Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas

by Lasgalendil

Blood. Betrayal. Guilt. Obsession. Love. Loss. A Broken Promise, a Restored Faith. The Legacy falls, and the Joker is loosed. Enraged at the death of her son, a disgraced detective begins a violent vendetta, leaving Gotham reeling in her wake. But is this vigilantism justice? Can it ever be? A struggling city under a Reign of Chaos and Doubt searches for salvation and the answer.

24. Et Filio

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

AN: Last Legacy installment! It took way longer than it should have, but I'm so glad to be done!

---

16:00 EST

Gotham City Plaza

The trip seemed shorter. Briefer. As though no fires could burn him, no falling glass crush him, no sharp obstacles or buttes of concrete stand in his path. It was adrenaline, anger, grief and guilt that compelled him, he had walked in and out of this Hell like Persephone but left a friend behind to Hades.

And there it was. That ghastly firetruck rising out of the Legacy's remains, draped with ash and soot, with crumbled concrete and steel spires….And there she was. Sitting up and shivering, blue eyes glassy and wide. He began to run through the waist high debris, calling her name and clamouring to her side. "Paltron?" He shouted. "Paltron?"

"I can't feel my legs." She whispered. "I, I can't feel them…" Spinal cord injury, an old professor's voice rang in his head. Transverse lesion. Bilateral motor tracks, ALS and sensory circuits as well. She would never walk again- "Here," Lawless said worriedly, "Here, let me look, I need to look at your back-" Her fingers grabbed his arm in a vice-like hold. "You're okay, alright? Just let me look-" Should he move her? Leave her? Yosef and his men were in the plaza now, but it would be hours, hours before they came this far…

"Where's Bear. Bear. Jesus Bear he, he went to throw the damn grenade then took a shot in the shoulder he dropped it he fucking dropped it he pulled the pin then fucking dropped it I can't feel my legs Jon where'sJonJonJon where are you…"

Bare fingers on skin but it was wrong, all wrong, all her vertebrae still intact, no shrapnel, no crushing, no bleeding and no ischemia…there was nothing wrong wtth her back, nothing wrong with her legs, nothing wrong all intact all intact but those hideous scars-

Then his heart stopped cold. "I can't get it off." The woman cried piteously, "there's blood, there's blood everywhere I can't, it's…it's blood…" Ventilator suddenly sharp and ragged. He straightened slowly, slowly, like those moments in the goddamned horror movies when something lurks behind the curtains and you reach out a trembling hand-

Detective Aaron Lawless looked into his former partner's face, and found he didn't know her."Jon…" Her voice petered off into a low whine, and for a haunting second he saw for the first time the shadow of a younger woman on her face. "Jon."

"No it's me. It's, it's Lawless." Trembling hands uncapped a water bottle. "Okay, okay honey I need you to drink this, alright? Drink it you'll feel better-"

"Are you a medic? We were doing a training op just a training op with the local police we were, we were oh God we were ambushed-! I, I'm from Mortalis…I can't find my dogtags have you seen my unit…I oh, oh God oh Jon-!"

Heart sinking in dread he had to know, had to be sure…"Honey, honey what year is it?" he asked her gently. Baleful blue eyes, cracked, dehydrated lips, grey as a corpse she looked into his face from the ashes and dust to whisper her reply: 2011.

---

16:03 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Another backboard stretcher. Another ambulance. Jim Gordon sprang up, tried to direct their attention to his charge. "I've got an officer down!" The Commissioner cried. "He needs emergency transport immediately!" But he was met only with a sigh. Another shaking head. The back of this ambulance was crowded with children. Small children. The youngest, clutched in the arms of a steely-faced Sergeant looked no older than BB…

"And I've got an ambulance full of kids." Apologized the medical officer. "I'm sorry."

Jim Gordon nodded, turning away. "I'm sorry, son." He said, kneeling next to Connolly, feeling, as he had ever since the Legacy had first fallen, the guilt of all the injured, dying, or dead. Of course it was ridiculous. Survivor's guilt. But such knowledge made it no less real, no less painful…with a pang he remembered that as Commissioner, it was on his orders that Paltron and Connolly had even been there-

"It's okay, Mr. Gordon." The boy breathed. "It's…it's okay." But father and veteran though he was, James Gordon found he had no consoling reply.

"Gordon. Gordon. Mr. Commissioner, sir!" Came a sudden shout. Jim looked up, and the medical officer from the ambulance was shoving towards them..

"It is an ambulance?" Connolly asked weakly, lifting his head momentarily and opening his eyes for the first time in nearly an hour.

"No, sir, sorry, sir, no can do." The National Guardsman replied loudly, shouting to be heard over the surrounding sirens. "But I've got the next best thing-!"

It was a plastic ID bracelet. Slipped unceremoniously over and tightened around the left wrist. "What is it?" Gordon asked.

"It's a unique electronic signature, sir. Like a barcode-what they do at the airport for your luggage, sir."

"Katrina." Gordon reflected. "I've read about these."

"Only this mother's better." The medic explained, pulling a nasty-looking metal syringe loader from his belt as he knelt next to the boy. "This'll hurt like shit, son," he warned, placing the barrel behind Connolly's left ear and firing. A tiny gasp, another deep, cringing line scarred into that forehead. "This here's a tracking and receiving device, sends out a radio pulse, readable with 1000 yard radius. Now your officer here is activated-" he waved a wand, infra-red scanners emitting a laser-like spread. "And he's in the system. We know where he is, and guaran-goddamn-teed someone'll come for him."

You get him on a fucking ambulance, Jim. "Thank you." Gordon said breathlessly. "Thank you."

Behind them, ambulance doors were beginning to close. The soldier was being hailed by his crew. It was time to go. "Yes, sir! Anything else I can do for you, sir!"

"M-morphine…" Connolly bleated suddenly. "…please..."

The medic moved in one fluid motion, and everything paternal in Jim Gordon cried out, nearly moved to stop him as a large bore needle made plunging contact with the flesh. Even stricken Connolly let out a cry and sat nearly up. "Only take a few seconds to take effect." The unnamed soldier said, laying the boy back down by one scrawny shoulder while addressing Gordon again. "Someone'll come for your boy here, Commissioner."

But Gordon wasn't listening. Had already knelt beside the boy, lain a hand on his shoulder, looking directly into those pin-pricking dark eyes. "You'll be alright son."

"I want my Dad." The boy breathed, then grew still, so still that the Commissioner's heart nearly stopped…but no. The morphine had finally-mercifully-taken its effect.

…But there was something else. Looking into those hollow eyes Jim Gordon had a sudden, strange feeling of déjà vu, as though he'd seen the young man before…

Subpoena. Dent had wanted a subpoena for the boy, and Surillo had finally granted it. The weapon was missing, the victim's testimony was missing...and until they had concrete posession of either, Paltron had been convicted on solely circumstantial evidence.

"I strongly advise against this!" Quinzel continued to interrupt. "This boy is traumatized by what that woman did to him. He's mute. He can't testify-what do you possibly have to gain by a positive ID? He's a minor. He's been institutionalized. His testimony-assuming you can get it-will never hold up in court-"

Dent harrumphed. "Miss Quinzel?" Not Doctor. Miss."If you really have the boy's best interests at heart, shouldn't you focus your attentions on trying to build a case that will withstand the appeal? If that child is a traumatized as you claim, wouldn't your time be best spent trying to keep the criminal responsible for his abuse imprisoned as long as possible? Because as it stands now, I will get her off in appeals court-"

But neither he nor Dent wanted an appeal. He needed-Paltron needed-the records expunged. Wiped clean. Proven innocent. Released on technicality or faulty protocol would do nothing to allieve the damage he'd done to her name and service. Paltron had sacrificed her reputation, her life, even the chance to ever be with that boy in giving him a second chance...but that boy wouldn't understand that. He was too young, too innocent, too frightened to lie. Sergeant James Gordon was convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt if her Angel could just see her, the truth would be known.

But in order to tell the truth...he had to continue the lie. "Dr. Quinzel, I've worked in SVU. Worked with CPS. I know how hard this may be for him but it has to be done. He needs to know that we have the right person. Needs to know he's safe, that she'll never be able to hurt him again." But she had never hurt him. Paltron had never hurt him and-according to Nora Fields' autopsy reports- she'd ruthlessly murdered the bastards that had. She'd given up everything for him, and it almost wasn't fair to use that maternal goodness and the boy's innocence against both of them...

But the truth must out, Gordon decided. No matter what the cost. He would not let an innocent woman rot in prison for a crime she did not commit...

"Fine." Quinzel snapped. "But don't expect to build your case on him. He's catatonic and unstable."

"An obstacle that can be easily overridden," Dent injected forcefully, "by having you declared incompetent."

"Hardly." Quinzel said with an air of superiority, a smug smile twitching across her lips as CPS wheeled the boy in. Just one more anonymous Johnnie Doe. Estimated age, eight years. A sudden, stabbing pain. The boy was cleaner, better kept, long curls shorn short, dressed in pressed white clothes...but those dark eyes told the real truth. Cold, dead, apathetic eyes, uncaring and unfeeling under heavy medication.

"The hell did you do to him." Dent cried angrily.

