Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: All new prologue! This chapter takes place during the events of Batman Begins.
Warning: this chapter contains sexual assault.
The following excerpt was taken from Christopher Holden's debut novel, PRODIGAL. Unflinching, controversial, and containing evocative descriptions of the conditions in which many of the population of modern Gotham City lived at that time, it went on to receive international attention and critical acclaim, including the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2027. It is reprinted here with permission from Hendricks and Holden Press, a subsidiary of the Wayne Legacy Foundation.
Reviews for PRODIGAL:
"No man has ever captured the collective heart and psyche of a city so poignantly." –Naveen Preshant, DMV, PhD.
"Holden's alleged account of the Wayne heir's disappearance borders on criminal recklessness and willing accomplice, further proof that in Gotham City, all one needs is celebrity to avoid serving hard time."—The Gotham Gazette
"Another travesty of justice."—the Gotham City Star
"Gritty. A must read!"—the New York Times
"An excellent account of a city's doubt, if somewhat sensationalized. Whether fact or fiction, it remains an intriguing read."—Lois Lane, the Daily Planet
Dedication: I would like to dedicate this work to Sergeant James Gordon and the men and women of the Gotham City Police Department for their courage, their persistence, and their relentless efforts to bring peace to a troubled city.
RKD, you are not forgotten. I wish you all the love and luck in the world.
And finally, for my protector, HYAENA: may the lion finally sleep tonight.
Prologue:
"Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and now is found."
—Luke 15:22 King James Version Bible
Prodigal. A word almost universally recognized to mean 'return'. A word—in Gotham, at least—now nearly inseparable from the larger-than-life celebrity Bruce Wayne. But our story has a sadder ending. There is no father, no mother, no brother to welcome the erring boy home. There is a homecoming, but one where there is no apology offered nor explanation given. Here in Gotham, there is only a man who returns home to his family's mansion to collect his inheritance, a man who continues to squander it long after his father's death.
Perhaps it is only fitting: As prodigal, in its original sense, was one who spent wastefully and indulged in excess.
Herein lies an account, as accurate and as honest as I dare to be, of the seven years interim between the disappearance of the Wayne heir to his miraculous rediscovery, half a world away. But PRODIGAL is more than the tale of a stranger to me, it is also my own self laid bare. The events of this novel occurred during some of the most formative years of both my childhood and adult life, and their consequences will continue to carry me.
This is not, as many have purported, another sensationalized styling of Bruce Wayne.
This is the story of how one man's disappearance became a city's obsession.
And this is the story of a young man, an aspiring journalist, who suddenly found that the fate of a stranger became inexplicably and inextricably entangled with his own. This is his story, and if you would let him, he would like to share his tale.
—Christopher James Holden, July 2028
Table of Contents:
Prologue
The Night that Gotham Wept
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Angel
A Toast to Friends We Never Were
Tragedy Deferred
The Tangled Web We Weave
The Writing on the Wall
Underground
Of Saviors, Hellions, and Thigh High Heels
Death at the Alamo
The Plot Thickens
Buried Alive
To Protect What is Precious
A Bold Entrance
The Menace Unmasked
Methodology
Into the Roman's Den
An Inevitable Fallout
A Heartfelt Farewell
Epilogue
"Then the Spirit of the Lord came on Jephthah. He crossed Gilead and Manasseh, passed through Mizpah of Gilead, and from there he advanced against the Ammonites. And Jephthah made a vow to the Lord: "If you give the Ammonites into my hands,whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph from the Ammonites will be the Lord's, and I will sacrifice it as a burnt offering"—Judges 11:29-31
January 2027
Paro International Airport, Kingdom of Bhutan
"You go," Jigme Kinley commanded the strange shape towering above him, dressed in rags and reeking of sweat, ara and stale urine. He was bideshi, foreign, with pale skin under mottled bruises in grey and purple. His strong chin sported a short beard, full and thick like a dong gyem tsey. "You go now!"
But to the young solider's surprise, this strange specter of a man only chuckled. "I don't think so, man," he replied in slurred yet fluent Dzongkha, plopping down on his rump in the street. His accent sounded if anything northern, like Jigme's own, and his parents had spoken Nepali in their home. "I'm Bruce Wayne," the drunkard continued from his perch on the icy stone. "I'm drunk. I'm sore. I just walked 60 miles in the snow. I need a bed, and I need a shower. In short, I'm tired of your shitty country and I want to go home."
"Bruce Wayne!" Jigme Kinley gaped, the English rolling off his tongue strangely. Even he knew that name, that name on the news—!
"Don't just stand there staring, man," Bruce Wayne waved dismissively—and perhaps a little drunkenly as well—to the only guard of the only gate of the only international airport in Bhutan. "Go get me a plane."
Gotham City
With the invention of the internet, word traveled fast. Perhaps not as fast as the speed of light, but certainly faster than the speed of the turning Earth. Where once the 'shot heard round the world' actually took weeks to be heard by the disenfranchised King, in the modern era news from across the globe spread instantaneously while one continent still lay sleeping in shadow, the other bathed in light. News is spontaneous, unscripted, and often inopportune, as this breaking story proved too true: America, lover of celebrity gossip and fanfare, was sleeping when word rang out across the internet. At 02:37 am EST, the Bhutanese government announced the 'discovery' of the presence of an American citizen named Bruce Wayne just 34 miles outside their capital. Mr. Wayne, fresh out of a seven year global sojourn wherein he had been declared officially dead not 96 hours previously, had decided-like Clemens before him-that rumors of his death had been greatly exaggerated. He was also tired, hungry, and quite ready to come home.
In the Palisades surrounding Gotham City, a man named Alfred Pennyworth was awakened immediately, having an alarm already in place should google or either of three other major search engines ever find a steep rise in hits for the words: MISSING HEIR BRUCE WAYNE FOUND.
Downtown, TV 18 reporter-turned-news anchor Christopher Holden had been pulling an expected all-nighter after thirteen of the twenty members of the small studio staff had called off work with strep throat, and another four had shown up symptomatic. He was sipping a prophylactic hot tea himself while surfing the internet for pertinent news for the 'Global News' segment, when an article popped up on the BBC website: WAYNE HEIR FOUND?
Is it true, or simply another high-stakes hoax? While the Bhutanese government has yet to confirm the identity through DNA testing, fingerprinting or retinal scan, facial recognition software has not ruled out the possibility that this could, indeed, be the missing American billionaire Bruce Wayne. Wayne, who was declared dead in absentia four days ago by the American government, was last seen in Gotham City seven years ago on the same day his parents' notorious killer, Joe Chill, was released from prison and subsequently assassinated…
Across town, in a century-old, dingy, yet well kept apartment flat, ADA Rachel Dawes' cell phone began to ring. She tried to keep it close, even in bed, and tried even harder to answer it by the second ring when she was in Finch's lest she wake him. But they were both public servants in a town whose crime rate didn't care what hour of the day or night it was, and both were used to constant interruptions of sex and sleep for the greater good. That understanding was the only reason it'd worked out, Rachel knew. Sleeping with her boss was a terrible decision on more than one account, but neither she nor Finch had time for a personal life outside of work, and there was only so much one could give to this thankless city without needing something in return. It wasn't so much a relationship as it was necessity—sanity, even. District Attorney Carl Finch was a ridiculously self-sacrificing man, if not awkward and on the more desperate side of divorced and middle-aged. But clumsy in bed or not, Gotham needed good men like Finch in office if she were ever to stand against villains like Carmide Falconi. So regardless of whatever the man sleeping next to her might let himself believe…this clandestine and convenient relationship was as much for Gotham's benefit as her own.
