Odysseus Returns (part II)

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

AN: I don't own Manuel "Mani" Delgado. He's just visiting from Beowulfwulf's A Psychic Amongst Gotham Psychos. That story and account are now gone, but if you happen to find it or her give her my warmest regards and sincerest thanks (and reviews!). Aurelie, this chapter is for you. Know are both missed and loved.

WARNING: This chapterlet is rated M for graphic content, violence against women, and extremely offensive language. All viewpoints of characters are THEIR OWN, and do not represent the author's beliefs. Why Clive Vanderholt? Because not all bad guys are Comic Book Villains that we love to hate. Some are real people, our friends, families, neighbors and ourselves, and their crimes are so cringeworthy they're unpublishable as entertainment.

January 2029

Marathon Apartments 1328, Liam Holden Ln.

It wasn't the first time they'd fought. Not even the first time they'd fought about this. But something was off. Wrong. He gave in too quickly, didn't raise his voice. Not even to argue with Jack McClain about some bullshit psychological leave. He's given up, Daphne Michelle Stevenson-Murray realized with growing dread. Her Dan had given up.

Dan who'd joined the Rangers just days after 9/11 all those years ago. Dan who, even at seventeen, couldn't stand by and do just nothing. Dan who, despite the risks, the consequences, the long hours apart, had stood firm through the darkest of Gotham's days as FBI Field Director. And now her Dan was falling apart, and no amount of yelling, crying, frustrated tears or pleas of talk to me, please just talk to me! could hope to break his shell.

A shell not of anger, but hopelessness. A shell of guilt.

Her fault. "It was the right call, Dan. That girl was blackmailing you!"

"That girl has a name, Daph, and it's Trisha Tanaka." Yes. But right now Daphne Murray didn't give a fuck. It was Dan she was worried about, Dan she cared about, Dan she fretted over and if this Trisha Tanaka had any sense of dignity she wouldn't've gotten caught up with this mess in the first place. Would have left her husband alone.

"She was blackmailing you, Dan. Plain and simple," her voice was firm as she stroked Siam's pearly fur, sharp nails now kneading her knees in purring contentment. "I won't let that happen. I won't."

"She did it because she believes in something," her man's voice was hollow as he stared at his hands. "So did Sturgis. So did I, when I was their age."

Dan hadn't eaten in days. Had barely slept. When she pressed herself against him in bed he'd wept or pushed her away. Tonight would be no different.

Tanaka Household

Anonymity. That's what allowed people to kill other people. Not because they wouldn't get caught, no; it was because to the perpetrator, the victims were no longer people. Drive by shootings. Gang violence. Muggings. Even now in the 21st century, there was so much mindless hate.

Mindless. Trisha Tanka had read the science, read articles propounding neurophysiology dictating species psychology, revealing the maximum number of individuals a person could perceive as humans: one hundred and fifty. In America's largest metropolis of millions, no wonder there was so much violence. Dunbar said there was only so much capacity for empathy. As a species our goodwill and philanthropy could only stretch so far, and as individuals we subconsciously perceived it. That's why urban fear, depression and anxiety were mounting on a global scale, she'd learned as a GSU freshman in Professor Crane's class.

…and like Avram Bramowitz, the lesson was one she'd remember. Bramowitz died in that GCU classroom, and Jonathan Crane had been fired.

But despite those studies, despite the evidences all around her, the Batman still defied that logic. And she loved him for it. She'd grown up in Gotham. Grown up in the metropolis boasting the highest level of violent crime in North America. The Domestic Violence, the spousal murders, those were horrible, yes; but personal. A brief, bloody reminder of how selfish and stupid we really were. What Trisha Tanaka couldn't comprehend were the hate crimes. The "I hate not you but something like you" that terrorized the streets. The blind, ignorant stupidity that drove Germans to massacre Jews only ninety-odd years ago, what led Americans to attack Muslims of differing sects and ethnicities while the Twin Towers were still burning. The rage-fueled prejudice that led whites—and even her parents—to hate blacks for the simple color of their skin.

Trisha Tanaka was young. Eager. Earnest. But she was also naïve, and even the bravery of standing up to Walter Graves or dating Micheal behind her parents' backs and against their permission couldn't have prepared her for this. Falconi's attack on her father's car last year had been frightening, yes; but when the front door burst open during dinner with flashbangs and the IEA entered carrying riot shields, gas, and guns she thought she would die. Like that panicked moment in Professor Crane's classroom her freshman year at GCU when the gunshots began to fire, but this was real. No madman's trick. No Abram Bramowitz play-acting with a toy gun and mask. These men, these guns, they were deadly, and there were no plainclothes cops to keep her safe. This time the terror—like her fear—was real.

She felt her heart throbbing in her throat as she heard her grandparents scream, limbs stiff, aching, forced to lay on the floor for nearly two hours with her hands above her head while armed men with guns ransacked her parents' home in the name of national security. They weren't gentle, either, not when dumping open her dresser so her hidden lingerie and a box of condoms spilt where her father and mother could see; not when ripping open the paneling of the china cabinet and the kyöyaki her grandmother's family had had for centuries went shattering to the floor; not even when they cinched the cuffs on her grandfather's wrists so tight they bled as her grandmother screamed he was on warfarin, to be careful—

But her sobo had been terrified, had shouted out in Japanese. Trisha watched in horror as a foot slammed her grandmother's face so hard her nose burst and her mottled teeth fell out. They were doing this to silence her, she alone knew. Terrify her. Shame her. There were illegal immigrants in their new country, the Tanaka family understood, but the violent arrest of two senior, upstanding community members with resident visas on suspicion of falsified documents and/or terrorist sympathies from an anonymous tip line had been too much for even Isao Tanaka to tolerate.

Akio Tanaka had been wearing the wrong uniform on August 15th, 1945, yes. But he was now 99 years old, and suffering from end stage Alzheimers. He belonged in a rest home, Trisha had thought for some time now, but her father's stoic values insisted he be cared for here.

Now their own home lay in shambles. Hana was sobbing, her husband pale and blank, with little Gracie wailing shrilly. Her grandmother lay trembling in her mother's arms, and acrid smoke still filled the air. They'd been attacked. Attacked by the government, the country she loved. By that FBI director. Dan Murray. He'd done this to them.

…No. She'd done this to them. Trisha Tanaka had wanted the truth…and the truth was awful and unbearable beyond belief. These people, these men, they knew her grandfather wasn't a threat. But they would stop at nothing—not physical intimidation, not torture, not killing—to silence her.

And silence her they had. Her throat was raw from fumes and tears, her tongue dry and stuck. Her jaws were quivering and she was shivering on the floor, curled up with her knees to her chest. She sobbed, wiped phlegm and tears over and over against her hands, and for several long minutes she swore she'd never speak again.

Yet those white authorities weren't nearly as terrifying as what happened next. "You have done this to us!" Her father shouted, "you!" And at 22, for the first time in her life her father laid a hand on her that had not been in doting affection. Trisha screamed, scrabbled fingernails against the backs of his hands as he dragged her by her long hair through the house.

"Papa, no!" Hana-now-Hannah cried. Little Gracie was shrieking.

"Silence!" His voice brought them all to a halt. Then he shook her. Hard. "I asked you to take back that article! The one that endangered our family, and you lied to me! You lied to your mother! You lied to us all!" Her father was never a tall man, but even in his sixties he was still strong. It took only one arm for him to fling her across the room.

There was a crack! as her head hit the wall, the dizzying pain so bad she couldn't even feel her broken wrist. She lay there like a ragdoll, on a pile of lacy bras, panties and unopened condoms, blinking stupidly up through her tears.

"When I return you will be gone!" He demanded. "Gone!"

Trisha heard the door slam behind him, and knew in her heart it would never open for her again. When she finally mustered the strength and courage to stand, neither her mother nor sister would dare help her pack.

The Narrows

There was a problem with this city.

A problem with this whole fucking country. Too many damn immigrants, that's what. All those spics and their anchor babies overpopulating the gutters, sucking up resources, like his grandad's social security. Damn niggers and their gangs and crime. All these affirmative action gooks taking jobs and college from hard working American citizens without paying taxes.

Clive Vanderholt was sick of this government's mess. Sick of Joe Citizen voting in presidents who were niggers and spics—letting those halfbreeds run this country! No wonder the US of A was such a fucking mess. Geraldo Calderon, his Commander in Chief? Jefe Calderon probably wiped his ass with the fucking flag. And you could guarantee he wouldn't do nothing about border security. Hell, putting him the White House was practically inviting the rest of the spics to come and invade.

But Clive had hope. The Batman. The Batman had come. People liked the Batman. Respected the Batman. People imitated the fucking Batman—just last week they'd finally caught that Professor Crane, that scrawny scarecrow. Probably stuck him back in Arkham, this time as a patient. It wasn't where he belonged. Damned terrorist belonged in the electric chair. Or hang 'em, as granddad always said.

But the point still stood: people couldn't get enough of the fucking Batman. He wasn't a politician, and attorney or a cop. He was a vigilante…and people loved him for it.

Clive Vanderholt was 26. Unemployed. He'd tried joining the Army, doing his patriotic duty, yeah; but got his ass section 9'd out of basic by some spic Sergeant who didn't give a shit about his country but just wanted citizenship. Down on his luck, people might say. Economic Depression, the papers kept repeating. Fear Night Fall Out, the newscasters were calling it, businesses and infrastructure in the Narrows had taken a fatal blow. Houses foreclosing. Unemployment and homelessness and gang violence on the rise. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He was young. Hardworking. He was a goddamned American citizen and he couldn't find a job or take care of his mama because some do-gooder liberal democrats were too busy handin' out free relief to immigrants and abortions and WIC money to all the sluts. That was his country's money. The country his granddad had fought in Korea and 'Vam for. And Granddad had the Gook teeth, VA pension and the Purple Heart to prove it. He was born and bred an American, damnit! And he wasn't going to let any communists in congress take that away.

Sure, Clive was a WASP. But he didn't put up with any of that Neo-Nazi bullshit. Americans died in that war. Wasn't funny, man. No Aryan Brotherhood for him. Didn't like the KKK, either. Bastards had a chance to get rid of the niggers once and for all after the Civil War and Emancipation, right? Bastards let them down. Let them all down.

No. Clive didn't hold with any organizations. Organizations, governments, they compromised. Let you down. Clive believed in Batman. In the individual. And goddamnit this individual was going to prove them all wrong.