"The only thing I could," Quinzel countered. "He's not afraid anymore, is he?"

"Bullshit, that's tampering with evidence!" The young attorney said, going scarlet. "What sort of sick pshrink are you?"

No, not afraid anymore, Gordon reflected. Or happy. Or sad. Unable to sense his surroundings he was unable to respond. No more fear. No more pain...no more life. Jim Gordon knelt in front of the wheelchair, knelt and smiled kindly, smiled as kindly as he'd done for young Bruce Wayne not many years ago...

"Hi, son." Gordon said. "We need your help, okay?" And just for a second-a split second that was most assuredly his longing and imagination-he thought he found a glint of resentful recognition in that empty stare. "I want to help you." Both of you...

"Please, Mr. Gordon, I knows you mean well but you oughta stay back." The CPS worker informed them, wheeling the chair into an interrogation room surrounding by one-way glass. "I don't want you goin' and scarin' him-if you can scare him, that is. He's had a rough life. And you, Mr. Dent, you wanna let that monster back out into society. You best keep your distance, motherfuckah, just so I ain't tempted to bus' your face. Now how this gonna work?"

"As the child advocate, you are required by law to stay with him. Mr. Dent, as the prosecuting attorney, is not allowed inside the room but will be watching behind one way glass." Gordon explained nervously, casting a glance to Dent. "And I will...interrogate the boy." He finished weakly.

"Yeah, good luck wi' that." The social worker rolled her eyes. "I be watchin' this here kid for two months now, and he ain't sayin' nothin' to nobody. That's what."

"And Dr. Quinzel?" Dent asked suddenly-and so spontaneously no one watching would ever believe the move to be rehearsed. "Where will she be?"

"When interrogating a minor a child advocate is required to be present. As Miss Adams is already doing that, I will allow Dr. Quinzel to assist you in your interpretation of the evidence." Gordon said mildly, overlooking Quinzel's haughty protest. "Is that fair?"

"Hardly." Dent said, sharing an impertinent look that showed exactly what he thought of the psychologist's credentials. But the two stalked stiffly down the hall, leaving them alone...almost. Dent and Quinzel were behind the one-way glass, tuning in via microphone. Dent would have to ask questions. Lots and lots of questions. Keep her tied up even after Gordon had dismissed the boy. With some legal creavity-that was undoubtably attorney talk for bending the rules so far as to nearly break them-Dent had conspired with another young, night court attorney to bring in key witnesses for a shooting case in to identify the murderer in a suspect line-up of blond females in their mid-twenties...

Of which Paltron fit the profile.

The subpoema was for written or verbal testimony only. Long experience with SVU had shown him a child could not be forced to testify in open court, and was usually only represented by an audio recording or the public reading of a letter. Surillo had agreed with Child Protective Services that any identification of the perpetrator(s) was to be done by photographs only. "That child's been through enough." She'd said. "He doesn't need to see her again. Doesn't need to be afraid."

To go against the written court order would be illegal. Possibly incriminating-jeopardizing the safety of a minor was no small thing-as though a plate of bullet-proof one way glass and the presence of armed officers wasn't protection enough. Any evidences they gained would be inadmissible in court. And yet...and yet were the boy to be in the hallway or lobby, were their meeting to be circumstantial-

The evidence didn't have to be admissible in court. It simply had to be obvious enough for Surillo to overturn her ruling...and discrete enough that Harlene Quinzel, trained psychologist, couldn't detect their corroboration.

"I'm Detective Gordon." He began. "I work with the police. How are you doing?"

Silence. "He do that alot." Adams shrugged. "He don't respond. Don't matter what you ask him."

"I need to ask you some questions. We might be in here for awhile-do you need anything? I can get you a glass of water. Even milk or orange juice if you want it."

"Pshaw, Mr. Gordon, didn't you read the file we give you? He don't eat nor drink nothin'. He got a feedin' tube."

James Gordon was a mild man. He'd quit SVU because those cases would destroy anyone...and now this child, this boy who'd been through who knows what hell was in the foster system. He should be safe. Loved. Wanted...but instead he was here. here in a wheel chair, with tubes poking in his nose and arms because he was just another number generating revenue for a institution. It wasn't fair. Wasn't fair that he and Barb had tried to have kids, wanted kids, would do anything to have children of their own to have and hold-

And here was a child who might never know what that meant. "I'm going to get you some orange juice." Gordon said, perhaps too quickly "Just in case you want some." God, he had to get out of that room, had to breathe, get some air, stop his eyes from watering up-

"Here." He said, returning and placing the cup down on the table. "You can drink it if you want to."

Minutes ticked by. He asked question after question, sipping at a bottle of water, throat going sore from juggling both sides of the coversation. Dent and Quinzel chipped in occasionally, always contradicting each other. But the interview went nowhere. Not a single question solicited an answer. No promises, no bribes, no assurances of safety could persuade the boy to talk...and under the sedation, Gordon had to wonder if he even could.

"I want you to look at these pictures." Gordon pressed on patiently. "I want you to help us. I want to know who hurt you so I can keep you safe." But the boy didn't respond. Not even to Paltron's mug shots. No twinges of recognition or emotion, just blank, unfeeling stares.

"Told you." Adams said dismissively. "He don't talk none."

James Gordon was sweating now, sweating profusely. He had only one chance to get this right, only one. If he messed up the timing, if the boy was too medicated to respond...he would never get the chance again. Paltron might win an appeals case, yes. Might. Assuming the jury could overlook the evidence and the charges. But they never would. He, James Gordon, a trained SVU investigator, had been swayed by his disgust. He couldn't expect any other man to do otherwise.

For nearly an hour he continued. The only sounds were Adam's deep sighs and the droning monotone of his own voice. Occasionally, if he moved, there might be a steady sloshing sound from the water bottle or the viscous juice across the table. But if the boy was interested in it, he paid it no heed. Not once did he so much as stir or look down to it. It turned tepid in the styrofoam cup, undrunk.

And then-in his earpiece, Dent's phone ringing. "Sorry!" His voice came tinny and muffled. "Sorry, I forgot to turn that off-"

"You should be more professional." Quinzel snapped. "You could seriously interfere with this investigation!"

"It's alright." Gordon sighed. "I think your assessments may indeed have been correct, Miss Adams, Miss Quinzel. I don't think he's willing to talk." He turned back to the boy, his SVU training superceding the urge to reach for his hand. "I want to help you, son. I want to keep you safe. Will you remember that? If you change your mind?"

"Aw, you're nice." Adams said, packing up her things. "Most people just talk about him instead of to him. It's pointless, but it's still sweet. You must've done real well in SVU. C'mon, kiddo. Let's go."

There. As the chair was bumped over the door, James Gordon would have sworn on his wife's life the boy made eye contact. Once, and only once.

Dark, liquid eyes. And Connolly was what? 22? 23? He'd be the right age. But it wasn't possible, was it? Jim Gordon stared at the young man laid so still before him with a growing sense of dread and doubt. Starved of sleep, craving rest, an end to this nightmare, to this horrible hell not knowing dream from delusion tired weary mind playing tricks it's because you still feel so guilty because you've been thinking about Paltron that's why you see it…

Because it just wasn't possible. Detective Jimmy Connolly? Paltron's Angel-?

---

16:20 EST

Gotham City Plaza

A merciless August sun was lost in a haze of dust and smoke, but high, high above the Legacy's wreckage she shone still, raising the earth's temperature to a swelterimg 98 degrees. Sweat poured from his forehead and arms, slicking the inside of firesuit. It was just too much. The equipment. The exhaustion. The added heat of the smoldering ash…and Gwen Paltron was a tall woman, lean and spry, 180 pounds of sheer grit and solid muscle. Even with her in a fireman's carry, he was staggering to his knees…

Reason told him to rest. Slow down. His adrenals had run out of adrenaline, or so it seemed. Wearily he knelt, set Paltron down as gently as he could, and rummaged for another Gatorade. Drink it, his mind told him. Lessen the weight. Replenish your fluids. You have to be strong…

But he was just so goddamn sick, so goddamn tired of being strong. "Paltron," The Detective choked. "Paltron, do you think you can walk?"

But she was talking nonsense, shaking, utterly shell-shocked. He tried in vain to hoist her up again found he no longer had the strength. Straining against her weight he thanked God he'd gotten Jimmy out first...if he had tried to take Paltron he would never have made it back.

"Honey, I need you to walk with me," he said. "Okay? I need you to walk-"

She cringed. Collapsed. Fell down in a crumpled heap still moaning pathetically for Jon...whoever the Hell he might be. He couldn't carry her. And Paltron-or whoever this strange woman in dilerious dreams was-wouldn't walk. He couldn't leave her. Wouldn't leave her. She'd always been the one to drag him away from danger, plunged him underwater on Fear Night, saved his life, saved his ass so many countless times it was terrifying, utterly terrifying to see her so helpless, so weak, so changed-

"Paltron. Paltron-!" Lawless shook her again. " Damn it honey, I can't carry you!" Then he did what he never wanted to do, what he promised he'd never do since the age of 12, what no man deserving of that name would ever even contemplate. He swung back a hand, and struck her. Hard.