Tonight, Rachel had it by the fourth ring. "Sorry," she mumbled, flinging the covers back and stepping hastily into slippers. Across the bed, Finch rolled over drowsily. Good, she thought, it didn't wake him…
Finally, when she was out of earshot, she smoothed back her thoroughly tousled hair and answered. "Rachel Dawes, ADA."
"Rachel Dawes, turn on your television," a familiar voice ordered.
"Chris?" She asked, immediately alarmed. "What's going on?"
But Christopher Holden only laughed. "Tonight is for you," her former lover promised. "You'll see."
Bruce was back. The reporters were saying 'possibly', but Rachel Dawes didn't need DNA or fingerprint confirmation-she, more than anyone, would recognize Bruce Wayne anywhere. The still photograph showed a young man, unshaven, dirty, and gaunt…but it was Bruce. Her Bruce. She hadn't seen her Bruce for seven years, but now-finally!-Bruce was back. He'd been found, and now it was only a matter of time until he was flown safely home to Gotham City where she'd waited, waited for him all these years-
"I guess this is goodbye, then." A melancholy voice stated softly. Rachel wheeled.
"Carl-" she began, but he cut her off.
"I knew it wouldn't last," the older man shrugged sadly. "but I had hoped it would." The television was still running, a multitude of strangers all repeating Bruce's name when Carl Finch stepped closer and laid a gentle kiss in her dark hair. "Thank you." She shut her eyes, twin tears gliding down her cheeks. But Finch didn't speak, and when she finally opened them again, he was gone.
He'd gone back to bed. He may have even slept soundly, she didn't know. She didn't—she couldn't. Sitting in Finch's living room alone, dabbing tearing eyes with the edges of her robe, watching events unfold half-way across the world, ADA Rachel Dawes felt guilt stab deeply into her heart for both the men she had betrayed, the one she'd loved and the one who'd loved her. It was a weight, crushing and awful, like a shadow that eclipsed her joy. After seven years, Bruce was back, yet the only elation she could muster was quiet moan of misery.
This hadn't been the first time she'd betrayed the man she claimed to love for the sake of quenching her loneliness, and it wouldn't be the last. Just two years later, she would lay awake in Harvey Dent's arms while the Joker tore her city apart, and all through those less-lonely yet guilt-ridden, sleepless nights, Rachel Dawes wondered if in the end it would be her selflessness—or her selfishness—that finally got her killed.
Gotham City International Airport
"More like 'Bruce Wayne International Airport'," Cameron Shaw seethed. "This is ridiculous." As a newly graduated journalism major from GSU, she'd seen paparazzi before, but never in numbers-or desperation-such as this. The terminal, the sidewalks, and the many roads leading out of the airport were overflowing with people young and old, accompanied by every form of photographic equipment imaginable. Fighting, jockeying, vying for positions there'd been several outbursts leading to arrests already, and she'd just been informed by a Security Officer that EMS was now on standby should the violence escalate.
"It's just Bruce Wayne," Cameron muttered to no one in particular. "He's not even a movie star. The guy's only famous for being famous-how lame is that?" But undeserving or not, Bruce Wayne was a Celebrity, a son of Gotham City, and, as Chris Holden had pointed out, his return really was news whether they liked it or not. Viewers would expect coverage of such an important local event, and therefore their station had to cover it.
…if only every other news channel on the planet didn't have the exact same idea.
Her cameraman, Paul Whatshisface (he was just a cameraman, afterall, there was no point getting to know him) was still just aimlessly sweeping the crowd, taking in the sights for all the vicarious viewers who thought staying home and watching the television would be less work than driving out to witness the event firsthand. They're the smart ones, Cameron thought as she mentally composed herself for her next speaking segment. The 22 year-old reporter hadn't seen so much frenzy, so much chaos, and so much coverage of an event since the Royal Wedding back in kindergarten—and at least that was (arguably) some strange sort of politics…
Not to mention an actual wedding. Today's 'grand event' consisted simply of a man walking to his car. Oh, the excitement of it all.
"You about ready?" Paul asked calmly, still expertly bracing the camera so that slow controlled spin would look like a tripod mount, nothing more. His terrible fashion sense aside, she was really lucky to have him as her tech support-TV 18 was a fledgling news channel, and most of its employees were amateurs at best. Paul's shots were seamless, and even with his Hawaiian print shirts, his presence made her feel much more professional. She was two years younger and had much less street-time experience than Rebecca James, another TV 18 reporter, but Chris had felt that she'd give this important event better coverage, and had given her the best cameraman on staff.
"Just about," she responded, quickly powdering her sweating face for the thousandth time. It was winter, but this many bodies, lights, and electronics crowded into the terminal had raised the temperature to no less than boiling, she was sure.
"Ready," she replied, straightening her suit-jacket and her smile, but her shot was quickly interrupted.
"Well, well, look at this," the immediately recognizable sultry voice of Gotham's most (in)famous Gossip Girl crooned from behind her. "TV 18 condescends to the public's viewing pleasure. Isn't there an election somewhere you should be covering?" Vicky Vale. Journalist, blogger, gossip, and trouble—the kind of trouble men just loved to get into. She'd once worked with the popular and rather revolting reality series Busted, setting up sting operations for wealthy, married men then catching them in the act of cheating. After two seasons, she'd quit-to the network's disappointment-and had gone form minor celebrity of a local program to a fashion sensation overnight. No one knew what had prompted her 'generous patrons', but consensus was clear it wasn't her budding talent. Rumor had it that unlike countless other women who'd played the role of the buxom bimbo over the years, Vicky Vale had taken it one step further: she'd actually previously slept with some of the men depicted in the program, and made tapes. Sure, their reputations-and many of their marriages-had been ruined by what incriminating, circumstantial evidences had been gathered by Busted, but no one wanted their kids YouTubing a vid of them with their fat ass hanging out, banging that sleazy sexpot.
…it was just speculation, true. But Vicky Vale's permanent, voyageuristic smile and suggestive attire left everyone in a five foot radius in need of a shower to wash off the slime. "Someone call Vice," Cameron retorted, eying her antagonist from peep-toe Prada boots to her Calvin Klein corset-brassiere top, complete with ruffles, lace, and what she suspected was a built-in extra cup size or three. "Tell them there's a whore on the loose."
"Uh, Shaw?" Paul interrupted softly, hand on his headset. "We're about to go live-"
Vicky's salacious smile only widened. "Hmm. You're sharp, you know that? But one reporter to another, no one in this business gives a damn about smarts. You want to play this game, then play by the rules…and the rules say the best-looking woman wins."
"I hope you don't mean you." Cam sniffed.
"Please," Vale sighed exaggeratedly, rising to her full height so the famous view of her rather ample chest could be seen. "This is a man who just spent seven years in Asia," she said scornfully. "These are the only 'girls' he'll be interested in."
Shaw set her jaw. "You're a tramp and a disgrace."
But the woman only laughed. "I like you, girlie," she purred. "Give me a call in a few years when you've grown up some more and tell me I wasn't right."
Vicky Vale was a world-class slut, Cam decided, not a reporter. There were several other words that came to mind on the mention of her name, but right definitely wasn't one of them. She'd prove her wrong. Journalism was a noble, important profession, even more so than politics, she'd always said. People trusted the news, no one was stupid enough to trust a politician. The news told the truth, and that's what people needed, wasn't it?
In the wake of Vicky's echoing laughter, Cameron Shaw did her best to stay professional. She had poise, class, intelligence, and a degree, goddamnit! She was a journalist, not a sensationalist, and she poured her heart and mind out into every five minute update for the rest of the afternoon. That's what Gotham needed, a level-headed, straight-talking, trustworthy news source they could count on. She even managed-by asking the chief of security politely-to get moved closer to the Arrivals gate. Feet and face aching, tired, exhausted, worn from a long day of work, Cameron Shaw was deeply disillusioned when the famous Bruce Wayne finally strolled down the unfurled red carpet.