People were going to see. People were going to pay. Because Clive Vanderholt had an idea. The Batman had inspired him. What thousands of cops and congressmen couldn't do, one man—the right man, the man with the big enough balls—could. So him and some buddies took to the streets in ski masks with nail-studded bats and started being Batmen. Being part of the fucking solution. Fighting back for Fear Night (some of his friends still thought it was the Arabs that did it. Let some bastards leaving a late night Mosque have it and have it good. And Clive joined it, sure. Those rag-heads still had to pay for 9/11, but Fear Night? And the Arkham Break? Nah. Grandad said it was the Jews. Fucking kikes. Things starting to heat up in Palestine, making Israel look bad. Fucking kikes figured it was time to stir things up a bit again. Remind the US of A who the good guys were. Let the liberal media point a big, fat finger at some dumb Arab saps while Calderon and his spic cronies sweat it out a bit. And Grandad was right. Any real terrorist would've gone for NYC. DC. LA or something. Somewhere people gave a damn. But Gotham? Gotham City? No one cared shit about Gotham City. About his city. And that's why those kikes had got away with it.). Lot of good people lost homes. Lives. American people. And the banks didn't care. The government didn't care. So he and Dave and Ted had beat the shit out of a banker and his family. Broke his long kike nose. Busted in his tiny kike balls.

He and the Batmen—and the Batman—had done more for this city than that Nigger Commissioner Loeb and that Mayor fucking Spic Garcia ever had. Niggers? Spics? Gooks? Jews? They all had to pay. They all had to go. America for Americans. The rest could get out. Go to hell for all Clive cared.

…Some did.

Last few weeks it'd been getting easier. Targets coming out of the woodwork just waiting to get hammered. More homeless. More fucking immigrants. Thought there was fucking safety in numbers. Even with Fear Night the Narrows was safer than it'd ever been, thanks to the Batman. Gambol's thugs still prowled, thought they were invincible with their AK 47's. Last week he'd bashed one's face in with one. A fucking riot. But those trash-talking niggers were into crack. Didn't care shit who was where or when so long as he wasn't selling. And the Chechen's mixed breed eurotrash pandered whores and AIDS and piss-tasting vodka to who'd ever buy it.

But Falconi's men?

The Red Falcon, the Red Scourge, the Roman who'd haunted his childhood was gone. Gone were his crucifixions and floggings. Gone too were his late-night military curfews, checkpoints and tolls. People didn't have to worry about paying the Roman tax no more to keep themselves safe. Now the Narrows was a suffocating mess. And this new boss Meroni was as ball-less as he was greasy. Fucking Guidos were too afraid of the Batman, that's what.

Fucking Guidos were too afraid of his Batmen, that's what. Clive sent a scowl across the street that sent Meroni's little minions scampering.

Fucking Guidos go home, he grinned. Back to little Italy where you belong.

"Psst, Clive!" It was Dave. Playing lookout. Not that they needed it. No cops in the Narrows. And Gambol and the Chechen had learned to leave them alone.

"Yeah, man?"

"Got one. Three o'clock."

He hefted the bat. Ted's was Truth. Dave's was Justice. And his? Granddad had taught him to hit with her a long time ago. Clive called her The American way. She was a sleek, oiled Louisville Slugger, good ol' American craftsmanship, with a solid pound of steel piercing her wooden flesh for good measure.

"What are we waiting for?"

But Dave didn't seem happy about this one. "Don't like it, man."

"Don't like it? You growing pussy on me? You a nigger-loving democrat?"

"Fuck it, man," he spat a wad of tobacco, jerking Justice around the alley corner. "It's a pussy. She's a pussy. The Chink. Ain't right."

"Since when did that matter?" Ted asked. He tossed a Marlboro. Stomped it. "Pussy just makes it more fun."

"Ain't right, man," Dave whined. "An' no raping. We don't do no raping, Clive. That's nigger-shit."

"Dave-here's got his panties on too tight," Ted leered. "No wonder his balls ain't dropped yet. Or you just got a hard on for Chink-chicks?"

Clive silenced them. Peered around the alley-corner. And there she was, just sitting there, plain as daylight. New to the Narrows, that much was sure. You didn't just sit out in the open where anyone could see you. Even armed. Even his Batmen kept to the shadows. Just in case.

"Dave's right. Looks as somebody beat us to it," he frowned.

"So?" Ted demanded, tapping Truth impatiently. "Delivery. Not takeout. I'm still hungry."

"I think she's hurt," Dave voiced. "Should we like, I dunno, call her an ambulance or something?"

An ambulance? Waste some hard-working American's tax dollars for this stupid slut? She wasn't a woman. Not really. She wasn't white, she wasn't American. She didn't belong. She deserved as good as she got. And worse.

…and tonight, the Batmen were going to make her pay.

One step closer, sweetheart.

Did you get my love letter? Poetry in human flesh. I left it for you, but the greedy cops got there first, put up tape and lights and tracked their stink all over it. But don't worry, my sweet, I'll paint you a new one. A better one. Bigger. With flames and smoke against the stark night sky. I'll draw you from your secrets and your solitude. I killed again for you tonight. Did you know? You must know. Even now you wonder. I know. That petty, burning desire of yours to AVENGE even those lives not worth taking.

I went to their meeting. Infiltrated. Sat at their table. The last supper of the miserable and the decrepit. And oh how they raged, raged against the dying of the light! It seemed a foreboding darkness had descended of which there was no end. On the horizon a small hope like flame was kindled…so I laughed and blew it out. Then I put a pencil through their eyes for their audacity to hope.

Why must you fret so? It was only a pawn. Expendable. Meaningless. Not a King or Knight or Bishop like you or I. Or Gordon…

(Do you know the most powerful piece on the chessboard, my love? The Queen. Her steps can take her where other pieces dare not trod. But beware! She is so alone. So. Very. Vulnerable. It was your move, not mine. You chose her. You placed her in harm's way for the good of the pawns and your White Knight while King Gordon looked the other way. And here's the thing about Lancelot: Untrustworthy Bastard. Can't keep his hands to himself. Leave 'em alone together five minutes and already they're fucking each other. Your White Knight has two faces, and your virgin Queen is the Whore of Babylon. And YOU WILL SEE IT BEFORE THE END. And you will laugh.

…You will laugh with me.)

I have seen your path. Know where it leads. Destruction. Damnation. They will damn you, my love. Damn you thanklessly and forever. I know it. I know. So I would stop you, sweetheart, before they get the chance to cage you, bind you, strip you until nothing left but meat and bones. They will take your face—did you hear me? They will take it from you and put a man's face there instead. They would wish you mortal, these humans, these peons, these peasants, the unworthy and unloved.

They will try to make you like them.

They will try to break you like them.

But they can't have you. You are mine. Mine alone.

I will find you. I will show you. I will save you.

…it will feel like dying, Bats. It did for me. But on the other side life undying! Immortal! Invincible! Angels and demons, prophets and martyrs, gods enshrined even Olympus trembles to behold. You and I, we're destined to do this. We've done it. Will do it. Have been doing it forever. Gabriel and Lucifer. Raven and Coyote. Zeus and Hades. Thor and Loki…

They wanted you dead, my love. These mortals. They wanted to bind you like Samson and take away your strength. Fools, fools, I played them for fools. I will catch you, I will find you, and together you and I will settle this like—

Ah. And everything had been going…So. Well. It wasn't often something stopped him in his tracks, let alone soliloquy. Very seldom did even Human Nature have anything with which to surprise him. His eyes were old eyes. Cold eyes. There were few things left so interesting, or so obscene.

…there were fewer still that could not be solved with the use of a simple switchblade. Tonight would prove no exception.

Damn Chink knew how to fight.

But your basic karate-shit only took you so far against three men with bats. Melee weapons, blunt force…those sort of things didn't flinch from flying fists or feet. And Dave'd been right: the Batmen weren't the first tonight to give her a hard lesson. But Clive wasn't in a forgiving mood, however limp-dick Dave had gone. He let her think she had a chance, then chocked in the back of her head so hard American Way got stuck. When he wrenched her away, a piece of meaty flesh and long, messy hair came with her. There was a shriek like a banshee, girl was down, clutching her bare skull with a cry like a rabbit. He drew to strike again, one quick cut through the temples and her brains would come squishing through her ears. But it was too early in the game for that. Too many head shots too soon took all the fun out of it, Clive had learned. You wanted them to know their place. You waited until they were maimed and crippled and begging, and then if you were feeling nice you might stop the suffering. After all, even a rabid dog deserves a quick, clean death.

Ted took a series of swings. Hard. Swift. Wet. Arms snapped like twigs and squelched. She was gasping now, hands fallen to her sides. Truth came down. Hit her right in the breast. It made a sound like a dropped melon. How she arched! Like a whore on her back.

"Told you," Ted grunted. "Pussy makes it more fun."

"I think she liked that, Ted," Clive spat. "Hit her again."

"Please—" she whined.

Dave looked to be sick. "She's beggin', guys. She's beggin'. We don't keep hittin' once they're beggin'. Come on, man. Clive, this is—"

He wanted to see her arch again. Make that sound. He could jack to that for days.

"Clive, man—"

But Dave was right. She was begging. Whimpering. Asking them to finish it. He nodded, and Ted let out a whoop.

"Any last words, Chink?" he asked, twirling Truth.

"Jap," she managed to say between her broken teeth.

Ted leaned in closer. "What was that, bitch?"

"Jap," she choked again. "The correct derogatory term for a person of Japanese heritage is Jap."

"That's funny," Ted jeered. "You sure scream like a Chink to me."

She spat blood, then. Right into his eyes.

Ted slapped her. Bare-handed. Dave was whimpering, so he put a fist into his gut. But the fight had gone out of her with that last blow. She coughed a little, then lay still. He nodded again. Little Chink had it coming. Little Jap bitch. Ted wiped blood from his eyes with a curse, pounded Truth in the gravel for emphasis, Dave was sick in the alley behind him—

A shadow fell across the scene. The Batman—?

"And whaaaat do we have hmmm, here?"

But no. Just some homeless creep. Some freak in a suit and facepaint. He looked to be white, though. Clive brandished his bat, just to give him a taste. "Get out of here, man. You ain't need to see this."

"Who, uh, who are you?"

"Nobody," Clive told him sternly. Damn psychos. Some sick Schitzo off his meds. But Grandad's friends were Vets, lots of 'em homeless. They might be a drain on the system but they'd done their goddamned duty. You had to respect that, man. You had to.