Blue eyes blinked. Squinted. Widened. "Lawless," She choked. "Lawless, what the fuck-what the…Legacy. Oh God, oh my fucking God-"

"Paltron? Paltron-!" He slapped her again, small trickles of blood running out her plaster coated nostrils, congealing instantly in the haze of dust. She blinked again. He drew back his hand yet again and was met with a full-on roundhouse punch to the jaw. "Damnit, Paltron." He grunted, falling to the ground with clenched teeth and ringing in his ears. She blinked hard, focusing on his face, then dropped her guard.

"It's you." She whispered hoarsely, then her eyes widened. She turned, blue eyes panicked, staring at the dark cavern under that goddamned truck not 30 yards distant. "Oh shit." She said shakily, scrambling in a soldier's crawl, "Oh shit oh shit oh shit-"

"Paltron," He called, "Paltron-!"

"Connolly." She rasped. "Connolly. He's under there-"

"No." Lawless said. "No. He's with Gordon."

"Gordon?" She choked wildly. "Gordon? How-"

"Not important." Lawless grunted. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," She replied through gritted teeth, accepting his proffered hand, "Yeah, I can walk. I can fucking walk…"

---

16: 45 EST

Gotham United Methodist

The woman was dead. Amy Lawless removed the intubation, wiped the last strands of frothy spit off the corpse's cyanotic lips, gently removed surgical pins and pieced the scalp together again, rinsed away blood and iodine until the skin awas clean. With trembling hands she replaced the surgical drapes, covering her final patient-a unnamed, unknown but no less missed human being-with the dignity all death deserved, then turned away.

Chavez had been right. She was dead. But standing in the scrub room, facing her red-eyed reflection once more, Amy Lawless, RN, was finally able to hold that gaze unashamed.

The woman was dead. There had been nothing they could do to save her-but she had tried. God as her witness, had she tried…

---

16:32 EST

Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge

Bruce Wayne had done some stupid things in his life. He'd stolen that arrowhead from Rachel only to be told later she would have given it to him if he had asked. He'd fallen in that cave and instead of being brave he'd been a coward, a goddamned coward who had to leave Faust and had gotten his parents killed. He'd been an angry, self-absorbed, arrogant bastard who despite a guardian's best efforts had made the worst of his life at every turn possible. When he'd wanted something he'd taken it. No, not stolen, but taken nonetheless. There wasn't a girl in high school he couldn't impress with a Lamburgini and backstage passes to anything she'd wanted to see. And they'd thought him a bastard, but a rich one, and weighed the pros and cons and slept with him anyways. Self-entitled and angry, still a coward at heart though his father's dying breath begged him be more he'd tried to kill Chill, kill him as though that would ever be justice, as if it could ever make things right...

But now, ten years later, Bruce Wayne had learned from those mistakes. Taken those tragic events and turned them to whatever good he could. But in doing so he hadn't rid himself of that darker persona. He'd become consumed. He could wrest the Batman back in his mind, tie him down in some empty corner of his consciousness but he couldn't control him. There was a rage, a desperation, a lustthrirstthrill for justice and order, for retribution that festered deep in his soul for his mother and father, a scar to his psyche, and now the scab of Rachel's death had been torn open anew with the gaping gash of Alfred Pennyworth, surrogate father and mother, grandparent, mentor, friend-

Bruce Wayne had done some stupid things in his life. For many he had repented. Made restitution. But to err is human, and even the Batman wasn't just an idea. Not only a symbol. He had limitations. Constraints. Flaws and faults. There are no perfect heroes, no Dark Knights, no incarnations of justice. We may choose, try, strive to become something more but deep down inside, under guises of placidity, Nobel Peace prizes and Sainthood...we are all only Men. Pretending.

The Batman woke with a cry on the tarry street, skin burnt from friction and sun, fingers scabbed and ribs bruised with the force of the fall. But he could ignore the pain. The pain was nothing. He staggered up, clutching scored limbs in rage and let out a cry that echoed across the empty expanse of waters, reverberating off the raised bridge halves and lingering, fell and deadly in the sun-smoked sky.

---

16: 46 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

Minutes passed. Hours. Days. And in the chaos and destruction Jim Gordon could believe his city, his life had always been so, grey, wavering shapes in the sweltering afternoon heat. The rest was all a dream, Barb, Jimmy, BB, all a fleeting speck of oasis and imagination...but no. No. James Gordon remembered a woman's smooth skin, the smell of her hair, glint off her smile, taste of her lips...Barb. Barb was real. And this, all this, dust and ash spreading out over the horizon, blotting out even the sun overhead was incomparable to her firm reality. And suddenly, Lawless was back, bringing Paltron with him, staggering stubbornly through the reek of ashes and smoke. Commissioner James Gordon experienced an eerie, elated thrill, but seconds before safety his friends collapsed. Gordon resisted the instinct to run and help, he'd been given orders, been charged with watching Lawless' son, couldn't abandon him now. But glancing at the clock on his phone he felt sickened. It had taken Lawless so long to find her...and yet Connolly was still here.

Two paramedics surged forward towards the barricade, helping Lawless lift her over."I'm fine," he rasped. "I'm fine-fuck you, I said I'm fine. You need to help her-"

"I think she's just fainted," the black EMT said, after a quick check for pulse and light reflexes. "Dehydrated. Whoever the hell she is she's damn lucky."

"No fucking shit." Lawless coughed, slowly shedding that sweltering suit. "That woman'd survive a nuclear holocaust."

"No shit, huh?" the EMT's badge read E. Westphal. "You know her?" Lawless gestured to his sweat-soaked, disheveled clothes, barely recognizable as the uniform of Gotham's finest. Westphal chuckled, prepping an IV site with an alcohol swab. "Hey, man, I could tell you were only moonlightin' as a fireman. Don't quit your day job-that was the worst impression of an FD I ever seen. What you thinking-letting her walk like that?"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Lawless warned. "You stick her while she's out and she'll punch your face in-" The Detective's voice trailed off, scanning eyes fixating on the victims stretched on the littered ground. There. Amongst what must have been thirty others. Jim Gordon. Kneeling beside-

"Oh, hell." Lawless whispered. "Gordon!" And with his last bout of strength he placed an arm under the unconscious woman's shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged her to Connolly's side, the EMT running behind in protest.

"C'mon, man-" Edward Westphal began in protest, but drew up short. There was a kid. A kid on the ground with an large bore IV going in the left arm and one hell of a bandage swatched across the upper abdomen. Surrounded by the bleeding, screaming, limbless living and the of chaos of burned, mutilated corpses it was so commonplace as not to merit attention. But it wasn't the kid on the ground. Wasn't the Policeman-would-be-Fireman dragging his comrade, limp legs flopping like a rag doll's...it was the man kneeling on the ground. The slight, unassuming, harrowed man that cop had just called-

"Gordon, what's going on, Oh God, he's not, he's not-"

And Aaron Lawless dropped to the ground, sobbing in relief with the Commissioner's tired shake of head, one hand laid gently on his son's face. "Hey, Kid." The Detective choked.

"Hanson, this is Westphal." Ed called over the portable radio. "I've got our guy. Northside of 97th." He turned to what had to be James Gordon. "Commissioner, I've got a team coming in. It won't be long."

"She alright?" Gordon finally asked. Gwen Paltron lay sprawled beside Connolly, steely eyes winking underneath her lashes.

"Dehydrated." Westphal said, kneeling to start the line. "But other than that she looks fine." The sharp bevel of the IV pierced the flesh of her arm, and she jerked, fingers scrabbling relentlessly against that line, tugged sightlessly against the tape and moaned.

"Paltron, Paltron!" Lawless called. "Honey, t's just an IV-"

"Lawless?" Gordon repeated the question, all his trust in this man whose love could perform surgery on a struggling son, and allow him to walk purposefully into that Hell not once but that tone was wrong. Even now, that tone was wrong-

"It's um, it's bad." The Detective choked, unconsciously stroking the boy's matted hair. "Her electrolytes are low. She was, she was hallucinating for part of it. Seeing things. She um, she kept calling for someone...I think she was calling for someone who must've...must've died-" his words trailed off, following the slight, slow movement of her outstretched fingers falling in a slow, swan-like curve towards his own. For a moment they met, then trailed like tears down his son's sleeping face-

Reflexive. Instinctual. Jimmy Connolly rolled his head to her touch, dark, doe-like eyes flitting open. And in one shrinking, silent second, thirteen years of residual nightmares and memories became crystal clear.

---

16: 51 EST

Arkham Asylum

Ambulances. EMS. The Batman veered through the gathered crowd of emergency vehicles at breakneck speed. But on the horizon, spread like a blanket around the barbed wire perimeter, spilling in through every gate-way was a sea of bodies, churning, fighting, pressing forward, their combined voices and chants unintelligible and awful in the afternoon air.

With a squeal of rubber and the threat of whiplash, the Batman pulled the pot to a screeching halt. In his haste, his anger, that suffocating fury he had forgotten. Forgotten he was not the only to carry a grudge against this foe.

National Guard. SWAT. Riot shields and rubber bullets. Transfixed, he dismounted, and stared out at the mounting chaos. For the first time in three years, he had to take a side...