The hand that wasn't waving benevolently to the expectant crowd was wrapped around the waist of a very prim, excessively smug Vicky Vale. When she saw Cam was looking, the gossip made sure to wink.
She even blew a kiss.
Cameron Shaw went home and cried. She'd heard many times that Experience made the best teacher…but no one had warned her just how cruel She could be.
Gotham State University
Office of Walter Graves, Journalism Department Chair
Cameraon Shaw wasn't the only one to suffer in the wake of the Wayne heir's miraculous return from the dead. Trisha Tanaka stood in Professor Walter Graves' office, her head dutifully lowered and eyes plastered to the floor.
"I don't understand," she said softly. Her accent came out as her voice trembled, and she shut her eyes in resignation. It always did that when she was trying desperately not to cry. It had been many years since she'd felt so ashamed or saddened, and she swallowed down the bitter, salty taste of tears. At least none showed on her face. But why now? Why here?
"Trisha," Graves began in honeyed tones, "Your work so far has been impeccable. It's only fair I judge you more harshly than any other student-you have more potential, and I won't see it wasted."
"I don't understand," Trisha repeated. Her tone wasn't obstinant or angry, although her friends would have said she would have every right to be. Even in grade school she'd been harassed by teachers and advisors. You're better than this, they repeated. You can do more. She had still received scholarships for college, yes; but she'd missed the honor of valedictorian by .03 GPA points because 4 misguided English teachers had thought to 'hold her to higher standards'. Her sister had graduated top of her class, and her parents had hoped-had demanded-the same effort from her. It had made school miserable—or more miserable than it already was. At 11, she'd had larger breasts than girls three grades above her, and had to put up with merciless teasing and scorn from her classmates, both male and female alike. In junior high, boys teased her for her 'boobies'. Girls whispered behind their hands that she stuffed, or had 'had her titties done'. Once, in high school, another girl had been caught taking cell phone pictures of her in the locker room trying to 'prove you were a fake'. Luckily, the principal had gotten involved, and none of the pictures had made it to Susan's outgoing texts before the phone had been confiscated, but the memory still haunted her.
"Trisha," he said placatingly, stretching out a hand to take her own. It was a large hand, soft, plump, sweaty and hot. It made her uncomfortable, but she didn't want to offend by shaking it off. "Your global journalism project didn't mention Bruce Wayne, not even once! I had no choice but to give you a C. Someone with your talent should have known that."
"Bruce Wayne," she repeated hollowly, still studying the beige carpeting. "You gave me a C in my course project because I did not say Bruce Wayne."
"He's major news," Graves chided, "of course I expected to see him there! Even Al Jezeer had a segment-"
Never mind UNICEF efforts in South Sudan, mounting multi-drug resistant TB and AIDS toll in Congo that threatened to become a global pandemic. Children are still sold as sex slaves in Thailand. Suicide bombers still harry Jerusalem. Cuba is about to have free elections for the first time ever, she thought, but did not voice. How many students had covered those subjects in their portfolios?
"Trisha, this class is about journalism. About the news." He said with one eyebrow raised. "You of all people should know the news changes."
The news changes. No, it didn't. All her life the news had been the same: we expect more from you. You're a girl. You're smart. You have a two parent home. You're Asian, for goodness sake!
"You gave me a C," she started, head still lowered humbly, but in truth it was so she wouldn't look into his eyes and see the same disappointment she'd seen in her father's dark eyes since she could remember. "In this class. For my major." She was smart, she knew. She worked hard…and efforts that would have landed every other student that coveted 4.0 left her scrabbling for a 3.2 from well-meaning professors who thought she needed harsher critique and firmer guidance to make her flourish as a writer. Their cumulative good intentions, coupled with Professor Graves' final blow, however, had improved her writing so much as to endanger her academic scholarship. This one class, this one grade, this portfolio—that man Bruce Wayne—was about to destroy her college career. Trisha shuddered. She didn't think she could bear her father's stoic silence and deep-seated disappointment.
"Please," she heard herself beg, "I need this grade."
"Trisha, I'm sorry, but there's not much I can do," her professor explained, grip tightening on her hand. His other hand reached out and gave the back of hers what was meant to be a comforting pat. It rose once or twice, then fell…but his sweaty grip didn't abate.
But Graves just didn't understand…and with this second affirmation of comfort she found herself blurting the awful truth she'd been holding in all semester: she might lose her college money, her place in GSU, her column in the GSU daily, her parent's respect—
He listened to it all, attentively. "You poor, poor thing. You poor, poor child. You need that grade changed desperately, don't you."
"Yes," she said miserably, wiping her tearing dark eyes on the back of her blouse sleeve. "Yes. If you could give me time, I w-write about Bruce Wayne, m-make any corrections, do, do anything-" she rushed.
"…Anything," He interrupted, his voice like a silken purr. And suddenly he was on her, one her like a hound sensing a bitch in heat, heavy hands pouring into her blouse, cradling her breasts, thumbs running over her nipples, he opened his hideous mouth and bit-
She slapped him.
She slapped him.
She slapped him.
Suddenly it was over, and she was cowering in the corner, bare breasts exposed, bra twisted lop-sidedly over her chest with the buttons of her blouse stretched or torn. In shock her tears had dried and she lowered her hands from her shocked mouth to hold shards of her shirt across her naked chest. She felt queasy, felt hot, her face heavy and flushed, her left breast aching from his slobbering jaws. "You," she whispered in outraged betrayal, "you-" but in her native Japanese, her second tongue English, or even her high-school Spanish, Trisha Tanaka could think of no word, curse, or phrase to describe the heinous monster before her. And he was still before her, although this time at a wary distance, his goatish eyes locked lustily to her breasts, his breaths coming in sickening pants.
"You need that grade," Graves said coldly. "And only I can give it to you."
She turned away rather than face him, and shifted herself back into the cups of her bra. She could feel his eyes boring through you. "You won't get another chance," he warned.
"Yes, I will." She said, suddenly emboldened. "I will go to academic committee, lodge complaint against my grade. They will review my portfolio. They will pass me."
He sneered, taking a step closer to grip her arm in his pudgy, piggish hands. "I'll advise against," two fingers stroked the side of her face, tucking a tuft of thick dark hair behind her ear. She shuddered. "Need I remind you I have friends on that committee."
"Not anymore," she defied him, edging closer until their noses were almost touching. "Not after I go to sexual harassment committee."
He chuckled. She blinked.
"What proof do you have?" He barked. "A ripped shirt. Any boy on campus would've done that for free. You could've done it to yourself, knowing I would never change the grade on academic principal, and how desperately you needed to pass. You think you're the first?" He gloated, eyes flashing with delight in memory of previous conquests. "You won't tell. You wouldn't dare. And anyways, you couldn't bear the shame of it once I say that yes, indeed, we'd been enjoying a consensual and rather imaginative affair for the whole semester, and you only went forward after you received a grade not to your liking."
But her resolve did not fail her. She didn't flinch. "You would still be fired. For having sex with student-"
But Graves only sneered. "Tenure. Celebration. Research!" He cried. "A slap on the wrist, and perhaps a semester's sabbatical for the press to die down," he continued. "I'm worth too much for this university to simply set me aside."
But Trisha was tired of unfair treatment from teachers and academic committees. Tired of expectations. In all her 22 years, she had never felt so disgusted, so emboldened, and so much alive at once. "If you are so sure, let go my arm. We will see who is right." She wrenched it away. His piggish grip had been frightening, but not strong.
"You're a fool, Trisha Tanaka," he whispered, staring down at her as if in mocking emulation her father's disappointment. "You'll be a little peeping mouse, taking on a lion. I thought you were smarter than that. " He sighed, resigned. "Perhaps I expected too much."