"Nooo-body?" The shadowed figure ventured closer in sing-song step. "I'm Nobody. Are you Nobody too?"

"The fuck is that," Dave asked shakily, bent over his belly. "Dr. Seuss?"

"It's Dickenson!" The Clown said. "Get it?"

"Get goin', geezer." Ted snarled. Ted had a mouth. No respect. Not for women, not for vets…his damn mouth was gonna get him in trouble some day.

"Sorry, sorry, just thought I'd uh, try some lowbrow humor. DICK-enson? Get it? Aw, tough crowd, tough crowd. Can't catch a break. What a night!"

"We're the Batmen," Clive explained. "Now get on about your business, and we'll be about ours."

"Batmen? BAT-men. Bat. Men," the Clown emphasized, eyes narrowing. "So is that just…literally? Or figuratively?"

Ted straightened. "You insulting us?"

"Who? Me? No!" He waggled a finger, waggled his tongue, all while waddling closer. "I was uh, just uh, asking. Curious."

"We're the Batmen. One guy can't police the whole city. So we're helping," Clive stated proudly. "Best we can."

"Oh? Silly me. And I here thought you were all just uh, ordinary thugs."

"Batman's making this city a better place. So are we." He explained.

"Are you?" Those yellow eyes were pools of doubt. "Are you…really?"

"We're getting rid of the spics and niggers and chinks-"

"And Japs!" Ted added, nodding furiously.

"Fas. Ci. Na. Ting." The stranger smacked his lips. "And do you uh, do you think theee uh, the Batman skulks around beating…uh, vulnerable, defenseless women?"

…That made them all uncomfortable. "The fuck is it to you?" Clive bristled. Told you, man, Dave was whimpering. I told you we shoulda left her alone, shoulda called her an ambulance…

"You want my advice? One professional to another? Fire your PR guy," the Clown continued. "Because from where uh, from where I'm standing, you all just look like a bunch of fatass whitetrash unemployed uh, losers. And rapists."

That did it. "You fucking stupid, man?" Clive snarled. "We outnumber you!"

The Clown wasn't impressed. "Oh? Do you? Do you…really?"

"Three to one!"

"Three? Let me do the uh, the math," he counted as he came. "How many misguided, meddling, malevolent morons does it take to change a lightbulb? Is it the uh, the same it takes to chase down a defenseless unarmed woman in a dark alleyway? Because uh, if it is, I can hire one Mexican to do the same. Without paying taxes. Or social security. So I don't think immigration is the problem here." He stepped finally into the light. "You are."

He was hideous. Deformed. Scarred. Disgusting. The smell…the smell made Clive take a step back. Smelt like grandad's friends, alright. The ones who didn't brush, didn't wash, hadn't changed their clothes in years and had pissed and shat themselves. Ted would've charged, but he held out a hand. No goddamned homeless man in his right mind would mess with the Batmen. This guy, this guy was short some brain cells, he was certain.

"What sort of sick clown are you, man? You drunk? You high?"

Ted wouldn't have it. He bashed Truth against his open palm with menace. "Clowns are supposed to be funny."

"I uh, I can juggle," the psycho offered. "I also do card tricks. But my uh, trademark act is…throwing knives."

But Clive had had enough. Homeless Vet or not this guy was begging for trouble. The bat beat against his open palm so Dave and Ted would know. This was the creep's last warning. "Ted's right. So you'd better scram, or do something funny, or my Lady here'll knock your fucking head off."

"That piece of shit?" The Clown tittered. "You'd, uh, you'd have to hit me first."

That did it. "GET HIM!" Clive roared. Truth. Justice. The American Way. Bats drawn, they circled. Then the Batmen advanced.

A whirring whine. Something hit him. Hard. Right in the chest. His arms felt chilled and his knees brushed gravel. The world seemed to spin above and around him. So cold, Clive Vanderholt thought. How fucked up is that…

Someone was sobbing.

And someone was shushing. Gloved hands on her face, fingers on her lips. "Shh, shh, shh…" the voice kept telling her. "Shh, shh, shh…shaddup!" An argyle handkerchief. Monogrammed. Antique. And slick with snot. Then Trisha realized she was the one who was crying, so she stopped.

But that didn't make the pain go away. She gasped and cried out.

"No, no, nononono. Shh!" Someone warned her sternly. "Do you uh, do you want thee uh, the Batman to hear us?"

The Batman? That brought her out of the shock, if only for several seconds. "Wh-where—" she tried to ask.

"There now. That's better," the voice soothed. "No more crying, dollface. You and I, we've got…work to do."

"What, what happened?" She asked her rescuer, dazed. Three men—no, three bodies—lay scattered across the alleyway.

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. The rest is ancient history."

"I-I, Idon't understand."

"Shock. It's a killer," her savior quipped. "You're alive, aren't you? Humpty Dumpty and his friends…well…they had a grrreat, um, fall. And all the king's horses and all the king's men will be here and we've gotta be gone by then. You and me both, doll-face. Middle-class dame like you in the Narrows at night? You're on the run from the law. I've got instincts. Killer ones! And I've got a baaaad feeling they're going to pin this one on you. Am I right?"

Those men. Her home. ICE. Director Dan Murray. He was right—they'd use this to put her away. For a long, long time. "How…how did you know?"

"Just look at me, dollface. I'm a great judge of character." He didn't look like much, looked like a hobo in a rental clown suit. But there was nothing childish about that facepaint. His sloppy, smudged make-up made him look anything but idyll or innocent. In the shadows, he was almost sinister.

He tried to pull her up, put her on her feet, coaxing, encouraging, nice and easy, steady, steady, that's the trick!, and that's when she saw it. Wires. Bricks. Tape. Vest. All hidden under his garish tailcoat. Her nightmare grew worse by the second. "That's…that's a bomb!" she squeaked, shrinking away. "You're wearing a bomb!"

"Aaaand a three piece suit! Real leather shoes! Custom made! Brand new! And a bowtie! No one wears bowties these days. It's a lost art. People strap themselves with explosives everyday. Sooo commonplace, so boring. I wear a matching vintage clown suit and bowtie combination past Labor Day yet no one seems to mention it." He sighed theatrically. "Art is dead."

She tried to run, pull away, twisted her wrists…and a flap of skin fell open across her arm. She screamed.

A large gloved hand went into her mouth, gagging her. "SHH!" His eyes found hers, held her gaze sternly. Her arms, her hands…they were ruined. She couldn't fight him off, and she went slack in resignation. He could rape her. He could kill her. Anything but this blinding pain!

…but he didn't. The Clown put a finger to his lips, one eyebrow raised. She nodded, and he let go.

"What's wrong, dollface? Did daddy warn you about trusting strangers?"

"You're a terrorist!" She whimpered.

"Whaaat? In this get-up?" He giggled maniacally. "I'd be spotted in a uh, a heartbeat! It's all, uh, part of the act! TADA!" He spun a cartwheel, bowing low.

It still looked like a bomb. And he still sounded half-mad. But his antics had calmed her. "You're, you're a comedian-?"

"Oh, sooo close. But no," he eyed her strangely. "No. Not a jester, either."

Even with Yuki in Tokyo she'd had more respect for her personal space than this. His breath was awful, but he'd saved her. She tried not to cringe. "Then what are you?"

"Little ol' me? Why, I'm nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?"

She recognized it. From far off, high school American Poetry. Back when she had a home and a family, teachers and friends who loved her…"That's Emily Dickenson."

"Shit poet!" he cackled happily. "Lived her whole life inside one little room. Only wore white. They think something traaah-jick happened to her. And she just…went away! Unlike you. No. Not like you at all." His eyes had grown hungry, hungry like Walter Graves', and she found herself backing away in terror. He snatched her. Faster than humanly possible he snatched her. And he wouldn't let go. "Those men…they uh, they would've raped you." He said owlishly, peering into her large eyes as their noses pressed. "Maimed you. Killed you." He continued, head tilting in fascination. But it wasn't her eyes that entranced him, this was no hero's kiss. This stranger had her chin in an iron grip, but he was looking deeper, and scaring her more than those nameless pricks had ever done. He's mentally ill, she realized, he'll kill me, too…

"What's your name, doll-face?"

"Trisha," she managed to squeak around his fingers and what she suspected was a broken jaw. She half-expected those hands to strangle her. She tasted warm blood, felt it pool in her teeth, dribble down her chin. But if the clown had even noticed, he didn't care. 'Trisha Tanaka."

"So, hmmmm, Trisha-Trisha Tanaka you haven't answered my question."

"You haven't asked one," she returned, as politely as she could.

"Haven't I?" The Cheshire Cat asked, one brow raising. But there was nothing comical about this Clown. Was he a hallucination? Was the real Trisha Tanaka lying unconscious in that alley, plaything to those three thugs-?

"Because I had to," she said at last. "Because someone had to stand up to them. Do what was right. They were going to kill me," she stated, growing more emboldened with every word. "I wasn't going to die without a fight."

He sighed, and shook his head sadly as he released her. Hefted her aching into his arms. Pressed that handkerchief against that ragged scalp wound, still spurting profusely. "That's uh…un-fort-u-nate, doll face."

"Unfortunate?" She moaned, clutching her head as they jostled forward. "Why?"

The stranger beckoned her closer with a knowing, paternal smile, as if for a private joke. "In this city?" he asked owlishly, crumpling something then sliding it slowly between her breasts. "Tsk, tsk. You won't last a day."

…Joker.

First a bank. Then a mob meeting. From what Gordon's CI had said, only one man dead. Pencil through the eye, if GCPD confidential informant codename PENGUIN could be trusted.

Trusted? Bruce had to sneer. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was a craven who took money to spy on his own kind. Too cowardly to come forward himself, too ashamed to face the prison he so well deserved he'd flipped, flipped and served a master he despised nearly as much as nickname.

He'd only caught Crane a week ago, settling up shop in the Narrows, trying to keep score. He hadn't gotten all his cronies, though. That Brian Douglas, the Batman-would-be, had gotten away before GCPD had arrived. Perhaps Crane had felt guilty for what his toxin had become—he'd certainly expressed remorse to Gordon. He'd also laughed in the cop's face before being handed to the FBI. Professor Jonathan Crane had a PhD in neuropsychiatry, and knew more than any other human how to fake a mental illness. And that would be his defense, Bruce was sure of it.