---

17:07 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

The man's voice was gentle. Coaxing. Filled with sincerity and concern. "Paltron. Paltron, he's, he's hurt bad. He needs to go to the hospital-"

In thirteen years as a Gotham City Paramedic, Jennifer Hanson had never seen anything to compare to this, unless perhaps it was the desperation with which an illegal immigrant clung to her child as INS deported all of a family but the legal US born citizens….working in emergency medicine she'd seen her fair share of children ripped away from screaming mothers, fighting CPS or GCPD tooth and nail for their child. And this woman had to be a mother. His mother. A connection so visceral, so tangible, so poignant it could be nothing else…

"I've got him. I've got him." The blonde woman hissed to the assisting officers and paramedics, hoisting the boy up despite her own injuries, keeping him cradled against her chest. Denying help, denying pain, denying everything but her love for her son she began to walk. Hanson could only watch, transfixed, as the woman staggered, barefoot, one slow step at a time to the waiting ambulance…

"Don't leave me!" The boy cried, resisting EMT Edward Westphal's attempts at oximetry and a bp monitor. Hanson herself slipped the oxygen mask over his protesting face as he struggled again for that woman-

Hypoxia. Electrolyte imbalance. Dehydration. Head trauma. Grief, anger, loss. She'd dealt with combative patients before, especially on Fear Night…but this, this was different. Deliberate. He had to be delirious and yet…and yet something deep within her stirred, watched him surrender with the woman's soothing command, and Jennifer Hanson knew with a woman's instinct that even under the pain, shock, morphine and terrible trauma that the boy was somehow able to comprehend.

"I'll come back for you." The stranger choked. "I promise. Whatever it takes I'll come back for you, Angel…" The boy was finally sleeping, and the mother bathed his face and hair with kisses and tears-

"Ma'am?" Joshua Jacobi came forward as Hanson watched numbly, and placed a hand on the stranger's arm. "We need to go."

The woman nodded. Sniffed. Wiped red eyes and a dripping nose down her plaster-soaked shirt sleeve before placing one last, final kiss into the boy's hair, then wrenched away.

"Who the hell is this guy?" EMT Shane Cochran sneered as the doors banged shut and the ride-what must have been the hundreth ride-began with a jolt. "The fucking Messiah?"

Tempers were flared. Adrenaline pounding. Even EMT's in Gotham City were not immune to stress. But Paramedic Joshua Jacobi, a devout and unashamed Jew, refused to take the bait. Cochran was young. Arrogant. Not a believer. Getting mad had never solved any of the world's problems, and it certainly would do nothing to help their cargo clinging precariously to life.

"You don't recognize him?" Jacobi offered instead. "He's the Kid from those Ads. Stop the Violence."

"Oh, shit." Jennifer gaped. "Cobi…it is the Kid from Stop the Violence! Ed! Reroute us to the closest facility, we've go to get him in the OR, stat!" She called forward to the driver. Westphal whipped the ambulance nearly 180. The closest medical/emergency facility was Arkham Asylum...but he radioed in to be sure they had the proper facilities and equipment. It wouldn't help this kid any to get him to the nearest facility if they didn't have the necessary surgical team...

But as Westphal drove, tensions remained high in the abulance bay. "Yeah? And what's so damn important about the Stop the Violence shit?" Shane Cockran asked testily. "The Legacy just blew up. Don't you get it? There is no Stop the VIolence. Not anymore. Nobody's gonna be stupid enough to even think about trying to stop it ever again. So who gives a shit about some damn ad campaign?"

Hanson and Jacobi exchanged a meaningful glance. "Public morale." The Jew said with gravity.

"I don't know about that, and I don't know who that woman was, but sure as Hell I know Commissioner Gordon when I see him." Edward Westphal agreed from the cab as he accelerated through the crowded streets.

"And-?" Cochran grumped.

"And I know well enough that whatever scares the shit out of him should do the same for all of us."

---

18:55 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

The sun was setting again, and unbeknownst to all present, when she did, darkness would fall with finality over the Screaming City…a darkness like Sir Edward Grey's, in which the lights might never be lit again in their lifetime. Darkness. But not despair. Lawless didn't know it yet, but 2,343 had been located with Wayne Enterprises sonar equipment. But he did know that among those numbers were both a son and a friend…

And he would pay any price for them.

A heavy coughing from the tiny, unisex restroom. Detective Aaron Lawless cracked open the door. "You okay?"

"Fucking fine." Paltron was bent over the sink, half-dressed, skin shiny and raw from scrubbing. She choked again, an eerie, throaty sound, dull and scratchy and deep. Steaming water poured from the rusted spigot, rising in pain-dulling swirls to her haggard face.

"You sure?"

"Lawless, I just had a fucking building dropped on me." She wrenched the faucets off, raising her dripping face to stare him in the eyes. "I think I can handle a little Vick's Vapor Rub."

The Detective chuckled cautiously. Same old, bitchy Paltron…or was it? Not hours ago he had seen her broken, beaten, weak beyond recognition…

Piercing shrieks turned to desperate whispers, feral cries to gentle purring, Kid's face pressed to her chest, hands in his hair…nuzzling, fondling, caressing-a fierce gentleness none would have believed her capable of-

Shock. Disbelief. Awkward, hesitant silence. He couldn't have felt more intrusive, more embarrassed if he had walked in on them making love. Yet this was deeper, stronger, more sacred and intimate-

It was now or never. "You and, you and Connolly?" He ventured.

She looked away, flashing blue eyes dull and guarded. "You wouldn't understand." The Detective nodded, then shut the door, knowing undoubtedly in his heart that he did.

---

19:10 EST

Arkham Asylum

FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel: Arkham, this is Trauma One, I repeat, Trauma One be advised patient is male, late teens, early twenties suffering puncture and infection of the abdominal lining and blood loss. O2 at 2 liters. .Saline drip running at 750 cc's, morphine bolus administered. Please stand by for surgical intervention-

Edward Westphal hung up the radio and called back into the bay, utterly sick at heart. If only they'd stayed the course to Methodist the boy would have been in surgery by now. In their eagerness to help him, they may have sentenced him to death. "How's it going?"

Hanson shrugged wearily, blinking red-rimmed eyes. "I'll give the kid credit, he's still alive."

"He's not a kid, he's a police officer." Jacobi chided lightly, holding up a battered leather wallet. "He's one of us." Public service personnel. Not a civilian.

"Lot of fucking good it'll do him." Shane Cochran moped. "Only difference 'tween this guy and every other one we've had today is they'll fire a salute at his fucking funeral."

"Enough," Jen hissed. "This day's been tough on all of us, so shut the hell up or grow the hell up, alright?" The cop stirred listlessly, fingers jerking. Joshua Jacobi looked patiently away, while Cochran just chewed his tongue, glaring. Hanson held that stare for nearly a minute before turning back to their cargo with a sigh. It wasn't worth fighting over…this petty, shitty argument on this shitty, shitty day. The EMT looked down at the young man on the gurney, watching numbly as Jacobi slowly uncapped another bolus of morphine. As much as she hated to say or think it, as much as she tried to fight off the overpowering gloom, her co-workers were right.

…but it wasn't a lost cause. They could still make the dying as comfortable as possible.

He didn't need to be awake for this. Didn't need to here them arguing. Didn't need to know the reason he was dying was because they were surrounded not only by emergency vehicles and medical staffers but an angry, chanting crowd as well, screaming for the Joker's blood.

Jokerjokerkillthejokerthejoke'sonyoumotherfucker-!

The National Guard was here. GCPD as well. They'd watched with horror as a team of paramedics and their military escorts had been decimated by the unfeeling mob. There was no going forward. No going back. The alloyed frame of the ambulance was their only protection against the senseless masses and stray bullets from enraged security personnel. Even for Jacobi, a 20 year EMS veteran, things in Gotham City had never looked worse.

"There's someone out there." Jennifer heard herself say with eerie calm. "Do you think they gave him up?"

"Would you blame them?" Jacobi asked gently, answering her seemingly rhetorical question with one of his own. But the struggling figure pressed, milled, hemmed by the bloodthirsty, crazed crowd wasn't wearing Arkham orange. Through reaching hands, tossed garbage and pelting cell phones the EMT's could barely make him out-

Was it just possible? The Batman-?

---

20:15 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Ceiling plaster trickling down, smoke rising from emptied chambers, acrid scent of flashbang still bitter in the air. For a shrinking moment, the only sounds in the darkness were Ramirez's whimpers and Paltron's heavy coughs-

Then: CLEAR! And the lights came flickering back on.

Jim Gordon blinked in pain and surprise.

Eleven black-clad men in Kevlar stood around the room, guns over the hearts and heads of his officers. Montoya was slammed against the east wall, Ramirez thrown to the floor, Milton and Allen lay prone, noses bleeding, blinking slowly. A heavy, black boot crushed Lawless' face against the cold tile, one arm twisted mercilessly back behind his shoulders. He himself sat wincing in a choking headlock, painfully aware of the rifle jabbed roughly over his heart…

…Two more lay motionless next to Paltron.

Yet even then-even then-she was the first to speak. "Who the fuck are you people?" She coughed, spitting dirty strands of cropped blonde hair, trembling in rage, three rifle muzzles cold and final against her heaving carotid.