But Trisha was done being a mouse. Done with expectations, disappointments, done with being downtrodden or submissive. If Walter Graves had any hopes of getting out of this unscathed, his last words were chosen poorly. They sealed his fate. "You are no lion," she returned with contempt. "You are a greedy, fat cat, and you have gotten too slow."
Victoriously, she reached into her skirt pocket for her cell phone, already recording. "This little 'mouse' will roar." The split second she'd turned her back was all she'd needed. Not for nothing had Professor Crane taught them in Psychology 101 that eyewitness testimony was known to be unreliable, and often failed to hold up in court without physical evidence to support it. Abram Bramowitz had died demonstrating it…and it wasn't a lesson his classmates would easily forget.
Graves licked his lips, eyes shifting nervously, cowed by that tiny Nokia. She took a sick pleasure in the beads of sweat beginning to line his bald brow and temples. "And if I pass you-?"
"You've already given me a pass," Trisha said curtly, all traces of her halting accent and soft spoken mannerisms gone for good. "I don't need another one." She opened the heavy oaken door with resolve, but he called her back.
"You'll lose your scholarship," Walter Graves crooned desperately. "You'll lose your place in the journalism major and you'll never get it back."
"You'll lose your job, your respect, and your freedom," Trisha Tanaka returned, head held high. "Fair trade."
TV 18 Studios
If Trisha Tanaka had sneered, scoffed, or been shocked at the mention of Bruce Wayne's name in the course of a discussion on international news, she would have soon been proven wrong. Wayne Enterprises' stock surged upwards overnight, despite their media liaison's bewildered insistence that Mr. Wayne's return had no bearing on company policies. Mr Wayne himself, however, proved to be quite a different story…or stories. He crashed a Porche around a telephone pole with the stench of alcohol so strong upon his person no one bothered to take a breathalizer. He walked away unharmed and unticketed, signing his name only to the responding officer's clipboard with a personalized note his wife. He even posed for photos with EMS. Rebecca James, the responding reporter for channel 18, let out a grimace of disgust and let the story die.
Cameron Shaw never did call Vicky Vale, but she had taken her advice. With a new wardrobe, feet sore from stilettos and a large investment in designer make-up she'd moved the TV 18 ranks from promising new intern suggested to management by her boyfriend to reporter within her own right. The right flash of a smile, flip of her blonde hair…and the world came easy to a beautiful woman who wasn't afraid to own it.
"You let it die?" Shaw asked, her pale blue eyes descrying her shock. "Why?"
"I didn't let it die, it was never alive." Beck seethed, grating her teeth. "Cam, there was never any story to begin with."
"Most of Gotham disagrees," Shaw pouted.
"So does most of America," the red-head continued, "but that doesn't make it any more worthwhile. 'Famous Bruce Wayne wrecks car…again!' The man is such a wasted drunk it baffles me how he's able to get women the way he does."
"Money," Cam yawned. "But the drinking might explain why he goes through them so fast." Character could be overlooked, but no gorgeous woman worth her salt wanted a hot date who lacked solid follow through. When she told her co-worker, Rebecca James snorted milk out her nose.
Office of the District Attorney
"Can you believe this?" Carl Finch asked aloud. "Three responding officers, fifteen news crews and no one makes the arrest?"
Rachel Dawes blanched, seeing Bruce on the news again. Like that, again. But the Bruce Wayne who returned from Bhutan was not the Bruce Wayne she had missed. It was like the real man had died, and left this imposter in his place to tarnish her memories of him. Their fight over that arrowhead, running from the police after Tomny Lancaster's drunken high school party, a stolen kiss and a lost virginity in his dormroom at Princeton…
"Bruce Wayne," Carl said with fierce vehemence and sadness rolled together. He caught her eyes, and softened. "I'm sorry, Rachel," he stated mildly while blipping the TV to off, "but damned if Thomas never deserved a son like this. It's an insult to the man's memory."
I know, Rachel thought, returning to her take-out Chinese dinner and paperwork for the Zsasz case. I know. The last time she'd seen Bruce he'd been bloodthirsty for vengeance for his father's killer. Now it seemed he could care less about the man's name or reputation.
….so why is he doing this?
Tanaka Residence
"…and in other news, our viewers will be thrilled to hear the Mr. Wayne suffered only minor injuries and was treated on scene for his wounds. The Wayne public spokesman confirms that at this time the billionaire and Andreía Arenga still plan to attend tomorrow night's Black and White Masquerade, where she will model both Chanel and Dior-"
"-and no one cares," she finished, blipping the TV off.
…At least they shouldn't. Trisha Tanaka was energetic, but dispassionate, and until Graves' groping hands she'd never truly hated anyone in her entire life; but she had found a deep-seated dislike for Bruce Wayne. Even if his name hadn't come up in that horrible office encounter, Trisha believed she would still bear him a semblance of ill will. As a journalist, it was her job to be objective, but in the weeks following Wayne's miraculous 'reappearance' she found herself turning off the television in saddened distaste. Was that what the American public wanted? Was that really what her media had to offer? Was there any pride, any information, any real relevance in the news she was bombarded with? The night that CNN coverage spoke in detail about Wayne's date's choice of dress and matching jade jewelry was the closest she'd ever come to giving up—or throwing something at her monitor.
But she was working on a piece about corruption in local law enforcement, and the growing power of Carmide Falconi. It was the shocking relevance of this story that had saved her, she was sure. She'd gotten it published in the school paper, and someone had slashed her father's car tires and smashed the windshield for her trouble. Perhaps no one but the perpetrator had read it, and perhaps no one else even cared…but for one man in this city of millions, the truth had struck a nerve.
She'd kept the clip, taped inside her scrapbook where no one could see. At 22, her father still insisted she live at home, and it wouldn't do for him to find the article taped to her bedroom mirror. The attack had frightened her mother to hysterical tears, and her father insisted the story be withdrawn. He called the police, 'like any respectable citizen', and that more than anything let Trisha know her father hadn't bother to read the article he had so vehemently condemned.
She told him she'd retracted it. It was the first outright lie she'd ever told him. Sneaking off campus with Micheal during lunch breaks or after classes for quick sex was one thing, and pretending to her family for all appearance's sake to have dropped 'that horrid African' was another, but this newest deceit had come shockingly easy.
When the Batman first appeared, Trisha was one of the few who took real interest, and her new-found skills in lying to her parents allowed her the freedom she needed to begin crafting her story. She interviewed eye-witnesses, stalked the streets at night in neighborhoods were he was prone to roam. Several newspapers had picked the story up as a gag, treating this 'superhero' as a bit of urban legend and as a spot of fun. Most accredited him to drunks, or hallucinating drug users. Some said it was a college kid out having a little midnight crisis. And while Trisha was informed enough to know that in Gotham the ADA's often lied, she'd done her homework on this Rachel Dawes. Dawes was honest, brave, and had integrity-three qualities that were a rarity in politics anywhere, let alone Gotham. So if Rachel Dawes said a man in a black bat costume had rescued her on the subway, Trisha Tanaka believed her. And if this 'Bat Man' (as the papers were calling him) had saved an enemy of Falconi from rape or death, he had to know what he was up against. Every act had a motive, and the more heroic the act the stronger the mindset of the one who committed it. Who was the Bat Man? Why would he be willing to cross Falconi? Where did he come from? And, most importantly, what did he want?
The Bat Man—Batman, she decided, scribbling more notes in her scrapbook diary—had a motive. And if she could determine what that might be, she could unlock the mystery of who this masked crusader really was. Like the patron of an up and coming artist, she'd taken interest even before the Batman had become recognized, and she took silent pride in watching his fame grow. I believed in him first, she thought. I wanted him to be real. But more importantly, she understood.