The FBI Director hadn't seemed so convinced. Told Gordon—who'd confided in him—that Crane's case might never see the light of day. The man was guilty, Bruce knew beyond a doubt. Guilty. And behind bars—with or without a trial—was where this man belonged. Justice had been done, the Batman assented. That ache for vengeance assuaged. For now.

But tonight Bruce had yet another murderer to track, and from what Gordon said, he couldn't've gone far.

"See here?" Lt. Gordon showed him the nail-studded bat, wrapped lovingly in CSU plastic. "Blood, flesh, and hair."

"A woman?" He grunted. It wouldn't be the first…

"Could be a victim. Could be our Killer. Whoever did it certainly got close enough," the haggard man explained. "Nora?"

The Gotham County Coroner was wary. Wiry. Tempestuous. And she didn't like him. Didn't trust him. And she sure as hell didn't put up with his presence on her crime scene. "Back off, Bats," Nora Fields, Forensic Pathologist, bristled from her intimidating height of four foot eight. "That tape says 'police line, do not cross.' I don't see a badge, so it means you, too."

"Any ID's yet?" Gordon asked her.

"None." She replied crisply. "Whoever killed them stripped the bodies—wallets gone."

"Or an opportunist," Batman grunted. He'd done scavenging, in his seven years away from Gotham, and dead men made for easy pick-pocketing.

"No," Nora insisted. "They used gloves. It's our killer, you can be sure of it. But he left facial structure, dentition, and fingerprints intact, though. My guess is he'll dump the ID's and cards, try to throw us off the scent."

"I agree," Gordon said. "False leads to tie us up."

"But I know who they are," the Coroner continued. "If not their names. See these bats?" Studded, grisly-looking wooden clubs with dark splashes of crimson, nearly black. She shone UV, and they lit up even more. "These are the Batmen, your prodigious progeny," Nora glared at up him. "My office estimates they've been involved in over thirty-one minority homicides just this summer—Jews, Muslims, Hispanics, Asians…they haven't been picky on who they target."

More copycats. More imitators. This time killing in his name. Bruce felt sick. The Batman felt rage.

"Gordon thought the killing was close range," he rasped instead.

"These two," the stumpy woman unzipped the body bags and probed at the wounds. "See the bruising and compression around the wound edges? Straight transection of the thoracic spinal cord then laterally into the vena cava."

"A medic?" He continued that train of thought.

"Possibly," Nora said with distaste. "He knew what he was doing, anatomically speaking, of course. They bled out, half paralyzed, and slowly," she shuddered. "But that's not my point: that thrust cut through spinal bone and muscle, not to mention the ligamentum flavum and anterior longitudinal ligament. That took strength, and lots of it. The third took a knife through the rib cage straight to the heart…at a distance. I'll have to open them up to know for sure, but it seems to me from initial measurements the wounds could be made with the same weapon. This one, Sergeant? He's fast. And strong."

"Or she," Gordon reminded her mildly, gesturing gingerly to the long hair on that bat.

"He," Nora snapped. "Gwen Paltron couldn't've done it, Jim, and I've seen enough of that woman's work to know. Your killer is a man. That hair and that blood, that belongs to a victim. She lay here," she gestured to a shallow imprint in the alley's dirt and grime. "Her footprints lead in, a man's lead out. My guess is she was carried away. But looking at the depth of the prints and the recumbent body, she's not more than 45 kilos. Give me that, Bats," the coroner demanded gruffly. "See this hair? If I had a microscope I'd know for sure. But my guess is from the thickness of the shaft, your girl, Sergeant Gordon, she's Asian."

"I'll put a call in to all the local hospitals," the cop assented. "BOLO for a petite Asian female, injured with a scalp wound. And it's Lieutenant now, Nora," Gordon stated proudly.

"My, my," the small woman smiled—a rare sight, indeed. "My baby's all grown up now, Bats."

Bruce was confused. But the Batman was silent and stoic as ever. The newly promoted Lt. James Gordon flushed. "Nora Fields was my babysitter, back in the day," he explained. "She wasn't a Fields, then, of course—"

The story went on longer, but the Batman's presence did not. He slipped away, unnoticed, while Jim Gordon continued to reminisce.

Asian female. Acutely injured. At night, and in the Narrows. Bruce knew she wouldn't last long. He didn't have to look far. Her rescuer, to no great surprise, had done most of the footwork for her. He found her stumbling, dazed, within half a block of Gotham Memorial Hospital. He dropped from the fire escape railing like a dead weight, landing with a THUD! in the alley before her.

"Oh!" She started in terror. Then, "Oh!" she said again. "It's—it's you. It's really, finally you." Skinny fingers brushed dark bangs away. Even bleeding with clothes askew she was blushing.

…another fan, Bruce thought wearily. "Um, hi," she tittered, stumbling into the light. "I mean, um…" Her head wound was still bleeding, dark clots congealing in her thick hair. A strip of skin swung from her arm like jelly, flesh gouged from elbow to wrist. And her left breast…her left breast hung out, and the skin was cracked down through raw, pink tissue and marbled fat. The sight both drew and repulsed him…he'd never see a woman the same. Not after that.

But she continued babbling. Sometimes coherent, sometimes in shock. He approached her cautiously. "Are you alright?"

"Yes! I mean, no…" she stumbled, and he caught her. "You gave me a heart attack," the girl admitted. She looked a child, but that adult body—and his own—argued differently. Up close and in the light, Nora Fields had been right, both about ethnicity, and that her fragile frame couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. "And you're too late. You'd better watch out-there's people doing your job for you."

"My job?" He growled.

"Saving people. I came to the Narrows because I thought, you know, I might see you. They're afraid of you. All of them. I thought…I thought I'd be safe. But I didn't kill those guys, this Clown did." She pulled out a crumpled, blood-soaked playing card from her bra as she rambled. "He gave this to me," she blushed. "He said it was his 'calling card', but there's not even a name or a number on it—"

The card was soaked and wrinkled, but even then he knew it instantly. "Joker," he grunted in recognition.

"What?"

Bruce tried to hide his surprise. And anger. It had been months since Jim Gordon had tasked him with finding this new criminal…and now the Joker had killed again. Four dead in one night…though if Nora Fields was correct, the last three were hardly worth mourning over. Why would the Joker care? Why stop them? Why intervene? And why, he wondered, would he help the girl—? "He's called the Joker, and I'm amazed he let you live."

"Oh," she cocked her head, blood still trickling through her dark hair. "Is he a bad guy, then?"

She swayed. He caught her. Carried her. It was less than fifty steps to the ER doors. "Aren't they all?"

"You mean there's more of them out there?" she asked him, suddenly far more lucid and attentive. "More copy-cats? More imitators?"

She was smart. Too smart. Feigning delirium just to get close to him, picking up on a nuance like that, all while ignoring those injuries only minutes after an attack…he had to get away. And fast. He doubled his pace, studying her intently. "You're a journalist, aren't you," he finally said.

She flushed and swelled with pride, despite the pain. "Not yet-"

He glared down in consternation. "No comment."

Orderlies were already rushing her direction as ER bay doors swung open. But people—patients, nurses, doctors—were staring. Pulling out smart phones. Even one of the orderlies gawked, and another snapped a picture. He was used to the cameras and paparazzi as Bruce Wayne…but as Batman? He felt suddenly weary. "Help her," he commanded, and they jumped to obey. They strapped her to a stretcher. Put some pressure on that leaky wound. Covered her chest. Gave her some dignity.

She'd need surgery. Plastic surgery. A good therapist. And time. Lots of it.

…but she'd live. He'd made sure of that. He turned, meant to leave, but to his lasting amazement, the Leper called him back: "Battoman," she whispered after him, bleeding fingertips pressed together in gesture of gassho, "Arigatou gozaimasu."

Bruce Wayne nodded once, then the Dark Knight was gone.

All that night he scoured the streets for the murderer. Her savior, but a murderer none-the-less. But all the alleyways were empty, and the Joker was nowhere to be found.

It was four am before the motorbike was parked. Even longer before the Kevlar was replaced. By the time Bruce made his way upstairs, Alfred was dozing peacefully on the sofa, Sudoku puzzles scattered at his feet. "Sir?" the aging Butler called, not a trace of grogginess in his crisp voice the second his footsteps hit the tile. "Will you require refreshment before turning in?"

"No," Bruce said hoarsely, staring into the fireplace.

"Another rough night, I presume?"

He wanted to tell him about the girl. About the thanks he'd finally received from this stranger, how good it was to be recognized…he wanted to ponder aloud why the Joker would save her. But then he'd have to tell Alfred how her clothes had been tattered, the hunk of skin missing from her scalp, how one breast had swollen twice the size of the other, bare nipple leaking blood and fissures striped with fat…

He shook his head, thought better of it, and turned away. "More copy cats, Alfred," he finally sighed. "More masked men menacing my city."

Alfred was quiet. Pensive. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly.

"Beating minorities. Killing them, even. They called themselves Batmen, Alfred," he turned, but Englishman's face was as stoic as ever. "Batmen. This isn't what I meant when I said I wanted to inspire people. It's like I've brought a plague with me."

But the Butler corrected him. "You misunderstand, sir. These men, these criminals, and these poor, sick deluded people…sir, they've always been here. You are the catalyst that draws them like moths to flame. But only once you expose them can you begin to catch or cure them. If not, they would only remain in the shadows and prey on people," Alfred explained. "You weren't here for seven years. Seven years, sir. You don't remember what it was like, but I do. You have, sir, turned over a rock and shone a light in that dark, slimy den of desperate, scuttling creatures. Should you be so surprised that you've found so many?"

"No," Bruce answered. But that guilt laid heavily on him.

…and in the coming months, as the Joker tore his City apart and struck down those he held dear, it would come to lay even heavier still.

February 2029

Café Havana

The meet was a small coffee joint in the Narrows. The best neighborhood in the Narrows, to be sure…but still the worst part of Gotham. Perhaps the Suit had thought to scare him, test his courage, but Christopher Holden knew these streets, knew this City. He knew how to read graffiti and gang signs. Perhaps the lords of the streets had changed—changed so much!—in the interim eight years, but he still knew the Laws of the Jungle. The Laws of Gotham. Mayor Liam Holden had been a Man of the People, and he was Gotham's Own. His father had lived on these streets and died upon them. They held no shadow of threat, fear nor shame. Not for his father, and certainly not for him.