Paltron-!

"NSA, bitch." The man holding Gordon snapped, relaxing his grip and nudging one his limp comrades with the toe of his shoe. "We might you ask the same question. Two dead federal officers-" He let out a mocking whistle of approval. "you're in some deep-ass shit now, honey."

Goddamnit, Paltron!

"Oh go fuck yourself," Allen gasped from the floor, raising his head. "Biggest terrorist attack in US history just happened, man, you barge in here without any warning how the hell you expect us to respond?"

"Wasn't talking to you, Jim Crow." The man spat. Gordon tensed, even in fear his blood had turned suddenly to ice. The temperature in the Tracking Room dropped by ten degrees, and Allen's haughty stare turned murderous. Montoya swore in Spanish and kicked her captor viciously.

Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be, please-! The Commissioner begged. But the NSA agent only continued his jeering: "And you, Chiquita Banana, keep out of this, unless you wanna celebrar this Dia de los Muertos with the Familia for real, yeah?"

"I'm from the Dominican Republic, Bastardo!" Renee snapped, white teeth bared, strong arms struggling against the hands that held her. "ACLU's gonna sue your ass!"

It was getting ugly. Too ugly. Too fast- Gordon thought. He had to step in, to intervene, to keep them safe-

"Leave them alone," Lawless' muffled voice rang, a deep, gravelly growl. "Police protocol-assume any armed man is hostile until he can show a badge-"

"Oh, lookie-here!" The still unidentified agent circled closer. "You seem to know an awful lot about police protocol…too bad you fucking missed the part about entitling a private corporation to use and publicize military secrets." His voice was lyrical, sing-song, mocking. "Alright kiddos, seriously, playtime's over: who's in charge here?"

Silence. Eyes darted back and forth, every second precious-

"Time's up." There was a sharp, jarring click, the inescapable sound of a chambered round echoing in his ears. "Shame."

No time to react.

A ringing gunshot. A strangled shout of pain. Jim Gordon blinked, shell-shocked, face and glasses now dripping with a friend's scarlet blood, burning against his chilled skin. Lawless. And for one agonizing moment, he forgot to breathe-

---

20:19 EST

Arkham Asylum

The bitch was strong. He'd expected to snap her neck like a pencil, kill her quickly, quietly. But the little EMT had some fight-tuh in her. Ordinarily he'd draw it out, play with his prey hungrily….but he was in a uh, hurry. And there was just something he hated about killing women-

"Shh, shh, shh-" He hissed through gritted teeth, covering her gasping mouth. "Sorry, sorry, sorry-" he murmured as he patted her damp cheek, slick with sweat and tears…

Finally those breasts stopping rising and falling, the squelching crunch of her broken hyoid and the emptiness of her bulging eyes and blue lips confirming his clandestine diagnosis. Ding dong the wicked witch was dead.

He undressed her quickly. Her skin was soft and smooth, so warm to the touch. It wasn't fair to leave her like that-tuh, now was it? Not where those prick cops would come and see and take damn CSI photos of her undressed corpse, entertaining themselves with absolutely horrid fantasies of screwing her. He might be a murderer but even to him that was hmm…cold.

A grinch's grin spread across his face. He had a body. And a uniform to dump. Why uh, not? He mused, gifting the bitch with dignity in death, his overlarge orange Arkham jumpsuit now zipped around her. Where are you, darling. He whispered to the skies, eyes squinted into yellow slits, searching the darkness for the Batman. I know you've missed me. He patted his chest, found a name tag: EMT J. Hanson. He looked back at the body in regret. J. Hanson. What a waste.

So. Under the light of emergency spotlights, in the glaring blaze of the whirring sirens of two hundred emergency vehicles, in the swelling roar of the gathered throng shouting JokerJokerkilltheJoker-!, the popping sound of rubber bullets and the whooshing hiss of tear gas, the shrill shrieks as MEDUSA swelled and burst skin like ripe berries, Gotham's most wanted walked calmly into a crowd of identically clad emergency workers…and disappeared.

---

20:20 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"COCK-SUCKING BASTARD!" That saber-toothed snarl was undeniably Paltron's, tinged with the sickening thwack of rifle butt on bone, sending her sprawling back to the tile floor.

The Commissioner blinked again, eyes tearing in the salt of dripping sweat and serum. Lawless. Lawless was cringing, panting hoarsely, a gaping, meaty wound spurting blood from his bicep, shirt slickened and face splattered in shocking scarlet. "T's okay…it's just a flesh wound-" The detective whispered, face pale, eyes clenched shut, deep chest taking short, agonal breaths…

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU-!"

"And you, GI Jane, don't even think about it-" That black-clad menace kicked the Beretta away from her outstretched fingers, leering over her trembling form. "Think you're tough? Think you're tough, bitch? Think you're Hitler's little wet dream, don't ya." He whispered, flashing his badge anew. "Dare you to try something."

There was a second of sinister silence. Then with a Gorgon's stare she spat blood into his open eyes.

A swift kick. Croaking retch. Mechanical Click. Chambered round. Colt revolver pressed into her blond hair now as she curled into herself, gasping, nauseating pain eating from pelvis to ribcage, heart burning, cold sweat beading on her face. Lawless bleeding, Ramirez sobbing, Montoya screaming Allen yelling shouting swearing Milton kicking cursing-

Commissioner James Gordon blinked in shock, uncomprehending…

Then the dam broke.

"Enough!" He cried. "ENOUGH!"

---

20:33 EST

Arkham Asylum

Gone.

The Joker was gone. The Batman stood silhouetted above the skyline on the topmost peak of Arkham Asyslum, watching the dancing lights of a thousand emergency vehicles flicker in tandem, scintillating like eerie earthborn stars against the blackness of the city's shadow. Gone. The room was empty, the grounds empty save for the girl's still warm, broken body, found dead and dressed hastily in an orange jumpsuit…the color coded designator of the criminal and criminally insane.

The Joker was gone. And looking out over the sea of ambulances arriving and exiting over the Narrows' small toll bridge, it didn't take a genius to figure out how. Nor where.

The son of a bitch was loose. Loose again on the citizens he had sworn to protect…and for a hopeless moment he felt again the still smoldering heat of the blast, tasted the choking, oily smoke, felt the soft misted spray of thousands of gallons of raining water falling like bitter tears.

And now, like a year ago, he found himself bearing that self-same burden: Rachel. Dead.

…and now her killer was back.

---

20:34 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Heartbeats. Blood pouring down Lawless' weakening arm.

"Gonna ask you one more time: Who's in charge here?" The NSA agent spun slowly, purposefully locking eyes with each of the male officers in turn. A black, mountain of a man returning his gaze with a murderous stare; a pale, pudgy officer in uniform, headset crooked over his face; the panting man still cringing on the floor, blood mixing with his greying, auburn hair, and the small, panting plainclothes, face haggard, glasses askew, mouth still hanging open from that last warning cry-

Cold sweat broke out on Gordon's forehead. That bastard chuckled, moving closer, pressing the muzzle of the pistol into the heaving flesh of the GCPD Commissioner's neck, forcing his face upwards to his own.

Time stopped. Ramirez turned away. Even Crispus Allen closed his eyes.

"Who's in charge here, huh?" He whispered, Gordon's blanching face now only inches from his own. "Which one of you fuckers is Commissioner Aaron Lawless?"

---

16 Hours previously...

He knows what's coming. And you know what he'll do. He'll try to stop it, stand in the gap with one fucking finger plugging the dike, yelling for all others to stand clear. He'll take the blame. The fall. That's who he is. What he does.

"You don't turn this off until you receive direct orders from me…or a suitable and authenticated replacement."

You bow your head. Close your eyes. Because you know you can't let him make that decision. That sacrifice. And his goddamn self-sacrifice dooms you because someone has to take the blame, someone has to be responsible…and you know in your heart of hearts it can't be him. Anyone but him.

Allen's got a family. Ramirez, Montoya…women. To be protected. You can't throw them, or watch them get thrown to the dogs. And Milton? Good man. Good cop. But not great. He will not. Would not. He recognizes heroism when he sees it…but is not one himself. No. No, it can be anyone but Jim. Anyone but Allen and Ramizez and Montoya and Milton…and that means it has to be you.

No, you say. No, Jim, you've done this before. You've given too much. You've never learned to be a real commander, never learned that in war there must be casualties, for victory there must be sacrifices…and part of being the leader is being goddamned willing to send the soldiers off to war, to let the pawns go first…you can't always protect them, Jim. An army has countless privates, but only one general.

…And that's you, Jim.

And when this is over, if it's ever over, the people will be looking to you. Looking to you like they still look to HarveyfuckingDent. You've lied. You've learned to become a politician, Jim. Now become a goddamned general. Learn to be a man.

Barb needs you. BB and James Jr. need you. Gotham needs you. Needs a hero with a face.

You'll understand someday, Jim. And until you do, take care of my family. All my family. Amy…won't understand. Ian can't. And if...and if you find him look after Jimmy. Train him. Teach him. It's all I ask in return.

---

…shock.