Gotham was her home. She was the poor, the tired, the hungry, the huddled masses wanting to breathe free. This country—her country—had taken her family in after the earthquake, and just when it seemed her whole world had been ripped apart, America had been there. Lady Liberty had embraced her with open, welcoming arms in her family's darkest hour of need. She had been too young to know that not all had been so fortunate, that neighbors had starved, died of sickness, or had been washed away in the flood. But even then, at six years old, Trisha Tanaka had realized that she was grateful and indebted. She would give back to this country, this city, this new home where the people were taller, fatter, paler, and spoke to her funny with wide smiles.
Trisha had done all she could to fit in. She'd changed her name. Learned English. Made top grades. Became editor of her high school newspaper, been elected most likely to succeed, and graduated in the top ten percent of her private high school class. Any American father would have been proud of her, but when Trisha had announced her intentions to pursue a career in journalism, Isao Tanaka growled that she was wasting her life, he himself had gone to college to get a doctorate in applied physics. Her sister, Hana-now-Hannah was working on her graduate degree in mathematics.
"You need a real degree," her father insisted. "There are too many journalists. Not enough engineers. America needs scientists." But her parents loved her, even if they disapproved, and after what could have only been her mother's careful and meticulous manipulation they gave into her youthful whims and allowed her to enroll at GSU.
They would nod politely when she spoke of her interests and passions, and would hurriedly change the subject when questioned by relatives as to her current affairs. Her sister Hannah now had a three year-old daughter, and darling little Gracie made for a wonderful conversation piece to distract even the most disapproving from her choices. But as her years in undergrad passed Trisha began to suspect that the joke was wearing thin.
"It's really quite dreadful of you, you know," Hannah had said. "No one expected you to take it so far. You should have switched majors your second semester or your sophomore year. It's what everyone expected. Then you could have found a decent man with a real career who father approved of and gotten married, like me."
If her family begrudged her educational choices, it was nowhere near the hostility they'd shown Micheal. When Trisha had brought her date home for family dinner her parents and grandparents, though all spoke fluent English and had insisted on "English Only" to help their daughters adjust, had spoken solely in Japanese.
"If he'd been white, that'd be one thing," Isao Tanaka had scolded her loudly. "But a black man? Don't you know that black men are lazy? They don't have jobs? They never marry and always divorce? If you'd gone into science you would have met good men."
Odd, wasn't it, that the few pieces of American culture her father managed to introduce to his tenacious personal beliefs were those of prejudice. She'd taken the criticism demurely, saving face before her family, before retiring to her room. It was the closest to anger at her parents that she'd ever come. She didn't hate them, she was simply done with them. Done with their rules, their antiquated traditions, their chauvenism. Done with standards and expectations. She wanted to walk out of the house after Micheal and damn the consequences, but love—not respect—for her family had condemned her to stay.
"It's my life, my choices," she said. "Since when do any of us have to live up to everyone else's expectations?" Trisha was both blessed and cursed to think for herself. Things came to her slowly at first, and she made more mistakes than others—but she couldn't be fooled. Even as a child she took twice as long to talk as her older sister, but when she finally spoke it was short yet concise sentences that played on her chubby lips.
But Hannah had only smiled sadly. "We're all citizens, Trish, but you have to realize that you're the only true 'American' in the family." It was true. She had been the youngest, the most impressionable, had spent the majority of her life here in the states. And however much her parents had openly adopted their new country's language, dress, and business practices, they clung to their cultural ideals. Her sister called her 'progressive', her parents, a rebel. Her acquaintances thought she was one of the most conservative people they knew. Micheal bristled when she spoke of her family, but she couldn't very well disown them. "They're my family. You're my choice. They'll most likely never accept you, but I do," she'd whispered more than once across the pillow on their lunch dates. "Isn't that enough for you?"
Trisha Tanaka did what she did because she was American, she was a Gothamite, and she had adopted this country and this city when it had adopted her. She took pride in the freedoms they allowed her, unlike her parents who respected their savior unquestioningly. Her father thought it the height of arrogance to question the government or the news, "There can't be corruption in a freely elected government," he would reprimand her. "Too many people are holding them accountable." They simply didn't understand. But this Batman, she decided as she pasted another clipping onto the stiff, recycled paper of her scrapbook, was holding criminals accountable where the government failed.
He owes this City something, she realized. Just like me.
Office of the District Attorney
The Zsasz trial was going poorly, Rachel knew. Now only was the audience flooded with sadistic fans of he man's grotesque 'art', their court appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Quinzel, had a sick fascination with the defendant and had spent no less than 3 weeks now examining him. The doctor's explanation to Surillo was that Victor Zsasz had a 'unique and undetermined mental illness', and had deemed it both unwise and unjust to diagnose him or let him stand trial prematurely. The defense, in turn, like many defending child pornographers for countless years, had called Mr. Zsasz's first amendment rights into question, as the defendant labeled his killings art. Art was protected as freedom of expression, and it would henceforth be unconstitutional for a jury to find him guilty.
Rachel Dawes didn't often curse her constitutional law class, but this trial had gotten the best of her. She was overworked, underpaid, undersexed, and now she was losing her jury to a ridiculous defense crafted out of illogical thinking and blatant ignorance of the founding father's intent.
Finch thought Quinzel was clean, but she herself wasn't so sold. Falconi had bought men—and women, she couldn't forget Chill's parole hearing—everywhere in Gotham, and the old Italian was getting smarter about hiding the evidence. Harleen Quinzel's financials checked out, but there were other methods of payment that could go unlooked.
"They got him, they got him!" She heard happy voices ringing from Finch's office. Part of her grumbled, not wanting to deal with anyone at the moment happier than she was: she feared for their safety should they ask her to join their celebration.
But it was Finch, Finch and another ADA, pouring what looked to be not their first, or hardly second glass of champagne.
"They found him, alright. With evidence all around, and trussed up to a light like a Christmas turkey!" Finch laughed, pouring wine for another round both into their glasses and onto his desk. "Carmide Falconi, in police custody! Never thought I'd see it!"
She dropped her purse in shock. It landed with a soft WHUMP!, but no one seemed to care. Finch rushed forward to usher her inside, and before the shock had worn off he was handing her a glass as well.
"Drink up, drink up!" The second man insisted. "It's not everyday we have cause to celebrate. Not in this job."
"Not in this city!" their boss rejoined. "Rachel Dawes, Harvey Dent. He's a slick bastard, and I think he's after my job." Finch laughed.
But this Harvey Dent only shook his head ruefully. "Not anytime soon, I fear. If the police have finally gotten their act together it might mean an increase in paperwork. Alas, I leave you to it."
"They cannot conquer, not forever!" Finch quoted merrily. From her own confusion and the mirrored expression on Dent's face, it must've been something obscure like Star Trek, classic Doctor Who, or Lord of the Rings. Finch might have been mild mannered and droll as a boss and as a bed-partner, but his hobbies had been quite eccentric.
"I'm still not sold," Dent shrugged. "If this man is on our side, why doesn't he unmask himself, come forward?"
"Because it is still our job to catch him and put him away," Carl stated firmly "Falconi or no Falconi, I'm still the District Attorney."
"But you just said-" Rachel began, and was interrupted.
"I respect the Batman, yes," Finch shrugged. "So I'll do my best to stay within the rules and catch him. But just because it's my job doesn't mean I can't support him."
"Isn't that a little hypocritical?" Dent grinned, eying her for what she thought looked like more than just support. "A little conflict of interest?"
They continued to laugh and jest, and her lack of participation was quickly noted by Dent, who acquiesced to her indifference with a polite nod and a wink that said you know where to find me.
"It does seem a bit contradictory, Carl." She noted, glancing up weary-eyed from a journal article citing precedence and the First Amendment.
"He's one to talk," Finch stated mildly once ADA Dent had left the room.
