For a moment no one moved. Seven firemen stood, caught like strange, terra-cotta statues in mid-movement, hesitant and wondering, gathered around in silence, the only sounds the distant whirring of sirens, deep treble and bass of cracking plate glass and raining concrete as the whole word shook as violently as the middle-eastern looking man he'd just saved-
"Dad?" A tinny voice from a forgotten phone. "Mr. Lawless-?"
Lawless was the first to break. Dusty hands raised to his short-cropped hair, fingers raking through nails raising welts Gordon heard him whisper "Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh Christ-!"
12: 17 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"We repeat, do not panic. All viewers in the Greater Gotham City Area will be losing power shortly. This is a government initiated emergency procedure-"
Shaw. Good for her.
With all her heart Rebecca James of TV 18 news wished there was something more she could do for Gotham…but hadn't Paul said it? You've done enough. And she'd be a fool to think that helping one little girl-the cherished hope a family now dead-was any less heroic than what her co-worker was doing right now. Family. Kids. Wasn't that what Stop the Violence was all about?
That nurse walked by again. The one who had been so kind, so understanding. James rose from the bedside, a pressing question suddenly on her mind-
"Excuse me, Miss Lawless?"
The dark-haired woman turned. "Yes?"
"I hate to bother you," the red head apologized lowly, "I know you're both busy but have you seen Mr. Wayne?"
"No." The RN replied, and with her whispered words the lights flickered once, then died. And like Golgotha so long ago, the world was plunged in darkness.
12: 18 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
The statues moved. Sighed in relief. Silent prayers of gratitude. The man he'd rescued extended his hand. "Thank you." He said. "You know this man?"
"Yes." Gordon replied. "Yes."
"I am Yosef Haddad. Fire Marshall-"
"I'm police commissioner James Gordon."
"Good." Yosef grunted. "You can dismiss this man." He gestured, not unkindly, to Lawless. "He needs rest-"
"No." The distraught Detective insisted. "No. I have to get through. You don't understand. I'msorryI'msorryI'msofuckingsorry but I have to get through-"
Gordon could tell the Fire Marshall was about to counter, to say it was too dangerous, it was suicide, he'd never make it in his condition when the unthinkable happened. With a grinding shake, toppling concrete, and the low rush of heavy thunder the earth shook, shook again as one block ahead of them, thirty-five floors of glass and decorative brick shuddered, sloughed, and careened slowly to the ground-Dust dust rising dustsothicksofastcan'tseecan'tbreathe-!
…nothing.
Coughing. Smoke? Fog? Haze? More coughing. Low sound like roaring thunder, like crashing waves like the pounding of Niagra Falls when he and Barb had stolen away for their fifteenth anniversary-
Barb. The feel of her skin, smell of her hair, flash of her smile-
12: 20 EST
Gotham City Plaza
The earth was shaking screaming it was burning, burning everything was black ash and dust gunshots he screamed in fear but it was just the pistols the pistols the service pistols...Yet with that thought that logical thought it all became crystal clear. Service pistols. Police Officers. Had his mother been a police officer-? But he was he was a police officer he was 22 he was a Detective he was Detective Jimmy Connolly not a child whose mother called him Angel-
And in that moment, Detective Jimmy Connolly came to and realized three things. It was so hot the guns were going off on their own. He had to take out the magazines in the dark, un-chamber the rounds but the bullets could still explode. They were burning, burning burning under a fire truck under a gas tank under who knows how many gallons of highly flammable liquid and the bullets could still explode. They were under a truck a truck the red truck a fire truck a fire tanker under five thousand gallons of water-
Letting go of that throbbing gash he groped for his gun rolled over felt for the woman's waist felt the gun felt the gun as he had feeling frantically for her cell phone hours ago flicked safeties off raised his hands afraid of ricochet afraid of drowning afraid to die whispered Godhelpme-! and emptied both magazines into the tanker's belly.
12: 23 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
Yosef stood.
The air was heavy again, heavy and choking with dust. It settled in his thick hair, his beard, caked his skin, the inside of his throat. But something was…wrong. The air was so, so…
…still. There had been that terrible jerk, the decorative outer shell of the commercial building sloughing off, leaving the floors naked and bare. He raised his dark eyes to the skyline and saw that yes, yes many other buildings had been so stripped, looked like pathetic trees wrest of leaves in late autumn. There had been that terrible jerk, the crashing of concrete and glass, the rising cloud like a tide of dust, the earth had shuddered and screamed., but now all was still.
That eerie, mechanical, throbbing pulse-the demon's raging heartbeat-had finally been quelled.
"Mr. Gordon? Mr. Gordon-!" A panicked voice brought the Fire Marshall back to reality. He blinked. Turned wearily on the spot. "Mr. Gordon? Commissioner? Sir-!" Firefighter Elliot Goldfinger was shaking the smaller man whose life he'd just saved. But in covering him he'd heard a crack, heard a crack even over the deafening roar of earth-jarring collapse. The young man's adrenaline had kicked in, Yosef knew as he stumbled slowly over, unable to feel the pain his own eyes had registered. Goldfinger had broken his wrist. Severely.