Chris wore an old, soup-stained suit and unpolished shoes, kept his phone on and twenty bucks cash, but ditched his watch and rings at home. Took the bus in—people were less likely to try something on the bus. Something violent, that is. You still had to be mindful of pickpockets. He kept his hands in his pockets, nonchalant, and no groping fingers dared enter. As the bus puttered to a rickety stop he kept his head down, eyes front, and walked with purpose and with pride from the bus stop to the dimly light café. Unmolested.

He shook the rain and grime from his shoes on a sopping, rather inadequate welcome mat, proclaiming BIENVENIDOS! in bright colors in stark contrast to the cheerless grey pallor of the streets. BBC Español flashed muted across three flat screens. On the overhead speakers, 107.9 QBA "El Radio Cuba!" blared a festive mix of brass and off-key singing. The new Cuban National Anthem. Again. Ever since Cuba's new Castro-free government held elections—true democratic elections for the first time on Cuban soil—that tune had hit the radio and the web in more dubsteps, dance mixes, and covers than he cared to count. There'd been talk of naturalizing US-born Cubans, there'd been scandal as President and First Lady Rosalinda Calderon and the entire Spanish Royal Family both had flown in for the inauguration, there'd been parties and fiestas in the streets of Havana, Miami, New York, and Gotham creating a barrio-wide increase in Noise Ordinance Violations, and a nationwide shortage of both firecrackers and rum.

He remembered July 4th, 2026, two-hundred and fifty years of independence. The USA still had her social and political problems—so many of them—but they still remembered. Still celebrated. He smiled at the screens as he walked past. Cam'd been complaining about the media attention, but it was Cuba's time to celebrate. Let them finally have their turn.

On the fast side, in the darkest corner, the Suit was waiting, as expected. "Frankly, Mr. Holden, I'm amazed you came."

"Frankly, Mr. Murray, I'm amazed you invited me," Chris Holden returned. "Given what happened to Jason Sturgis. But then again, you can neither confirm nor deny-"

"That he was arrested and sentenced under the Intelligence Community Directive 701? No." FBI Director Daniel Murray confirmed. "Not even off the record, Mr. Holden. And I suppose now is the point in the conversation you reveal to me I'm being recorded."

Chris relaxed just enough to smile, tapping the wire in his tie. "You got me there, old man. I know who you are, you know what I do. What do you want?"

The waitress came (in all her bare-legged, festive glory, he couldn't help but notice) apologizing that Café Havana no longer offered la democracia due to the more politically correct "international sugar cane shortage" crisis. The suit waved her off, and ordered them two coffees.

"You know, I don't think this place even has a liquor license," Murray muttered as the waitress sashayed away. She swung those hips like that on purpose, Chris was sure. Cam was pretty, that Martha Wayne-like perfect picture of stately, statuesque old East Coast blood, but this Marísol had curves. T and A, he kicked himself for noticing. He might be engaged, monogamous, and a gentleman, but he was still male, of which morena Marísol, her unbuttoned blouse and her tip jar were acutely aware.

"And what would you arrest them for?" Chris asked, tearing his eyes from her retreating figure and taking a swig of the coffee. Yeah, terrible. Just as he remembered it. "Poor coffee? Or Patriotism?"

At that, Murray put his cup down. He took his coffee black, Chris noted, a strong man who needed the caffeine. The haircut was regulation, yes, but that combined with the rigid backbone, and lean, muscled shoulders made him think military. And Daniel Murray had been ex-Rangers, Chris remembered. He'd fact-checked the man before agreeing to the meet, but it was always best to keep a fresh eye. To look for the story in the face before you. And this face wasn't so much old as weathered. Guilty conscience. Patriotism—that well-placed word had struck a cord. Gotcha. "What do you want, Director Murray?" Chris pressed again, this time more insistent. The 'confessionals' were always the hardest. Coming clean, especially when the consequences could be so severe, was the most difficult, most dangerous thing a man even like Director Daniel Murray, FBI Gotham City Branch could ever do. But the older man had spent over 30 years in service to this country, both military and civil. The man had ideals. The man loved his country. He was a patriot, and Christopher Holden could use that.

"What do I want?" Dan Murray mused, stirring the steaming beverage before him. "I'd like to be young again. Like to have had kids. Like to think the services I've done this country have meant something, at least sometime and to someone, and that the sleepless nights and second thoughts and doubt are just the bitter rantings of a paranoid, ageing mind," his source confessed. "Fuck, I sound like Jack McClain. Never thought I'd be that old geezer boring some young man to tears. Figured I would have snuffed it before that point ever came…but to answer your question, no, Mr. Holden-"

"Chris," he corrected kindly.

"No, Chris," the older man continued. "I'm not here to pull a Jason Sturgis. He wasn't married. I am."

"You do realize you just confirmed everything-"

"And you do realize I'm asking you, no, begging you not to imply that. Not now. Not ever," Murray took a long drag at his drink. "I'm risking my job, my life—my wife's life—by even talking to you, Chris. You're TV 18, and right now, the Bureau doesn't look kindly on that."

Chris disconnected the microphone. Held up his hands, offered the pieces. "Off the record?"

"You misunderstand, Chris," Dan Murray looked him dead in the eyes. "I'm not here to tell you a story. I'm here to ask you a favor."

The brassy Cuban National Anthem couldn't escape the vortex of this sudden, shrinking silence. Even eight years ago, running from the Roman, Christopher Holden hadn't felt so cornered. So completely trapped. "Why me?" he finally asked.

The Suit shrugged. "Call it professional integrity. Maybe I envy you your honesty. But either way, I think you're a man who can help."

Even a year ago he would've jumped at the chance. But now…now he had obligations. Responsibilities. Commitments. Cam… "I'm sorry, Mr. Murray, but my investigative journalism days are done. If you need an independent undercover, it'll have to be someone else."

But Murray waved him off. "Nothing like that. I'd like you to hire someone."

"A federal plant?" Chris scoffed. "I'm an independent news source, Murray. There's no way I'm compromising on that. Not a chance."

"She's not a fed," FBI Director Dan Murray told him sadly. "She's just a kid, and thanks to me she's in a shitload of trouble." He slid a photo across the table.

Asian female, GSU emblazoned on her sweatshirt. Bright eyes crinkling into their corners. She seemed harmless enough. "She looks young."

"She's twenty-two."

He sighed. He should say no. Ought to walk away right now…but the story-teller in him was piqued. "So what's her story?"

"An immigrant journalism student took a school project a little too far. Crossed the wrong people. First Falconi, then my people. And those bastards threw a 99 year-old man in the lock-up for terrorist sympathies because he'd spent some time on the wrong side of the Pacific theater during World War 2. Now she's blacklisted. Lost her scholarship, lost her place in her major, and for some strange reason no one's offered to hire her despite a spotless CV."

She was on the run. Not a fugitive, no; but she had nowhere else to go. "What do you want me to do?"

His answer was simple. "Hire her."

He couldn't do that. Couldn't play favorites. TV 18 was about self-reliance, self-education, and individual merit. He'd compromised with the networks on advertising, but his fledgling news channel stood firm on this. "In the last four years I've won three Pulitzers," he explained. "You have any idea how many journalists want to work for me, Mr. Murray? How long the interview process is?"

"It's not fair what we've—what I've done to this girl, Chris," Dan begged him. "I don't care if she's doing make up or janitorial work, just give her a chance. Please."

He looked at her picture again. Smiling. Crinkled eyes nearly disappearing into those epicanthal folds. So young, so full of hope, still teeming with talent and the promise of prospects…and he remembered his own tenure at GSU, cut short by the wrath of the Roman. He sighed. Daniel Thomas Murray, FBI Field Director and amateur Alaskan fisherman, had got him hook, line and sinker. "Do you have a phone or an address I can reach her at?"

"Neither."

He frowned. "How can I get in touch?"

"Sisters of Mercy," the FBI Director drained the rest of that mug. "She's been sleeping there."

And that settled it. They'd experimented with living together, but fiancé or not, Cam missed the hustle and bustle of downtown out at the Holden Estate, and he couldn't stand the morning traffic commuting from hers. They spent weekends together, the occasional weekday night, but for the most part they both relished their old haunts and privacy. All it took was one phone call. Cam wasn't happy about it, but she did it for him. So a young Sister named Teresa Margaret led him through rows upon rows of sleeping men, women, even whole families sprawled across the pews of the giant Cathedral to where Trisha Tanaka lay sleeping.

"Hi," he told the startled young woman. "I'm Chris. I'm here to help."

She did it for Chris.

It was all for Chris, Cameron Shaw tried to tell herself. Every headline helped both their careers, every story promoted their news station. Headlines, deadlines, popularity. Readers, viewers and subscribers were all that mattered, and like some sick Reality TV series contestant she danced and preened for the judges, desperate for their approval.

…and she'd slept with some. So what. Vicky Vale had done the same—sat on her knees or laid on her back and spread her legs just like the tabloids claimed she was doing anyways and suddenly the world was an easier place. No more fighting stereotypes or sexual inequality. The real inequality was libido, and man's constant need for something, someone, anyone to satisfy him. It made him weak. It made him vulnerable. It wasn't sex, she said to herself, not really. These dumb, boorish brutes weren't the academic patriarchs and forceful misogynists her grandmother had to deal with, no; these men were flabby, middle-aged, desperate, socially and sexually insecure. They'd bow to anything with a cunt. You simply grabbed them by the balls and steered them where you wanted to go. Cameron Shaw of TV 18 prided herself that she wasn't some poor, victimized Monica Lewinsky—she was Cleopatra, and the power lay at her doorstep, not theirs.

Nat didn't know, of course. Cam couldn't tell anyone. It wasn't that she was ashamed (ashamed of what? It was the 21st century, she just couldn't help if others were so narrow-minded), it was just…they wouldn't understand. Couldn't see eye to eye. And Natalie Hendricks, scientist-extraordinaire, was as every bit as much a prude as she'd ever met. She'd had sex and she'd even climaxed, Cam had been able to coax out of her, but Nat was so damned uncomfortable talking about it Cam had to laugh out loud at her friend's expense.

It was hard keeping up relationships, and not just because the secrets she couldn't share. She worked more than full-time, and took her research (and often her subjects) home with her. She was also engaged, as Natalie and Beck kept forgetting, and a wedding budget was hard to plan. Chris Holden wasn't exactly hurting for money, but he had the station to protect. At any given time he kept enough back to support both them, the Estate, and the whole damn station for six months should Jenkins from network pull the plug. "Enough for us all to find our feet, or at least give our employees a running start!" Chris would quip. He'd given her only $125,000 for the photos, the dress, the venue, the musicians, the reception, the invitations and all the decorations.