"Pardon?" Rachel asked.
"That's Harvey," he explained as if she were a wayward daughter who needed protecting. "Harvey Two-face. He used to be internal affairs. I'd stay away from that one if I were you." He grabbed his jacket, and fumbled into the sleeves.
"Carl, where are you going?" It was late, it was dark, it was cold, and he'd already had several drinks—
"Out," he said simply, but with a sincere and boyish smile that melted her heart. Even after their sterile break up there were times she missed him. "Like I said, I'm still district attorney, and I can't very well let the Batman do my job for me, eh?"
Little did she know those were the last words he would speak to her. Three weeks later they fished his corpse out of the river. She never said the words out loud, but deep down inside she blamed the Batman for her and Gotham's collective misery. If that masked vigilante had never plagued her city, Carl Finch would never have played the hero. Police were still baffled as to why he had braved the docks alone at night and who it was who shot him no less than 18 times in the back. But whoever his anonymous killers were, they kept their silence while sending a message loud enough for all of Gotham to hear.
You weren't the Doctor, she thought sadly, placing a white rose on the top of the dark casket in Sisters of Mercy Sanctuary during the state sponsored funeral. You weren't Captain Kirk, you weren't Aragorn. You were more than that. More than that to Gotham, more than that to me.
Wayne Manor
Wayne Manor.
In a way it was proper he should be here, Chris Holden thought. He'd grown up in the Palisades, after all, lived his entire life in the shadow of Wayne Manor but had never once stepped foot on the estate itself; but it went deeper than that. Although not his earliest childhood memory, the 'Day that Gotham Wept' was one of his clearest, and Thomas Wayne's demise and following funeral had left a significant impression on his young mind. His own father had revered the late Mr. Wayne, and had sworn to continue the man's legacy.
Liam Holden had made several advancements as Mayor, it was true; but like Thomas Wayne, most of his philanthropic accomplishments had perished with him. The subway that Thomas had provided was now rank and dangerous, likewise the school system his father had tried to desperately to redeem. It was sad that great deeds should perish with such great men, but such was the way of the world, and Chris, as an adult and as an objective journalist, had come to acknowledge this fact.
…but he'd be damned the day he ever accepted it. One didn't become and stay an honest journalist in this city without great cost or effort. This Bruce Wayne had once made him go into hiding, risk his life against Carmide 'the Roman' Falconi. And while Rachel Dawes had certainly been worth it, Christopher Holden now seriously doubted that Bruce Wayne himself ever was.
Years ago he'd deduced that Wayne had meant to kill Chill, knew that the man had had it in him to be a killer…and part of him would have preferred it Wayne had stayed that way. It was better to be a criminal than the drunken fop before them tonight, who cared nothing about vengeance, or anything at all besides his next drink or fuck. The man wasn't simply dispassionate-he was apassionate. Nothing mattered. Nothing bothered him, not even the memory of his parents' death. He couldn't be bothered to concern himself with trivial niceties like consideration; three hours tardy for his own birthday party stretched the definition of fashionably late to the worst-dressed A list awards.
Scattered applause. The orchestra began the tune, and nearly 100 smiling guests—all too happy to wait so long as the wine and hors d' eouvre kept flowing—turned in unison to the ballooned entry-way to wish their smiling host a very happy birthday, indeed.
"Thank you, thank you," Wayne toasted them mindlessly, then began to mingle. He was immediately swamped by his admirers, and Chris thought it more prudent to wait for the rush to die down. Those were the guests, after all; he was here by right of press pass. Wayne had fired his personal media liaison, and for several months now had enjoyed paparazzi treatment and fanfare by opening all his society functions to whichever members of the press were dressed the finest, showed the most cleavage, or (once) willing to do the complete hokey pokey in front of their peers. Luckily, Chris hadn't had to jump through that particular hoop, and prided himself with full knowledge that if it had come to shaming himself in public for a chance to be within 20 yards of the famous Bruce Wayne or missing a story, he'd happily pass. Unlike other Gotham celebrities who offered public apology and chagrin for their drunken antics, Wayne was always happy to re-oblige his readers.
Tonight proved no exception. Chris could only listen, stunned—and hurt, for Rachel Dawes' sake—to the fool of a man before him: "Everyone, everybody, I uh, wanna thank you all for coming here tonight and drinking all my booze. No really, there's a thing about being a Wayne that you're never short of a few free loaders like yourselves to fill up your mansion with, so here's to you people. To all you phonies, all you two-faced friends, you sycophantic suck ups, who smile through your teeth at me, please, leave me in peace. Please go, stop smiling, it's not a joke. Please leave, the party's over. Get out."
Get out.
He left. He retrieved his car from Wayne Manor's enormous front lawn, and drove off, this time not caring if he left ruts in the multi-thousand dollar landscaping. He almost found pleasure in the thought of ruining Wayne's flower beds, but felt a stab of sickness for his own immaturity. And that's what Wayne was, really: Immature. He was a petulant, bored child who did and got everything he wanted. The world was his for the taking, so take it he did.
Chris felt a new emotion rising, so sudden and hot he had to pull over before the tears blinded him and he slid off the road: pity. A stab of pity went through his heart for the ruined man, for the boyhood friend and once boyfriend of Rachel Dawes. Because he knew. He understood, and that realization, that pain, was just too raw and gaping.
Wayne was like him...son to a great man, growing up in his shadow, surrounded by admirers and expectations since the day he could walk…
…But Chris had had something that was stolen from Bruce Wayne: a family. He'd been a senior in high school when his father died, took his last breath in his arms…Wayne was only a child.
Back in his apartment, Chris stripped out of his tux and donned his running gear. In 35 minutes on the treadmill he'd barely cleared his mind or emotions, but he had put in 5.2 very good miles and his calves were starting to burn. He slowed to a cool down, and let his mind focus on the task at hand. He hadn't even begun to process his story. It had to sell, network had made clear—but there was precious little to cover about the actual party. And he had an obligation to his father—and to Gotham—to tell the truth. A public interest story about Bruce Wayne that didn't use the word 'sexy' or 'single' even once…a story that dwelt on the man's past, not his sordid present or pending rehab.
Was there even a news corporation left in Gotham willing to run a story like that—?
His cell rang. It was approaching midnight, i.e. his deadline for submission. He answered the phone without even glancing at the niumber.
"Chrissy!" Clarrisa Holden's voice rang. "Where the hell are you?"
Chris was taken aback, and gaped for a moment into his blue tooth phone. "Mom?" Why the unexpected call? And why (a very small, but very annoyed part of him groaned inwardly) after 30 years, did she still insist on calling him Chrissy?
"Are you at the hospital?" The busy-body widow raced. "Which one? What room? Where are you?"
"Hospital? No mom, I was covering Wayne's party, but he sent us all home."
"Oh, thank God!" There was something about her tone that made him sit up, and take this conversation more seriously.
"Mom-?"
"You call yourself a reporter? Have you seen the news?" Clarissa Holden's voice still managed to drip with sarcasm even if the pitch was a hysterical panic. "Wayne Manor just burnt to the ground. I would know-I called the fire department myself."
Bruce Wayne. He'd just spent the last hour finding the man's humanity…
Chris shut his eyes. Tightly. "Oh, God."
TV 18 Studios
DRUNKEN BILLIONAIRE BURNS MANOR!
Prince of the Palisades, a Pyromaniac?
Bruce Wayne suffers burns in fiery inferno!
Billionaire Birthday Bash a Fiery Fiasco!
Chief Fire Inspector Haddad rules Wayne Manor fire 'accidental cause'
"This is ridiculous!" Rebecca James complained, throwing the Gotham City Star down in disgust. "Fear Night made page 2? It's only been a week-!"