All eyes blank, bewildered, staring at the bleeding man on the floor. And Detective Aaron Lawless smiled as the tight grip around the Commissioner's collar lessened, and the gaze of all eleven NSA agents pierced him hawkishly.

"I am."

"This is Commissioner Jim Gordon-he suffered a nervous breakdown around midnight and I have since relieved him of command-keeping him here on advisory capacity only. This is Lt. Patlron-she was there when the Legacy fell. Again, she remains here in advisory capacity only…"

"NO!" James Gordon shouted in agony. "No, you CAN'T-"

---

20: 36 EST

Arkham Asylum

From the darkness there came a horrible, hellish shout, and all on the grounds fell to their knees, cowering, hands pressed over ears. Harlene Quinzel looked up from the oily asphalt, blouse and white coat smeared with sticky strings of tar, briefcase clattering open wind whipping papers, files, notes, Rorshach blot cards floating winged wind whipped eerie overhead like a thousand shrieking hell-bound bats…

Blonde hair flying one hand blocking the blinding glare of whirring sirens a thousand emergency spotlights, her squinted, teary blue eyes uplifted she regarded the man on the rooftops, arms raised high to the heavens, head thrown back soul bared in that fierce and heinous cry. A living, breathing, gruesome gargoyle.

The Batman. Back.

…and even then she couldn't help but feel a stab of awe, unworthy in the presence of Angels and Demons.

---

GCPD Tracking Room

"Shut the FUCK UP, JIM!" Paltron shrieked, still curled around her aching abdomen. We all know he's a bastard and a traitor and a, a…complete…chickenshit-" Her words turned to choking coughs, more blood pouring from her nose and mouth. She played the ruse. Continued the lie, every word of it cutting deep, wounding her, pain yet resignation glinting maliciously in her eyes. Even trampled and bleeding she was the only one with enough balls or brains to know what he had done.

…she was a goddamned soldier. And he could-he would-always count on her.

"Am I under arrest?" Lawless asked as he was hauled roughly to his feet.

"Arrest?" The NSA agent spat, slick string of saliva sticking in the dust-stained stubble of the Acting Commissioner's face. "Fuck no, man. You ain't under arrest, you don't have the right to remain fucking silent…hell," He smiled sadistically, "you don't have any rights at all."

"This is city needs a hero, Gordon. Someone they can trust." The Detective said cryptically.

I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be. You'll hunt me. Condemn me. Set the dogs on me. Because that's what needs to be done…

"Remind me to tell you about the Batman," the (actual) Commissioner choked. The eyes of all officers were on him, and those whispered, wondering words hung heavy and pregnant in the smoke-filled air.

Then the door swung shut with finality, and this man, whoever he was, was led away, and former US Marine, MCU Lt. Guinevere Paltron buried her bloodied face in her shaking hands.

---

20:58 EST

It's a Magical World Daycare Facility

"Mommy-!" the curly headed carrot top was wrapped around her slim legs in an instant. The next, he was hauled up into her arms, and she sobbed as she held him, kissed away his tears…

He was three. Too young to know. To understand. Didn't know why Mrs. Bartlet had been crying this whole time, what all the smoke and sirens on the TV were for…

…no, he was crying. Her son was crying because she had broken a promise to him, the one promise she never intended to break, that Mommy would always come back for him, would always come for him he would never be left alone-

Broken promises. Amy Lawless held her son closer to her burgundy scrubs, tears dripping out her burning eyes. Broken promises. This one could be fixed with tears and a hug, with kisses and love and promises it would never happen again she would never leave him again…

But that smoke was still on the TV, those sirens were still whirring, that building still smoldering above the skyline, and her husband was out there. Broken promises.

She thanked the daycare provider. Carried her son to the car. Tried to strap him in the backseat against feeble protests and shrill whining. Iwannasitwthyoumommy please let me sit with you-

And to hell with it. It was unsafe. Stupid. There was an airbag. But she moved the booster to the passenger's side, drove home with her son's frightened eyes glued to her desperately, afraid lest she vanish again…

Armored cars. Soldiers. More military planes landing at the airport. Medevac choppers whirring overhead. And smoke, smoke like dust everywhere, making it hard to breathe. But they were home. Home. But the squad car wasn't sitting in the driveway, her husband was still missing, and she sat huddled in the nursery with her small son, with a baby growing inside her.

Her son slept. The night grew on. And just as her presence was enough to assuage Ian's fears, it would be her husband, her Aaron, that could hold her and fight away the growing doubt…

He said he would always be there for her. Yet in the moments she needed him most…he was always missing. Broken promises. She bowed her dark head. God Aaron, she whispered as sleep claimed her, where are you?

---

21:15 EST

Gotham City International Airport

Behind tinted, bullet proof glass, Lawless' face remained impassive. He blinked once, regarding the metal cuffs clamped tightly around his raw wrists, then turned his gaze out the blackened window, drinking in a last sight of the Screaming City.

Remind me to tell you about the Batman, Gordon had said...

He was forcefully boarded onto the unmarked chopper, safety harness brought down heedlessly over his aching arm…

Remind me to tell you about the Batman. He looked out the window to Gotham City, where Commissioner James Gordon had been, was, and would be still willing to pay the personal price necessary to bring his public peace…

Remind me to tell you about the Batman…

He was in Homicide, not MCU. He hadn't been there the night the bastard blew the building. No, no he was home, had taken the day off had been relieved had been so fucking weak, thought Gordon was dead thought Garcia would resign thought life was pointless, thought the Joker'd won. But it was obvious, now, wasn't it? The Batman would do anything for his city, give anything to protect her…unless it meant the life of the woman he loved. That night, that night when the unthinkable happened, when the call came over the scanner while he was home getting drunk again even though he'd promised on the grave of a family of four that he'd never touch the stuff again…the Batman had gone after Dent. Dragged him from the flames. Saved him.

…but he'd been going after Dawes, Lawless now realized. Had both won and lost the fight. No one knew but Gordon and himself, yet for the Batman-like him-that knowing was enough. There was no such thing as a perfect hero. Ideas were only as strong as the men who upheld them and all men had a weakness, a breaking point. Something that could not be sacrificed even for a higher cause, for a greater good-

Warm brown eyes. Shy smile. Kid who'd never been shown what manhood was but tried his goddamned best to be one anyways…I wish he'd been like you I wish my dad had been like you I wish you had been my dad…

-Even him. Acting Commissioner Aaron Lawless, MD shuddered at what he had done, almost done, at what he had been willing to do…

Remind me to tell you about the Batman. Jim had said. "You just did." The Detective whispered.

---

21: 35

Wayne Penthouse

Rachel-!

And with that thought came a cry and with that cry a fell blow with the strength of Samson that would have struck down a thousand enemies…

…and yet all it accomplished was a bleeding fist, broken fingers and a hole punched straight through three inches of plaster. Cursing, Bruce ripped the fist back through that buckling hole, sneezing with the dust, and staggering to the kitchen for ice for the rapidly swelling fist.

Rachel, he thought again as the soothing coolness hit his bare skin. Rachel…

But he couldn't afford to be so self-centered. So stricken by his own grief he couldn't feel that of others. He hadn't killed the Joker. For whatever reason he hadn't done it he could not change it now. He needed that self-same courage, that greatness of spirit…because this war, yes, war, would only get worse before it got better-

Rachel. Now Alfred and Fox as well. He had always been alone, always too late, don't be afraid his father had whispered but goddamnit he was just a kid just a fucking kid who had just watched his parents brutally murdered…

Now he was a man. But he was late. Too late. It would always be too late to save them, to save Rachel…And Alfred, Alfred he had to trust to the care of nurses and physicians who knew more about cardiac problems than he did. But he could pay for his care. Pay to bring more doctors and nurses in from across the country if only the terrorist threat wasn't elevated to RED and all non-military flights grounded. But for the time being he'd see that the cooking staff got raises. Nice raises. And lots of time off with their families…

…and Fox. Yes. He had to do something about Lucius…about Lucius and Gordon and all those other innocents his company had unwittingly compromised…

Rachel, he allowed himself to say one last time, then released that guilt that hollow grief to that consuming spirit, his own losses seemingly small and insignificant in comparison. And yes, yes here was the rage the anger the righteous fury that allowed him to maim but not kill, to exact justice not vengeance, to reach out and save the life of a man he had every reason every excuse every desire to see die…

Rachel believed in what you stood for. In what we still stand for.

…and he was surprised how much of that spirit was Alfred.

He opened bloodshot eyes. And billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne and the Batman walked as one to the vault, disarmed the locks, and entered. Inside was a phone. A special phone. A secure phone.

...A TAPDANCE-encrypted phone.

---

21: 41 EST

Camp David

"Mr. President? I hate to wake you, but it's urgent." USSS agent Blake said gently.

Calderon sat up groggily in bed, taking the proffered phone, one hand still over the mouthpiece. "We've found the goddamn bastards?" He asked.

Blake shook his head wearily. "No, sir. I'm afraid. it's…Mr. Wayne."

---

Wayne Penthouse

"Mr. Wayne, I'm holed up in Camp David under the eye of the world's most powerful watchdog force. I can't even take a piss without being surrounded by thirty Marines. The United States is in the worst internal crisis the world's seen since 9/11…what could possibly be more urgent?"