She kept telling him they needed more. Trying to find an event hall and a caterer in Gotham for that many people on that budget wasn't an easy thing to do. He'd joked they could have it out at the Holden Estate (at least, Cam hoped—pretended, really—that he'd been joking, and he'd gone along with it), but she'd wanted something more upscale. More Downtown. He'd suggested le Carnard Bleu, but she'd turned him down. She couldn't. Not there. Not after Jason Sturgis…

It didn't help having Trish around. At home and the office, bumbling, backwards, ever-so-gracious and eager-to-please little Trisha Tanaka under her feet and in her hair. Always. She'd never had to say anything, of course; she'd opened up her home and Trish wouldn't dare speak a word. Not like she could. Her heavily accented, limited English inhibited any substantial conversation from being had. But she was outwardly nice to her, mothered her, took her under her wing and bragged how well it was working often enough and loud enough that even Chris believed her. And everyone else was so helpful, too. Paul the Cameraman, Bill from maintenance, Clara the closeted lesbian receptionist…everyone was just so damn nice to Trisha Tanaka and it had nothing to do with her tits at all, Cam sneered.

Cam was off limits, the boss' fiancé, but poor Trisha was just overwhelmed with American kindness and generosity. You should learn to use it, girl, Cam thought more than once. Why settle for the office temp/coffee girl when you could be somebody's trophy wife? Not that that life would suit Cam, of course. She had a brain to go with her body. Chris was nice, and sweet, and she'd marry rich and marry well, but she had a career to pursue.

It was late, it was dark, and her flat mate had already changed into her PJ's. Hello kitty? Cam shorted with derision. Way not to make yourself a stereotype, Trish. She herself was winding down with a glass of chardonnay when a knock came at the door.

Trisha's brown eyes shifted, and she scampered to her room without a word. She didn't have any interviews for the night, but that was opportunity knocking. She bit back the sour taste in her stomach, and swallowed the rest of the white wine in one long, smooth sip.

Flass. Arnold Flass.

She kept down that snort of disgust, and stood innocently in the doorway. "Can I help you, Sergeant?"

"Yeah, sugar. I'm looking for Cammy…" his eyes trailed downwards without a trace of shame. "And a good time. "

"Inside," she snapped.

Of all her informants, she hated Arnold Flass the most. He wasn't some desperate, divorced defense attorney looking to score, not some powerful politician who relished the sound of his own voice and the feel of a woman worshipping him. Flass was flabby, flaccid, and fetid. As far as Cam could tell, he never bathed. Rarely brushed his teeth. And he reeked of alcohol and stale cigarette butts. The man wasn't educated, but he was smart: played Scheherazade, always keeping some key information to himself, left her begging for a second course. She slammed the door in flustered fury. "What do you have for me?"

"I'd like to see what you've got for me, first," Flass grinned.

But Cam slapped his hands away. "First you shower," she spat acid. "Then we talk. Then we fuck. My house, my rules."

"Your house, your rules," he shrugged, unperturbed. "My story."

Arnold Flass was loud. The panting and heaving and grunting she could take, but it was the way he made Cam scream that rankled her. He was hurting her. Actually hurting her, humiliating her, and she went along with it for a few feet of print. He was Walter Graves all over again, and now he was here in her house. But it wasn't her house, not really. It was Cam's. And Cam had let him through that door time and time and time again. He left her chafing and raw and in disgusted tears but he always left something in return. Cam's house. Cam's life. Cam's choice. She still felt miserable for her.

In the next room, Trisha Tanaka rolled back over. Pulled the pillow over her head to drown out the indecency and willed herself back to sleep. It hadn't been the first time Cameron Shaw had a man over in the middle of the night, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

HARVEY DENT: A MAN WITH TWO FACES

Is Gotham's District Attorney the Savior he seems?

by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press

"I believe in Harvey Dent," former interim DA Rachel Dawes spoke out nearly a year ago on Dent's triumphant run for District Attorney. ADA Rachel Katherine Dawes rose to universal acclaim and admiration for her determination and above all, her transparency in her brief stint in office after the tragic demise of former District Attorney Carl Finch. And while those advertisements—and her endorsements—seemed honest enough at that time, recent evidence has come to light revealing that might not be the full extent of her campaign contribution.

Although in recent months she has declared to the Internal Affairs Board her intent to date her supervisor, the afore-mentioned District Attorney Harvey Dent, a well-placed source close to the crime-fighting couple states evidences of an affair lasting for over a year, placing the integrity of Dent's campaign into serious doubt. This anonymous individual was further able to provide convincing evidences including phone records, restaurant and even hotel receipts paid for by Dent's election campaign. Eye-witness accounts also place Dawes at the scene of several of these hotels, as well as Dent's apartment, in the months preceding their "official" relationship.

Perhaps, as some speculate, the Interim DA was only offering her expertise and advise to the new incumbent. But is the truth more sinister still?

While the personal and sexual lives of key public figures have always piqued public interest, they are usually of little political relevance. However, if Dawes and Dent were to be found an undeclared couple at the time of his acceptance to office, it would cast a dark shadow of doubt on the so-called "stainless" reputation of Gotham's self-declared White Knight.

Gotham believed in Harvey Dent, but can she continue to do so after this purposeful deceit? Is District Attorney Harvey Dent the force for change that Gotham needs, or is he simply another pretending politician masquerading on the hope of millions?

It was a good article. The subject was well-researched, relevant, controversial, raised valid questions. But it still felt a bit like a gossip column, Beck thought. Especially given Chris' stance on personal vs. professional life of political candidates. In her boss' opinion, someone's "sexuality didn't affect their ability to give a fair ruling or handle finances. It isn't news, it isn't relevant, and it isn't anybody's goddamned business", Beck had heard him voice more than once.

…And Rebecca May James respected him for it.

It was a brilliant article, if a little bit bloggy…but Cam's genius went unappreciated. Waiting to release the article the day of Wayne's fundraiser had been a fantastic move, press-wise, but the Joker's entrance to Gotham's centerstage would leave her co-worker both high and dry.

Dan Murray.

Dan Murray had gotten her this job. FBI Director Dan Murry, the self-same man who'd sent Immigrations and Customs Enforcement on that raid to her parent's home to silence, shame, and terrify her. Whatever else she might feel towards the man, it was clear he'd had a change of heart. When Christopher Holden had found her at Sisters of Mercy, she'd been friendless, fatherless, and utterly alone.

It didn't help that she was petite and female, the consummate victim. Chris had been kind, unlike Walter Graves. Perhaps too kind, speaking with that wide, openmouthed American optimism that equated slowed speed and more volume with somehow helping a non-native understand. Trisha Tanaka had been so grateful she'd leapt at the chance…and too fearful to embarrass him. He'd employed her, housed her in his fiancée's home, and she couldn't fathom humiliating him now.

So she kept her head down and her nose clean, and spoke with that halting accent that so horribly haunted her as an immigrant child. Even Cam—now her flatmate for over four months—had no idea. It was an act, all an act, and she got through everyday by telling herself that it was research, rehearsal, that someday she'd be a real investigative journalist with Pulitzer Prizes like Christopher Holden, not some twitchy intern who jumped at every shadow. It was harder, too, since Micheal was gone.

(He was busy. So busy. That's why he didn't return her texts or calls. Why their skype dates grew fewer and further between…) But she'd kept her cover through thick and thin, through Chris' kindness and Cam's midnight trysts. She endured the kind, over-wide smiles of people who assumed she wasn't all that bright or social, or the second glances and shadowed presence of those who thought she wouldn't know better. She'd learned a lot since those days stalking Dan Murray for more Fear Night information, but shock, and sadness—more so than any other emotion—were her most ingenious enemies.

It was a normal day at the office, fetching coffees, making copies; an obligatory stammering to Chris how well she was doing. Dodging Clara's awkward come-ons, avoiding Bill Grüber from custodial services…the only bright part of her day was Paul Binkowski. Middle-aged, paunchy, wrinkled and jovial, Mr. Binkowski ("call me Paul! I insist!") brought her a buttery, sugar-crusted apple paczek every morning. Talked about home, how his grandparents missed it before they'd passed. He'd never been to Poland himself, he said, but he remembered how nostalgic, how sad, how joyous they were to reminisce…He wasn't an immigrant, not really. Not like her. But he understood that feeling, and it almost made her cry. And—she had to admit—some nights it did.

She'd just had her pastry. Ducked around Reception to avoid Clara's eager eyes. Got stopped by some very harried bike messenger to deliver some urgent information to someone on somesuch floor, and before she could ask for a repetition the elevator doors clanged shut and up she zoomed to the seventh floor, the actual studio portion of TV 18 Studios.

Green screens, no matter how accustomed you were to them, were still glaringly bizarre. She wondered how it felt to be a meteorologist, surrounded by nothing but green all day, feigning forecast and weather patterns on a blank screen behind her. It felt, she thought sadly, just as phony, just as lonely, as her job now. She glanced down to the packet in her arms, trying to make sense of this so strange and seemingly urgent request.

It was a leaked press release from City Hall, announcing the tragic demise of Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb and Justice Janet Surillo. Trisha let out an involuntary squeak.

All eyes on the newsroom floor turned to her. She felt her face grow hot.

"…regret to inform our viewers that Salvatore Meroni has successfully posted bail this morning after surrendering his passport. However, hope remains in that everyday these monumental proceedings continue, Gotham City is one day closer to setting the "Dent Initiative" as state-wide counterattack against this catastrophic corruption. Emilia Pond, defense for the accused, could not be reached for a statement," Chris finished reading the teleprompter and turned to Camera 2 with not a trace of annoyance. "I'm Christopher Holden, and you're watching TV-18, Gotham News."

"Trisha?" he asked as soon as they'd panned to an emergency commercial break. "What is it?"

"She's dead," she told him blankly, in perfect, unaccented English. "Judge Surillo. And Loeb. He killed them."

The Joker killed them. Her words—and that news—left all of Gotham reeling in its wake. Chris had been devastated, but he hadn't been so oblivious as not to notice. He was also polite enough not to ask her about it—but in the chaos of the following weeks he did go out of his way to avoid her at work where before he'd been so chivalrous.

I've embarrassed him, she thought. He's ashamed to face me.