That man, that…Lawless? Was crawling towards them, plaster-coated, looking like a harrowed grey ghost. "Here," His deep voice rasped. "Here, let me look at that-"The young man blinked. Stared at the bone and blood stuck so suddenly through the flesh of his arm-
"Compound fracture. You've jammed your carpals down against your ulna and it's fractured." The man said, suddenly calm, clamping a firm hand over the young firefighter's forearm. "Median, ulnar nerve damage. Ulnar artery's been compromised. You need to get to the hospital-"
Yosef shuddered. "Your Commissioner as well."
"I'm fine." James Gordon muttered weakly, sitting up. "I'm…I'm…let's get you on an ambulance, son."
"No, no I'm alright, I'm fine-" Goldfinger protested feebly. The Commissioner looked to Lawless questioningly. The Detective nodded. Yosef understood: this man had medic training of some sort…
"Let's get you to the hospital, son." The Commissioner said again, then turned back to Lawless. "And let's get you in there."
"Jim, I-"
"You don't have to thank me." He said mildly, and yet the words were heavy, pregnant, overflowing with unspoken significance that even Yosef could understand. Then James Gordon turned to him. "Mr. Haddad, I am authori-I am asking you to let this man through."
James Gordon. Well-respected. Well-liked. Yosef himself, though long suspicious of the corruption in the GCPD, had been impressed with this man. This man and former DA Harvey Dent. Now wasn't the time to argue jurisdiction. Securing paperwork, authorizations, calculate strategic risk…now was the time to act. Act on instinct. Act on humanity…And act together…
"Goldfinger!" The Fire Marshall barked.
"Sir?" Asked the young man who had rescued Sara McCloud not eight hours previously.
"How long have you been on duty, son?" But the answer was apparent to all: too long.
"Since 3pm, yesterday." He said stoicly, steeling himself for the next task at hand. Goldfinger was ready to follow orders, follow orders into the danger of the Plaza itself with a broken wrist if need be. He was so tired, so tired he just wanted to sleep but he couldn't give up, couldn't give up not yet not now-
"You are to go to the hospital. You are relieved of your duties immediately." The Fire Marshall said crisply.
"No, sir, I can-"
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Yosef said, stooping to place one hand upon the youth's uninjured arm. "You've done enough." Elliot Goldfinger trembled from head to foot just as James had, then bowed his head and wept.
12: 30 EST
Situation Room, The Pentagon, Washington DC
"And yes-!" Petty Officer Sylvester MacDonald cried. "Yes! National Guard's reporting stabilization of their seismic equipment, they're getting accurate readings of the plaza-"
The Pentagon official let out a deep, deep sigh, closing his eyes and leaning back in the padded leather chair in relief. SOHC just blinked. "But what does it mean?"
MacDonald grinned. "It means we were right."
We were right? Secretary of Homeland Security thought. They'd made a blind guess and a shot in the dark. And they'd been right…well, MacDonald had been right. And he'd be getting a medal and a letter of recommendation and perhaps a promotion as well. He bowed his head, heaved a long sigh. There'd be paperwork. Miles and miles of paperwork, of tracking down this goddamned machine…But he couldn't think of that right now. Right now he was on a secure line to POTUS, wondering what impressed him more, the officer's instinct, his honesty, the way he'd taken that dreadful responsibility on his young shoulders…or the fact that he'd handled being right with so much maturity: we were right.
Before the week was out, Sylvester MacDonald would no longer be just Petty Officer. His introduction to and lunch with Geraldo Calderon would see to that.
12: 37 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
GCFD Barricade
The Police Commissioner stood by as Yosef stripped the young man of his gear and dressed the officer, instructing him meticulously on the use of the SCBA respirator, the heat tolerance of the suit, to take off his service pistol as the heat might trigger the explosive rounds, the prudence of taking medical supplies and water, and the importance of silence in the threat of falling debris… And finally Yosef was done, and this father was bundled in a GCFD suit.
"Thank you." Aaron Lawless's muffled voice returned sincerely, addressing him and the shorter Commissioner alike. "Thank you. For everything."
"May Allah be with you." He said.
Detective Aaron Lawless nodded once, pulled down the visor of the helmet, and before the eyes of Commissioner James Gordon he disappeared into that cloud of dust and rubble.
"Do you think he'll make it?" Goldfinger asked weakly from the ground, as EMS worker Jennifer Hanson tied a tourniquet around his forearm.
"I think he deserves the chance to try." Gordon said slowly. Yosef smiled.
…how was it the Christians said? Ah, yes, with man this thing is impossible, but with God, all things are possible-? Could Allah, where his own meager show of strength had failed, grant the miracle to send this man in safety to save his son-? This…Lawless? Yes, this Lawless had simply been carried away in his zeal. A cop, yes, but a father, a man of courage and faith. Sweating in the heat of the summer sun and the Legacy's rising smoke, confronted with both this best and worst of humanity, Yosef smiled. He found he could not only forgive the man…but commend him.
AN: If you're reading this…I'm impressed! It means you made it all the way through! As a thank you I'll give away some spoilers: the next installment has more Paltron, more Bruce, more Joker, and our first glimpse at a certain scrawny, scary psychiatrist. Three guesses who!