Not many in the world had direct access to this number. A select number of diplomats to a select number of 'high risk' countries, the British PM, the Israeli PM, the USSS agents in charge of FLOTUS…and one jackass civilian whose personal and business tax dollars alone kept the entire US military running. Wayne Enterprises was a gold mine, a proverbial gold mine, and more than one politician owed said company-and family-both gratitude, favors, and pardons.

…and Geraldo Calderon, sadly, was no exception.

The billionaire chuckled darkly, staring unblinkingly off the balcony of the Penthouse to the smoke and spot lights below, glaring and unnatural as cancer against the darkened horizon. Power had been shut down, and usually noisy air was still and silent. "Believe me, Geraldo, it's no prettier from where I'm standing."

"What do you want, Wayne?"

"A favor."

Silence from the other end. And it hurt, hurt deep inside to know it was the mask, not the masked man, that the President saw. Jesus Wayne, that silence said. Could you have picked a shittier time?

But the Batman had failed him tonight. Failed him for the first time. Tonight it was Bruce Wayne, not the vigilante, who would become a man of action.

---

21: 43

Above Gotham City

They were floating. Floating effortlessly above Gotham in a suspended glass dome, the Sleepless City stretching out dark and eerie beneath them. Silent. Still. Serene. Except for smoke and spotlights like an alien eruption rising from downtown…

It was strangely and deathly…beautiful?

"Hey, Lawless!" a familiar voice cried over the whirr of the chopper's blades. Wearily the Detective turned his head. Bradley. Goddamned Eugene Bradley was a passenger on this ferry to Hell, too.

"Whatchoo in for, man?" The technician sniggered.

"Hey, Skywalker, shut the fuck up!" Came their captor's enraged shout.

Lawless smiled grimly. Eugene had a blackened eye, but technician's chipper spirit was no worse for wear. Yosef Haddad sat nervously beside him, a dark tricle of blood flowing slowly down his cheek, large drops of sweat giving him a sickly pallor in the half light. And that black gentleman…Fox? Was here too, as regal as a king, surveying the passing cityscape like a disinterested grandparent on his thirty-fifth tour of Disneyland.

Aaron's weary eyes narrowed shrewdly as Bradley leaned back in his seat, mumbling something about complimentary refreshments. And for a moment, perhaps a millisecond, the black man's austere gaze turned from the breathtaking view to meet his own…

…and goddamnit if he didn't wink.

---

Camp David

A favor, indeed. It read more like a list of terrorist demands, POTUS mused, blinking bleary eyes in the darkness.

"NSA has currently in custody a certain Lucius Fox, WE employee, an acting Police Commissioner by the name of Aaron Lawless, and Fire Marshall Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad. They, and any other WE, GCPD or GCFD affiliates taken into custody for yesterday's events are to be immediately released and acquitted-"

"Mr. Wayne, if these men were arrested it was under the jurisdiction of the Patriot Act-"

"These men ARE patriots, you chicano asshole! I want their release and I want it effected immediately, you understand?"

And the next words, although screamed at 12,000 decibels, still managed to hit below the belt:

"Or all those aides and office staffers and reporters who have remained so generously SILENT on your AFFAIR with your campaign manager's WIFE will suddenly find themselves motivated to speak. And I'll personally ENSURE that in two year's time your opponent will win the election if I have to BUY every vote in this goddamned country and I won't give a damn if he's JosephfuckingSTALIN-! Do I make myself clear?"

Clear? Oh yes. Inescapably. "Yes, Mr. Wayne," Geraldo Calderon said emotionlessly, acquiescing to appeasement like no nation had since September 1st, 1939, wondering as he did so if it made him Poland, or the goddamn, impotent League of Nations…

"Oh, and Geraldo?" The billionaire's voice rang again.

His heart skipped a beat. "Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

"Say hello to Rosalinda and the kids for me, will ya?" And the line went dead.

POTUS hung up the phone with a sigh, meeting the incredulous gaze of six USSS agents, and at least a dozen marines.

…Liechtenstein. he mused bitterly.

---

21: 50 EST

The Narrows

On the road again, don't wanna be on the road again…but it beat the hell out of an 8 by 10 padded cell with no windows, didn't it? But he was on the run. Not the road. No, no the road led places. You decided where you went. Wanted to go. Point A. B. Pick a route…

No, he was running. He, the Joker, was running. And he didn't like it. Not One. Little. Bit. And better even yet he was Running. In. Circles. That's right. Circles. Guerrero the Gormless hadn't busted him out, and so he had to assume that his accomplice was now bawling his eyes out in some sort of GCPD interrogation room-assuming there were any GCPD left to interrogate-!

Passable. But still not enough for a…hmm…stand up comedy. But Guerrero or not, sommmeone had thought to take out most of the bridges…it would appear the Gotham Government Moron Squad had finally managed to get something right.

…it was a shame, really. Now he'd have to kill even more cops. Not that he had an aversion to killing law enforcement officers. On the contrary. It's just he didn't want too much of a, uh, good thing to spoil his appetite.

The whirring ambulance approached the northeast bridge, a large billboard looming in the darkened evening sky: That Crybaby Cop. Or Pissing my Pants Policeman or whoever the Hell they said he was with those cliché words: Stop the Violence.

Even in a woman's too small, sweaty jumpsuit, teeth grating from the ear-splitting noise of the siren, on the run and going in circles, the Joker had to let out a giggle. Stop the Violence. What a laugh.

---

21: 55 EST

Wayne Southside Condominiums

"How are you, babe?" Reporter Chris Holden sprang up instantly from the couch and the Legacy footage on the television as Natalie slipped through their apartment door.

The young woman tried to smile. Say something. Shrug. But all she did was sob.

---

22:00 EST

Lawless Residence

"Ames."

…Aaron-? She opened her eyes, squinted, struggled to focus in the shadowy twilight, scarcely daring to hope…for it looked, it sounded, it all felt like a dream…

"I love you." The spectre whispered hoarsely. "I love you. And I've been so fucking blind-" She sat up slowly, staring, enthralled…

"I needed you today." He said from the doorframe, running a hand through his hair. "I needed you then and I've needed you everyday and I need both of you, all three of you-"

Then she knew. He was here. Her husband-her Aaron!- was here. She tried to jump up, bolt from the bed, run to the safety and surety of his strong arms…

…but he wouldn't hold her. Looked down into her eyes…no, no he was staring past her, his hazel eyes blank and shell-shocked. "I understand now." He breathed. "Why they can believe he did it…why they believed he'd kill Dent…"

"Aaron, Aaron what are you talking about-" He was scaring her. Scaring the shit out her looked like some dead ghost marble commemorative statue looked weak and helpless deathly-white like the goddamned ghost of Christmas past…

"I gave up my city-hell, my country- for my family today. And I still don't know which was the higher cause. But Christ, I know those people-! Knew their families, Ames, knew their families and knew there'd be consequences, knew it and did it anyways and I'd, I'd, I'd do it again. God help me I'd do it again. Do it again and damn the consequences, there's only so much you can ask of a man…"

"What are you saying-" But he wasn't talking to her, some scientific side said. He was talking to himself. Mumbling. Rambling. Perhaps hallucinating. So goddamned exhausted that his mind was shot to hell…

"I couldn't do it. It all worked out in the end but there was a moment…I didn't know…and I did it anyways, Ames. Don't you see? I didn't know and I did I anyways! I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't let him die. Couldn't let them die, don't you see I had to find them I had to help him I would've given up Gordon I gave up his family I know his fucking family but he's just a Kid, Ames, he's just a Kid and I-"

"Aaron," she pleaded, "Aaron, what are you talking about? Gordon, Barb-?" But he mentioned Dent, Dent was dead had been dead for a year he was confused he was stressed it would be just like last year just like last year his depression all over again-

---

22:15 EST

Gotham United Methodist

"You look like hell." Bruce said as way of greeting.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I could say the same about you." Alfred Pennyworth returned. For a second Bruce's thin lips twitched in a smile, then that moment of dead calm was past, and his heart was racing, racing again like it had when he'd seen his mentorfatherfriend lying unconscious in that hospital bed-

"Thank God you're alive," Alfred suddenly choked. "I was worried, you know. Much more worried than I've ever been."

"You're the one with the damn heart attack," Bruce said, drawing up a chair. "Why the hell would you be worried for me?"

But Thomas and Martha Wayne's longest-standing servant, Butler, God-father to their only son and in many ways, surrogate parent as well, merely shook his white head.

"That bandit, in Bhurma…sir, he wasn't the only one. I have been to war, sir, or what was close to it, and I've seen horrors. Horrors that even you have never seen. Never contemplated. I was in Special Forces, and we went with the Red Cross into a camp to inoculate children against polio. We left. The next day, the next day we were radioed back in but it was too late. Far too late. We went back and the medics were dead, all dead….they had come and killed the medics, killed the medics and…and they had hacked off every arm, sir. Every inoculated arm. They'd chopped them off, just left them, sir, left them in a pile. Just a pile of little arms…and I remember…I, I cried-"

And tears were pouring down his own face as well. "And?" He asked after a long moment's pause, already guessing, already dreading the answer-

But the Butler's face was hardened. "And we followed them, sir. We didn't killed them...we massacred them. All of them. The wounded laid down their arms, they tried to surrender but we gunned them down. All of them. Was it war? Yes. Did they deserve it? Yes. Had we accepted their surrender, taken them to the local leaders would they have suffered a different fate? No. Probably worse. It was justice, sir, justice, in every sense of the word."