But Chris' sudden estrangement hadn't been the hardest to bear. When she'd returned home that night to Flass' raucous rutting and Cam's cries Trisha knew who'd leaked that premature press release to them, and why. "So you speak English," Cameron Shaw purred once the police sergeant had swaggered out, whistling. "You ever think of telling anyone and I'll kick you right back on the streets…and I'll let Arnold Flass know where to find you."

March 2029

Gotham City wasn't safe.

He'd worry, late at night. Call Cam just to hear her voice. He'd already bought her mace and a tazer. He didn't believe in guns, not for himself, no—but he thought about getting her one. A classy, mother-of-pearl vintage pistol set like his mother had. A woman's gun. More for show and aesthetic, a piece of artwork, than a firearm. Only to be used in greatest need…

But he was being stupid. Paranoid. Overprotective, Cam had called it. But what would she know? After Rachel Dawes took a tumble from the Wayne Penthouse, she'd been itching for a chance to interview this Joker. Wanted the fame, the publicity, the 'human interest' side of the story. Cam thought she knew how the world worked, how that madman thought, and it made her doubly dangerous to herself.

…so he had Benyamin "Binny" Abner hired on as the security guard for her apartment building. The man was ex-Mossad, quick on the draw and fast on the kill, even now in his sixties. His declassified CV had been short, but impressive. He was small and lithe, seemingly feeble, but incredibly virile. He might've been older than the other candidates, but Binny had the element of surprise on whatever hood tried to fell him. Chris hadn't been happy to hire a mercenary, but it was hard finding security in Gotham City that wasn't on Salvatore Meroni's employ. But Binny had no family in the States, and his daughter and granddaughters back in Israel had all completed compulsory military service and weapons training, so Chris had no conflicts of conscience in hiring him—no one else's family was going to be put at risk for the safety of his own. The thing with mercenaries, they had no loyalty. They followed money, the man with the most cash on hand wins. But Chris grew to trust him. The man was as incorruptible as the Batman. Binny Abner couldn't be blackmailed, and he couldn't be bribed: Chris let him name his own salary.

He had no fear, not for himself. The Holden Estate was well-fortified, and he had a panic room, should something like the Dent fund-raiser happen. TV 18 was well lit, highly trafficked, and independent enough that it didn't have the large audience pull that Gotham Network drew. The Joker was after power, not money, and he'd left Bruce Wayne well enough alone. Christopher Holden might be a former Mayor's son, but he had no real political proclivities.

But Chris was a Batman believer. Knew Jim Gordon personally. And Commissioner "Honest Jim" Gordon would do his city good, whatever the darkness or odds they faced. Chris believed in Harvey Dent—truly believed in him—and he stood stalwart in the face of mass exodus. Many of the manors around him closed, as the families decided to winter in the Hamptons, Naples, or visit their European vacation homes or Caribbean tax havens. Others shut themselves in, sending the staff into Gotham City for the necessary supplies to outlast this siege.

Not Chris. He drove himself, every day, to downtown Gotham and TV 18. Mike Engel thought he was crazy.

"There's no reason for you to stay, Chris," the older reporter had frowned. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

But he did. He couldn't say the Dawn Was Coming if he wasn't willing to weather the darkest of nights. And until the day Harvey Dent was abducted, Chris continued his small crusade. It didn't matter what Mike or anyone else thought (Binny would only shake his head silently), if there ever came a day when Christopher Holden couldn't hold his head up proudly, there wasn't much reason for him to have one. Carmide Falconi had scared him, yes; but he couldn't take his pride. Couldn't make him ashamed. And this terrorist styling himself as "the Joker" wouldn't either.

"Take the Batman into custody," Harvey Dent had surprised them all. Even Mike Engel's eyes had wavered from the platform, searching the crowd for the unmasked vigilante. But Chris knew, even then, the next words from Dent's mouth: I am the Batman.

Time would prove otherwise, and Jim Gordon would rise from the dead and with the Batman's help—and Harvey Dent's sacrifice—the Joker was caught. But Dent hadn't lied, not really. He had looked them all in the eye and spoken the truth. Not some politician's practiced pretense; no—Harvey Dent was the Batman. He'd put his personal safety aside for the greater good of Gotham. He was the Batman, Chris mused, smiling. The idea of the Batman. Weren't we all? But that rejoicing turned to mourning, that victory to ash. The police headquarters had been bombed, the Joker at large, panic and mobs and chaos and doubt…

Then an explosion. The Explosion. Arson set at 250 52nd street. TV 18 had followed the Batman to the scene. The world had gone to hell.

Initial reports said Harvey Dent had been killed. Rachel Dawes had been killed. They were both alive, the contradictions drowned the truth in a deluge of panic. They'd both been killed…

Clarity came when Rebecca James and Paul Binkowski saw the Batman pull him from the fire. Thirteen years ago, Mike Engel had sheltered him from the storm of reporters and cameras surrounding his father's sudden death. Christopher Holden made personally sure every second of that facial footage was permanently erased. No one needed to see Harvey Dent like that.

It had been a long day. A day stretched to weeks stretched to years. And this night—though Harvey Dent had promised them Dawn—only grew longer still. In the contemplative silence of his office, the walls and windows seemed to shrink. How strange, how sad, that humanity and mortality must always walk hand in hand. He'd interviewed Commissioner Loeb. Met the man personally. Neither he nor his father had ever liked him or his politics much (Loeb was a fiscal liberal and a staunch Batman opponent), but he was a man. A human being. More jarring still, Judge Surillo had been a supporter of his father's first Mayoral campaign all those years ago. Stuffy yet impossible to scare Janet Surillo had been a family friend.

…and Rachel. Assistant District Attorney Rachel Katherine Dawes. It had been a long time ago, just a short affair, two lonely people in the tangles of Gotham City, two desperate children together in the dark, just to know they mattered, that someone cared…

He called Cam, and she drove right over. Held him in his studio office, not caring who might see. He needed her now. Tonight. Needed her now more than ever.

Janus Construction Site #2416

Turner's syndrome sucked.

…balls, Gotham County Coroner Nora Jane Fields, MD/PhD Forensic Pathologist thought.

As a child, they'd called it congenital short stature. Pediatricians scratched their heads at growth charts and shrugged. Everyone had assumed she'd grow, and left it at that. Her parents weren't pushy, her parents weren't educated, and the word of professionals was taken as dogma, and the matter unattended. She'd gone through menopause thirty-five years ago, only months after her first period. And by then her growth plates had fused, and human growth hormone was no longer an option. While her high school classmates ran rampart with newfound hormones and height, Nora had found something else to take away the social pressure: Death.

She'd learnt to deal with the heartbreak of never knowing motherhood a long, long time ago. And honestly, she preferred the company of the dead to the living, and hadn't the patience for children or their irresponsibility. Give her a class of college students over the inquisitive, incessant questionings of a small child any day. She'd even gotten numb to the grotesqueness of it all, the grisly specters that sent veteran cops home with nightmares were now mundane. Routine. And, as time passed, she'd grown callous to even the faces of those she'd once known and loved.

Thomas and Martha Wayne? The case was hard on her co-workers. Hard on Jim—he'd confessed to her he'd watched the Wayne boy. Called, thanked her for being a better nanny than he ever could. But it hadn't been hard on her. She'd learned as a thirteen year-old that strong emotions or convictions, however well placed, couldn't change the universe. That staying objective, recording the facts and responding accordingly was far more useful than self-expression of grief or anger.

Carl Finch, Gillian Loeb, Janet Surillo, Lau, Weurtz, Rachel Dawes…and now District Attorney Harvey Dent as well. She'd warned him not to trust the Batman, but Jim Gordon was an adult now, and the GCPD Commissioner besides. She could hardly turn him over her knee to spank him, and the attack had been so personal she couldn't entertain her customary 'I told you so'. It was a lesson hard and lately learned.

So when she approached the scene shaky and sweaty the GCFD, GCPD and GCEMS held her deformed hands and patted her head and told her why don't you take the night off, Nora, damn stress getting to everyone, you knew the Gordon's personally, etc. etc. etc.

Turner's. It all came down to Turner's. She'd been an insulin dependent diabetic since eighteen. You'd think the responding paramedics would know the signs of hypoglycemia by now.

But with the Fear Night backlog and now this Joker's carnage, her sugars had been through the roof. Her last self-measured hemoglobin A1c had been 13.7. Charlie'd been telling her for months to back down, take it slower. What did that old fool know, anyhow. If he'd been a smart man, he'd have married someone less academic and less driven. It hadn't been more than a few months ago she'd taken a bolus of insulin, got a call and forgot to eat. Nora Fields had no doubt she'd be dead—or worse, permanently comatose (that fool Charlie was such a sentimental old goat. He'd never pull the plug)—if it hadn't been for one of her student's timely visit to the morgue. Jimmy Connolly was a bright boy, albeit awkward, and clumsily caring in all the wrong ways. Why he wanted to pursue criminal justice was beyond her. He'd do better—so much better—in mortuary sciences. Classmates picked on him for his height and bumbling boyishness, just as they had her.

…and those college-aged kids could be such dicks. So the Connolly boy joined the lonely vigil in her dead room, preferring silence and her dark utterances to the presence of his peers. He was even polite enough to accept her sugar-free candies, but she'd found half-eaten ones stuck to the bottom of her office trashcan. He hated them as much as she did, apparently, but he was too embarrassed to say no. He followed her hopefully, a lost chick looking for mothering, imprinted on the wrong hen. She didn't have the heart for nurturing, her cold-blooded nature precluded her from coddling, but in her presence his tormenters were if not respectfully then begrudgingly docile. And as long as he didn't trample underfoot or ruffle her feathers, this gruff Old Hen found she enjoyed his quiet company well enough.

She took her sugar. Sixty-three. Must've taken her insulin again, forgotten to eat. She sat gingerly, and popped two chalky tasting glucose tablets. She'd check it again before she rose.

But if ambient chatter was any indicator, her Turner's Syndrome might not be so problematic in the future.

"They got him!" The terse voice of Renee Montoya rang over the scene. "They caught that son of a bitch!"

Cheering. Whoops. High fives. All around the perimeter reporters and civilians were going crazy. They'd caught the Joker.

They think we've won, Nora thought numbly. All around, the GCFD, GCEMS and GCPD were stony. Silent. Only they knew what this victory had cost them. And they were right not to celebrate. Batman may have handed them the Joker, yes…then he threw the District Attorney off a construction site.