Cameron Shaw shrugged. "And thousands of people are dead, injured, or still missing. The entirety of the Narrows is still on police lock-down without city water. Can you blame people—or the government—for wanting a little distraction right now?"
Beck sighed, and pulled the Star from the garbage bin. "You're…you're right Cam," she whispered sadly. "I…I just forget sometimes." Her friend was right, and she was learning, she noted. When Shaw had first been hired on she'd been a little bit naïve about the government's role in 'misdirecting', if not outright silencing the press in Gotham City. Another drunken billionaire bluster with a staggering loss of property but no serious injuries or casualties was just the thing to steal the public's attention.
Cam smiled warmly. "Not everyone is as level-headed as you are. Besides," she grinned, "that paper is written intended for an eighth grade reading level or less. We both went to college."
"So what you're saying is sometimes I can be pretty stupid for a smart person?" the red-head teased, sipping an early morning latte.
"And sometimes for a reporter you can be so unobservant," Cam said with feigned disinterest, splaying the fingers of her left hand on the desk before them with a casual shrug.
"Sorry, unobservant?" Rebecca James asked, bewildered.
Cameron Shaw sighed in defeat and held out her hand. "He proposed." Beck let out a squeal and jumped out of her chair, oohing and aahing over the impressive 24 carat gemstone and seamless platinum band.
"When? Where? How?" Beck rushed nearly five minutes later after she'd finally stopped oogling the ring with a rapturous expression and handed it back with joking reluctance.
Cam launched into the story with high enthusiasm and enough volume to notify the entire office of what had transpired. "It was Fear Night, of all things—not that I'm complaining but not what I had in mind at all!—and the big fool just shows up at my doorstep still in his running clothes and asked me plain up 'Cameron Shaw, will you marry me? Please?' and he was crying, and so then I was crying, and Natalie was over and she had to bundle us both back inside and shut the door so we wouldn't catch the toxin-"
"On Fear Night-?" Beck asked incredulously. "Why on earth then?"
"Apparently he'd had the whole thing planned for ages—he didn't let me keep the ring until last night, he had reservations for le canard bleu and all, but the whole thing just scared him so badly what with everybody dying an all." Cam gushed, relishing in the memory and spotlight. Beck knew her friend had a propensity to become the center of attention, but supposed this time Shaw had actually earned it, so she let it slip.
"Congratulations, Mr. Holden," Jenkins from network said drily in passing. "And just how did you manage that?"
Chris Holden spent more than 100 hours a week at the station, and constantly had his nose to a computer screen or mobile device, tracking more than 50 global networks at any given time. Some thought he took his job a little too seriously, like Jenkins. Chris tore his eyes of his gushing bride-to-be and grinned. "I've found luring them in with big, shiny rocks has worked well for me so far. What about you, sir?"
Touché. It was a well known fact that Jenkins wife of 27 years had left him last spring.
Office of the (Interim) District Attorney
Interim District Attorney, emphasis on the interim. Her co-workers and the press addressed her by her proper job title, yes; but the tone still stung. In the wake of Fear Night they'd all agreed she'd was far too young, too inexperienced, and too female for the job itself, but given Finch's disappearance and subsequent death, someone had to fill his shoes. Even Rachel herself thought it odd they had chosen her. Some with more experience whispered behind their hands that she'd slept with someone somewhere high up to get the position.
Yes, she'd slept with Carl Finch—no, more than that, a small part of her had actually loved the man, but it wasn't as if he'd had either the time or political authority to name his successor. Let them whisper. Let them continue to think that beauty and intelligence were mutually exclusive concepts.
But it was hard, hard to sit in this office, in this chair, to fill the shoes—however temporarily—of the man she'd known and begrudgingly loved. It was even harder to meet the up-and-coming contenders, all tripping over themselves for this office and the chance to further their careers. She wasn't surprised in the least, then, when Carl's—her—secretary announced that ADA Harvey Dent was asking for a meeting, and a little advice.
It was a blustery Tuesday afternoon when the young, confident attorney knocked sheepishly on her door. "Miss Dawes?" He asked, a twinkle in his eyes as he shook her proffered hand. "Let me introduce myself-"
"Carl was right," she stated simply, smiling despite herself.
"Pardon?" Dent asked, their outstretched hands still grasped.
"You were after his job."
He chuckled. "He was wrong. I'm only running because he isn't here. Carl Finch did this job a damn sight better than I ever will—he didn't have the support of the legal system or the police yet. If our luck with this Batman holds, I'll have that."
"If you get elected," Rachel reminded him.
"Only too true," he rued. "My excuse for a campaign manager can't even find a decent running platform. Testimonials," he enunciated with contempt. "I Believe In Harvey Dent"—what sort of slogan is that? Well, guess it's cheap, it's catchy, and considering my budget, it's the best I can hope for."
Despite Finch's unease with the man, Rachel found herself respecting him. Unlike the other candidates, Dent had spent his career in public service, first IA, then as an ADA. His campaign budget and the time away from work giving speeches and attracting a following were all subtracted from a government salary barely large enough to pay his rent and outstanding law school debt, she was only certain. She found herself in the same situation, and could empathize readily. But mostly it was because he still felt fresh, new, hardly naïve but unburdened and undaunted by the fact the DA's job was to watch criminals go free despite his best efforts.
…which was a lot, given that his competitors were those whose job, right up until the minute they took office, was getting those criminals back onto the streets by whatever means possible. Harvey Dent, Rachel knew, answered to conscience alone. Every other applicant answered to whatever lies, manipulations, or theatrics would win their cases and their checks.
They walked from the courthouse to a café 2 blocks away, crammed with the lunch time crowd of anonymous suits and briefcases. Harvey Dent was quite the charmer, without being outright flirtacious in the slightest. He had…charisma, Rachel finally decided as they shared pleasantries about the state of affairs in Gotham's politics. But halfway through what seemed a very promising conversation on the justice department Harvey Dent asked her a question that left her dumbfounded.
"So…would you be interested in saying that in front of a camera?"
"What?" Rachel asked, taken aback.
"I just told you what I thought about what this city needs from it's justice department," he reiterated with confidence, folding his hands and leaning across the table towards her. "You just told me you couldn't agree more. You were either lying outright, nodding along because you find me boring and are trying to speed up the process of getting rid of me, or you were genuinely agreeing and so my question remains."
"You want me to be a spokesman for your campaign?" She repeated, dazed.
"You were Finch's favorite, you were in the press for the Zsasz trial, and from the dossier I had a PI make—sorry, old habits die hard—you're clean and honest. Gotham knows you, Gotham likes you, and I could use that to get elected." Harvey explained with a grin that bordered on arrogant.
"You think you can just walk into my office, buy me lunch and ask me to do that-?" she replied coldly. His answer surprised her.
"No. Because that'd be tantamount to selling your soul," he admitted adamantly, "and I won't play the devil. What I'm asking is if you, knowing the full consequences and weight your vote of confidence can carry for Gotham, would consider—really consider—what I've said here today and think on that. Do you, Miss Dawes, truly believe in Harvey Dent? And then maybe in a few days, once you've had enough time to make up your mind, you could give my office a call and inform me of your decision, either way."
She blinked. "Yes."
He grin broadened. "You'll think on it? Excellent."
But that yes wasn't what he thought it meant, and Rachel Dawes herself wasn't sure what it implied, either. Yes, this is what Gotham needed. A hero. An elected man in an office cleaning up the streets through the legal system, unafraid of the corruption and organized crime that held her city in a vice. Yes, this is what Carl Finch tried to be, but lacked the charisma, the charm, the wit to sell this dream to Gotham's populace. And now this man—that dream—was looking to her, and she could make it happen. A Gotham like Thomas Wayne's Gotham, a Gotham where Batman would no longer be needed…
The question was did she truly believe in Harvey Dent. And the answer—her answer—was yes.