Criminals aren't complicated, Alfred. We just have to figure out what he's after…He was blind. So blind. Thought he knew suffering and grief and horror but he'd been wrong-

From the hospital bed that man, that man who in so many ways had been a father to him spoke again: "There are many things you come to regret when you get my age, sir, and some things you still aren't sure of. But I can tell you this: justifiable or not, justice or not, there has not been a moment of my life that hasn't been dramatically altered by my actions that day. It is a far, far better thing to regret the things we have left undone, the acts we did not do, sir, than those we did."

…Falcone says hi. Those three words, three little words had changed his life, changed his world forever…

"She told you," Bruce finally whispered. "Rachel told you. You've known all along."

"Yes, sir." Alfred Pennyworth replied. "I have."

All my life I've wanted to kill him…and now I can't. And he hadn't. Yet deep inside he would have always remained a killer, a cold, heartless killer like that Scarecrow and the Joker, like Ra's al Ghul…were it not for her, for her harsh compassion for the strength of spirit it must have taken to strike an armed man twice her size…were it not for Rachel he would be one of them, one of those killers who plagued not just his city but the world. Cold. Unfeeling. Unmoved by pity or mercy or a true sense of justice…

It was Rachel. All Rachel. Yet Rachel Dawes was dead, and he had never thanked her. …Not even once.

---

22: 17 EST

Lawless Residence

"Aaron, Aaron, please! You're not making any sense you're, you're exhausted you're not thinking-!"

The Detective blinked, hazel eyes devoid of emotion, completely broken, yet completely sane. He looked straight into her swimming blue eyes. "He went after Dawes, Ames. The Batman. The night Harvey Dent was half-killed and, and he saved him….h-he was going after Dawes."

And with that name he began to weep, uncontrollably, unashamedly, collapsing on their son's tiny bed frame with his face in his shaking hands. Slowly she sat next to him, eyes wide, heartbroken, unsure, uncertain and afraid. She touched his arm with trembling fingers, and he fell gently into her and wept against her neck. Amy Lawless closed her eyes. Ran slender fingers through his short-cropped hair and pulled him close until her body too was wracked with his sobs: God forgive me, please God forgive me…

Her husband. Her Aaron. He was here. She was in his arms…but she would find no comfort there.

There was no rest. No peace…

Not for the wicked.

---

22: 23 EST

Aramathea Apartments and Leasing

"Boss." They said reverently, robing him in familiar purple like some phonecian king. Some knelt in terror. Others in respect, that fascinating religious admiration that adored anarchy. For here indeed was their god. But it was, the Joker thought appreciatively, much, much better to rule in Hell than to serve in uh, Heaven. If you were gonna choose between two make believe worlds, ya might as well end up in the one that lets your exploit the worst of the your vices, gives you over to the lusts of the flesh than to have them changed outright for playing a...harp. So. Fucking. Bo-ring.

Some reached for him reverently, others cowered in fear. Still more ringed the dirty room, impassive, awaiting orders. Some came in worship, others in fear, others to satisfy their own darker urgings…he cared could be instilled through many, many means, each as hmmm...creative as the next. His long fingers itched for the feel of a familiar blade…he was free. He wanted-he needed-to kill tonight. Kill as master, not with the necessity of a fleeing refuge-

"Boss." One of them whispered in the darkness. "What about the kid?"

What Kid-?

But buried and forgotten in the back of that ambulance was a transport gurney. There was something small, something human, breathing deeply and evenly under that pile of blankets. The Joker was momentarily curious. He could play with the mouse, yes, like a cat…but he wasn't going to play into these cocksucker's hands. Oh no. Not him. He was his own god. He took orders from no one.

He surveyed the limp form with cool detachment. He needed to kill. Needed it badly…but this was not the moment. This was not the victim. He would walk away, walk away as he had done with Crane. He needed no help. Wanted no help. Would accept none in this most dangerous and thrilling of games. "Leave him."

"Boss…" The man said, and the Joker turned, not so much angry but intrigued. What, he reasoned, could be so damned important that this fool would risk losing his life by crossing him-?

Wordlessly the thug tossed him the wallet, and something cold and metallic dropped heavily into his outstretched palm…

Oh. Ohohohoho-! The Joker cackled in glee, malicious eyes sparkling in the dimness of the ambulance hold, a bronze GCPD star clutched greedily in one gloved fist. He turned to the stretcher, and that impish laugh turned to peals of sinister delight-he knew that face-! and now he was salivating in suspense of the slaughter.

Ya know, if there was a God…sometimes he really was hmm…good, after all.

---

22: 35 EST

Gotham City

Commissioner James Gordon held his wife and two children as they slept, all piled on the couch in one big heap. Barb's head had long since cut off the circulation to his left arm, and James Jr.'s bony elbow was digging into his ribs. BB's foot…well, he hoped it traveled no further south than it already was. But uncomfortable or not, he would not wake them. They were his. To have and to hold, and others had sacrificed so that they might be. Tonight…he would hold them.

---

Gwen Paltron turned off the lights and slipped into bed, rolling over and reaching a longing hand across the empty mattress, dreaming only of her Angel.

---

"Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor. You can call me hmm…Dr. J. But the reeeal quesetion here is: who are uh, you?"

---

Darius Fox rushed to Gotham United Methodist with his wife Marissa and embraced the father he had not spoken to in years, while his twin daughters looked on, amazed. Nichelle and Mikeala had never seen their father-or their grandfather-cry. Yet cry they did.

…And laugh. And cry some more.

---

"Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly."

---

Eugene Bradley went home and slept. From their shared Star Wars themed office Fred Milton called his mother at her retirement home in Florida, just to tell her he loved her, for once not giving a shit if his flat mate heard him or not.

Officer Crispus Allen spoke to his father, his mother, his wife and his children half a country away via webcam, falling asleep at his desk while his wife watched him fondly, reaching out her pale palm to turn off the screen.

---

"I'm a, a...a police officer..."

"A police officer? A Gotham City Police Officer?"

---

Renee Montoya went to Elsa's house, and held her girlfriend close.

---

"I n-need more, more morphine-"

"Morphine? You wanted morphine? Tsk, tsk, I asked you if you wanted something for the pain…you never said you wanted a pain killer!"

---

Reporter Chris Holden of News Channel 18's Good Morning Gotham called his high school sweetheart and ex-fiancé Cameron Shaw…who was too angry, too jealous, too consumed to pick up the phone. Instead she threw it across her bedroom with a cry and a curse, wishing the miserable bastard was dead…

---

"You're not a doctor, you're insane!"

"I uh, I resent that."

---

Six year old Gracie Tanaka was re-labeled as 'stable', and transferred via city bus to Skylight hotel, staring up in the milk white, freckled face of her aunt Rebecca, while across town Sara McCloud asked to sleep in her parent's bed for the first time since that flu in second grade so many years ago…

---

"You're. Not. God."

---

Alfred Pennyworth looked old and frail without his suit, tie, and spectacles. The hospital gown, telemetry and IV pump heightened the illusion of fragility. Yet the old gentleman's spirit-like his wit-was as strong as ever. Bruce Wayne sat the long night watches beside the hospital bed in a crowded ward, while the Batman roamed listlessly in the back of his mind, waiting for the chance to resurrect.

---

"…You're uh, right, Johnnie-boy...Ya see, I'm the Devil." And the waiting the longing the anticipation burning desirelust he can't hold it in and he sighs laughs licks his lips in longdrawn release as he flicks that scalpel sickeningly sweet streams of frothing red blood stain skin crimson flow in reddening rivers around buried fingers gagging tongue choking choking the boy is choking he's scared fuckingsenseless knows he'sdying and every single squelching sound and piteous plea is like a symphony after a lifetime of deafness it's beautiful poetry song enough to make him laugh cry nearly come moves him to tears God it's so fucking beautiful-

---

…and in the Narrows, not far from Arkham Asylum, the man known only as the Joker laughed maniacally as the camcorder stopped, tongue lolling across bright red paint and bitter blood. He spat. Cursed the cop. Removed purple latex gloves with rehearsed flourish, turning to his adoring apostles with a wicked sneer. "That'ssss….all, folks." He hissed menacingly, and sent a vicious, vicious kick into the gaping wound under the boy's ribcage.

The body rolled limply, head turning. And Detective Jimmy Connolly lay still and silent on the floor, bright red blood pulsing from the ruined corners of his open mouth, his famous, boyish face marred beyond all recognition. "Well, so much for uh, Johnnie-here." The clown jeered lustily, then his visage grew cold and serious. He turned to his followers with ferocity to utter a final command:

"What are you waiting for, hmm? Take out the trash."

---

24:00 EST, Wednesday, August 21st

Youtube. com

New post by Arewehavingfunyet (member since August 20th, 2030): Apocalypse, um…now.

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Martyrdom does not end something. It is only a beginning.—Indira Ghandi.