She shook her head, determined. "You misunderstand, Mr. Dent. I'll do it."
He caught her gaze, and held it for a long moment, and in that intervening silence much passed between them unspoken. They shared a common dream, a common vision, a common suffering. "Please," he said after that long pause, "call me Harvey."
Later that night, she lay awake, pondering the significance of that lunch time encounter. Please, call me Harvey. Those words had been innocent enough, but Harvey Dent had made himself perfectly clear. He didn't just need her words backing him politically, he wanted her there was well. Wanted someone else who shared his vision. Harvey Dent had been more than willing to accept that she was a beautiful woman and intelligent, and he would be more than happy to let her demonstrate both.
She'd already made a professional commitment to him. A professional commitment based on full understanding and trust, knowing the consequences her actions would have on the outcome of this upcoming election. She hardly knew the man, but she trusted him. Trusted him completely…trusted him with her city. Would it be such a leap to make a personal commitment to him as well-?
In high school, there'd hormones and pressure, but Rachel Dawes had had her eyes set on one man, and one man only. Even in college, when her roommates and sorority sisters were having nameless, casual sex, Rachel could never bring herself to do the same. She'd given herself to Bruce, and when Bruce had abandoned her she'd turned to a short string of other men to quench that loneliness while she waited for him to come home to her. Now her Odysseus had returned to Gotham, but he'd hadn't come home for her…and if she was honest with herself, she had been no faithful Penelope. She'd sought refuge in the arms of other men before, refuge until Bruce came back for her…but now she doubted he ever would.
She picked up Harvey's business card and turned it over in her fingers, pondering. She wondered if it was time to move on. Wondered if it was fair to Bruce, so soon…then she wondered if Bruce should even matter anymore. Hadn't she wasted enough of her life waiting for him? What if the end wasn't in sight? Given the turmoil Fear Night had created, could there ever truly be a day when Gotham didn't need the Batman? But mostly she wondered that she had never truly waited for him before…
She rolled over in bed, and she wondered if Harvey Dent already had dinner plans for the following evening. The man I loved never came back, she decided firmly. I have to move on. I have to be strong enough to let him go…at least for now.
"The man I loved never came back," she'd told Bruce not three weeks before, and had kissed him chastely on the cheek…
She didn't know then that those words would come back to haunt her. A year later, she would say them again, this time in a note that would never reach its reader: When I told you that if Gotham no longer needed Batman we could be together. I meant it. But I'm not sure the day will come when you no longer need Batman, and if it does, I will be there, but as your friend. I'm sorry to let you down. If you lose your faith in me, please keep your faith in people. Love, now and always, Rachel.
Tokyo, Japan
Being back was…strange.
It wasn't home—Gotham was her home—but it wasn't her childhood home, either. Her town had been completely obliterated, and what little of her family remained in Japan had left the Fukushima prefecture. She'd come to visit her cousin Yuki (and to find a husband, her mother had hinted strongly, unaware of her and Micheal's nightly skyping), and she felt out of place in the capital. Gotham was a large city by American standards, yes; but it was still an American city, full of historical districts, slums, residential neighborhoods and at least 8 different styles of architecture. Tokyo was different, modern, sleek and sexy, bold and brash. There was so much progress here and not enough feeling of history, although she knew this country—this very city—had stood centuries before either Columbus or the Vikings (or the Chinese, as some claimed) had first discovered the new world.
If her vocabulary had suffered, at least her accent was okay. She didn't sound nikkeijin, to Yuki's great relief, but her cousin's friends had picked up on it anyway due to her profound lack of knowledge of popular slang and culture. But all had been willing to forgive her those faults when they discovered her 'secret lover', as Yuki called him: the Batman. As soon as she'd mentioned that she was from Gotham City they'd begged her to tell her all about him.
She hadn't known he had such a popular overseas following, seeing as in Gotham he was either largely unknown, unrecognized, and—if you were to believe the papers—unliked. At first she found comfort that university students here didn't find her obsession with a crime-fighting vigilante unusual in the slightest. However, their shared interest once she explained the situation was if anything slightly disappointing. "Batman, he must be so hot!" Was the general reaction she got from women within a decade of her age in either direction. He was hot, he was cool, he was sooo totally American…Trisha was a little devastated to learn that her hero was a little bit of a joke, and that these glorified pre-teenagers treated her Batman like he was the love interest in some smarmy manga.
Yuki, as Trisha quickly learned, was enjoying her little stint at university and liked to party hard core. Trisha didn't have a younger sibling, and despite childhood yearnings for another playmate, after two weeks of babysitting her younger cousin at every social outing she silently thanked her parents for sparing her this for 21 years. So on the (rare) nights she wasn't holding her cousin's long tresses back out of the toilet after too much beer or waiting anxiously on the results of yet another pregnancy test after Yuki'd shown up half-dressed and high (again), she enjoyed a little downtime by keeping up with news from home. The Batman was all the rage right now, it appeared, after driving what looked like a tank through the middle of the Narrows.
…apparently he wasn't just a nutjob with a ski-mask as many had so previously claimed. He was a financially well-off nutjob with what police now believed to be full body Kevlar armor and a military arsenal. That had taken Trisha aback. Her hero wasn't what she had thought him to be, but that didn't mean she'd been wrong about him-
"Trisha," Yuki whined from the kitchen doorway, wiping her streaming eyes and runny nose from tonight's cocaine lines. "It's like 3 am. What are you watching?"
"The news. You should try it sometime," she retorted, and held up her ear-buds as promise she'd mute the offending broadcast. Yuki grunted, and staggered back to their shared bedroom. The flat wasn't large, so Trisha had had to resort to odd hours to get some privacy.
"Who is this masked man?" Mike Engel asked on GCN's You Decide. "Is he a nuisance or a knight?" There was a public push to know this stranger's true identity, but the more she learned about him, the more Trisha became ambivalent. Her father's car had been destroyed for two simple paragraphs on the sixth page of one local college newspaper. She could hardly blame this man for wearing a mask. It was his actions, not his face that revealed his purpose, Trisha came to know.
The Batman didn't disappoint her. She sat through the terror of Fear Night live broadcast half a world away while her cousin tried awkwardly to console her. They huddled together in bed and cried, and the whole time Yuki never said a word, just held her hand or stroked her hair. She wasn't such a bad kid, after all, Trisha decided through her tears.
But despite her horror and sadness for the destruction of her city it hadn't surprised her in the least that not three days later 'Daisuki Battoman!' graphic T's were already being worn on the streets of Tokyo, complete with an anonymous artist's chibi cartoon of the caped crusader. The Batman was a hero—a sensationalist hero—and one who resonated, even here. He had to wear that mask, she decided while she and Yuki were purchasing T's of their own from a street vendor, to transcend his humanity, to personify ideas that had no faces.
Unlike the newscasters and politicians, she felt no suspicion or fear of this vigilante. Regardless of the features or race that lay hidden under cape and cowl, this man, this Batman, was a friend, a defender, and a protector. He owed her City something, and with that knowledge Trisha was content. She too, wore a mask, she had to lie to her family, deceive them if necessary to keep them in their blissful unawares; but her loyalty to her City could never be compromised or questioned.
It was the same with the Batman, Trisha Tanaka had long ago decided. She only wondered why no one else could descry it. Perhaps they weren't looking.
…perhaps they didn't want to. Perhaps sometimes when circumstances get frightening enough, we'd rather turn away than uncover the awful truth.
AN: Finch's quote is Frodo's line from The Two Towers, the second installment in TheLord of the Rings (books-the line never made it to film). But how did Chris Holden know Jim Gordon, Rachel, and so much about Bruce? Who is this mysterious HYAENA? Visit Ernestina's spin off Fugitive to find out!