Nora Fields had never liked Rachel Dawes. The little ADA had the balls to catch Sal Meroni, sure; but Meroni's weren't the hands stained with blood. His were the deep pockets that paid for it, but the criminals who'd done the dirty deeds, whose depravity had made all those deformed, disfigured corpses laying on her slab…Rachel Dawes had let them off with a slap on the wrist in exchange for their testimony.

…and the Batman killed Dent for it.

Was it worth it, Bats? Nora pulled the wallet from the deadman's pocket, confirming what she'd known all along: Harvey Dent, District Attorney. Was she really worth it? Rachel Dawes had been pretty. Intelligent. Independent. But there were millions of women in Gotham, many smarter, prettier, and more independent still. Jim depended on the Batman. The GCPD depending on the Batman. Hell, this who damn city depended on the Batman…and he'd just shat on all of them for the sake of this girl.

This dead girl. Sentimentality. Emotions. Had the Batman been using his brains rather than brawn Harvey Dent might still be alive. She turned to her team of interns. "Show me where he fell."

Overturned pipes, scuff marks, dust and dragging. A stray shell casing. She bent, gloved fingers snatching it up. "Bring me Jim Gordon's gun."

Crispus Allen, MCU Detective, stared.

"That's an order, Detective," Nora continued her work, nonplussed. "And bring me his written report."

"Gordon's yet to give a statement," Montoya grunted. "His family was here, yeah? You remember that? You think he's just gonna give us a fucking statement after that?"

"Good. Then it's more important. I want that gun, and I want it now," she stared hard at the casing. A shell—.38 special, from the measured rim diameter. "No radios! Go get it," she barked at Stephens. "Personally! And bring me a list of all guns registered to the Gordon family, James or Barbara Gordon, you hear?"

This round came from a revolver. Smaller carrying capacity. Even double-action was too slow on the reload. GCPD didn't use that type of gun. Hadn't for years.

Had Jim Gordon brought a personal weapon with him? And why? Was his wife wearing one for protection? She'd been ex-GCPD, too…

…did Jim engage in that awful practice of carrying an unregistered gun? She knew plenty of cops that did. Some of them good ones—even Lawless admitted to it once. Not Jim, she thought. Not Jim. Not her Jim. And even if he had, why use it—? He'd had his service pistol on him? Why use the wrong gun?

And who had he shot?

…had Dent brought the gun? That made more sense. Dent bringing a weapon to protect Gordon's family from that vengeful vigilante. That made the most sense, actually…

"Listen up, people!" Nora stood, and addressed them all. "There's a firearm at this scene and I need it found. NOW!" Her CSI team jumped to attention. "Montoya!"

The stout Latina crossed her arm. Chewed her lip. "Yeah?"

"Find out if Harvey Dent owned a gun. Revolver, .38. ASAP."

The detective spit. "Yeah, Nora. I'll get right on that."

She was used to lip. And Montoya was the worst…aside from Paltron. But it was different tonight. Betrayal, loss…there was nothing to be gained by arguing. Nora Fields let it slide. "Detective Allen? A word?"

He nodded assent. They walked a ways, leaving CSI and her interns to walk the grid.

"Be honest," she demanded. "Who was at the scene?"

"Gordon," Allen read from that list. "Barb, Jimmy and B.B."

"No one else?" She pressed.

"And District Attorney Harvey Dent," laid in a body bag in an ambulance, waiting for the boys in blue to take him to his final resting place. But first, her slab. "But you already knew that," he nodded down to the GCEMS crew below them, where EMT's Ben Jacobi and Jennifer Henson accompanied the body.

"And that's all?"

"The Batman," Allen glared.

"I don't give two shits about the Batman," Nora bristled. "You tell me if there was a Detective Paltron on that list."

"No," Renee Montoya said, joining them with a look as though she'd swallowed lemons.

"An alibi, then? And how reliable?"

"Very," Montoya cursed. "Dead. She was on the fucking ferry with Lawless."

Lawless. Ferries. It registered, but it wasn't important somehow. Right now she had the scene in front of her, and if she lost track of that thought it was gone. No fresher eyes would see it after hers. She couldn't afford to miss anything. Anything. Someone shot a .38. Not Gordon. Not Barbara. Certainly not either of the kids. That left Dent, or the Batman…and it didn't seem his style. Either of their styles. As far as she knew, Harvey Dent had hated weapons, personal protection or no. Had trusted the GCPD to protect him, protect them all. Had stated it over and over again on his campaign trail: a personal sidearm was admission of failure. Gotham deserved a police department that could protect them.

The evidences just didn't add up. It felt staged. Faked. Off. Wrong. But Lieutenant—no, Commissioner James Gordon wouldn't lie. Not her Jim. Jim wouldn't lie, not to her, not to anyone. And the proverbial loose canon was nowhere to be seen. "I want those personal statements," she ordered brusquely, bagging that shell casing. "And I want those lists. Everything else can wait."

"I'm getting old," Nora grumped later to the now-naked corpse of Harvey Dent. "Old and paranoid." Some thought it eerie to converse with the dead. Not Nora. She preferred it. The dead never cast judgment, were excellent listeners, and they took your secrets, like their sins, to the grave.

Atlanto-occipital and atlanto-axial ring disruptions. Complete subluxation of C7 and T1. Innumerable burst fractures to the cervical and thoracic spines. All injuries consistent with Jim's testimony of fall—or push—from a great height. Harvey Dent had died quickly, the x-rays told her. It was just a shame about that face—he'd been so handsome, so charismatic in life. Now no matter how well the morticians covered the traces of her expert autopsy, there would be no open casket.

Not for Surillo. Not for Dawes. And certainly not for Dent.

TV 18 Studios

Good Morning Gotham.

Why? Because the Night is Darkest before the Dawn. And Harvey Dent had promised them the Dawn was Coming. He hadn't lived long enough to see it. But Chris Holden—like Gotham—still believed in Harvey Dent. A man whose dream all of Gotham could share. And would, if he had anything to say about it.

It needed to be bold. Brash. Controversial. As the host he'd remain neutral, but his guests would be free to propound their beliefs as loudly and as passionately as they wanted. He would play moderator. Let Gotham hear both sides, and decide for herself. No liberal or conservative media, no "sloppy, opinionated, or under-researched" efforts, he smiled, remembering some of his father's last words:

"Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it and, above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light."

The words hadn't been his father's, no. They'd belonged to Joseph Pulitzer. He'd won three of the man's prizes, now. First for his account of investigating Wayne's disappearance, and second for Gotham, a Tragedy. He'd felt guilty accepting them…he hadn't exactly lived up to the man's legacy. He'd left the Bounty Hunter's name out of The Prodigal, if not her involvement, but a journalist was like a magician: he couldn't reveal his source. If he had, the magic would be gone.

…and that woman would've come after him, he didn't have to add. And truth be told, she scared him. She'd taken on Carmide Falconi single-handedly. And she could, because she had nothing left to lose. Chris respected that. Respected her. His first draft he'd referred to her only as that word Falconi had used, 'Ernestine', but she hadn't been happy about that, either. HYAENA had been her final codename. If she approved, she hadn't said. Gwen Paltron had maintained radio silence since their last goodbye, even after WATCHDOG, and if Chris was honest with himself, he preferred it that way.

And Tragedy still bothered him. Kevin Santy had been killed, but his killer never caught. He'd interviewed Bramowitz and several of the other victims who'd spoken out only after their tormenter's death, but he'd never found "Johnny Doe". The boy's identity had been shrouded in mystery from day one, then the records sealed so tight by Surillo even Gotham couldn't get her hands on them. And usually what Gotham wanted from her police force, she got. Even Rachel Dawes had refused to comment.

"I won't help you, Chris." She'd told him.

"Just a hint. A clue. You don't have to say, but if I guess or get close-"

"Anything I say could be influential," she hefted her attaché case. "You either drop this line of questioning, Chris, or I don't speak to you until you do."

"He'd have to be important," he panted, following her doggedly down the courthouse steps. "Someone whose identity was worth protecting."

"Of course it was," on the steps, they could stand eye to eye. "He was a minor."

"But not anymore," Chris caught the implication. The narrowed down birthdates…

She bit her lip in self-directed fury. "He reached his majority during the hearing. But the crime occurred before then."

"He's not a kid anymore, Rachel. You don't have to protect him—"

"He was then," she called, continuing her descent. "And if you really, really understood what that man did to him, Chris, did to all of them, you'd realize they're all kids. And they will be, for a very, very long time."

The identity of the victim had been important. Influential. And not just because he was a minor. The identity had been crucial, prejudicial. So much so, he pieced together, that revealing it to the press or even jury would have resulted in immediate mistrial. Who the hell, Chris thought, distracted even during the book launch party, could be that famous—?

But 2025 was four years ago now. Carl Finch, Rachel Dawes, Harvey Dent and Judge Surillo were dead, and psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel was as tightlipped as ever. All the people who could identify him were gone. And Johnny Doe, whoever he was, gave no signs of coming forward. Or, he remembered Rachel's words with a touch of shame, the boy—young man—had killed himself.

First Santy…then Mani Delgado. Finch. Dawes. Dent. Surillo…

Everyone. Anyone. All dead. All gone. Had it been systematic? Purposeful? He did the math. Could Johnny Doe have been…the Joker? They'd never released his official identity, and Dan Murray had told him off the record it had never been found. The Joker was a young man, like himself, somewhere in his twenties or early thirties. A hard life, scars, and face paint made it hard to pinpoint his exact age. The idea of visiting Arkham Asylum intrigued him. Putting the question before that man…

No. He couldn't encourage Cam. And that madman was a pathological liar. Nothing he said could be believed. The source wasn't trustworthy, and with Cam, he couldn't afford to make himself a target. And Mani Delgado's suicide had been investigated a hundred thousand times. Even Jim Gordon had been convinced. "Let it lie, Chrissy," Clarissa Holden had scolded her son gently a thousand times over. "Just let it lie."

But it still rankled. Good Morning Gotham would be his masterpiece. His baby. His atonement.

Cam was excited about it, gushed about it, praised him and lauded him…and to be honest, she really, really wanted it. For herself. Statistics said he'd do better with a female co-chair. An attractive female co-chair, the psychologists didn't have to say. And Cam was stunning, to say the least. But they were already lovers, already affianced…already worked under the same roof. Would it stress them too much to work on the same show?

…and what would the viewers think? He couldn't afford—he wouldn't afford—any semblance of bias or favoritism. Their engagement was public knowledge, and unlike your favorite family restaurant, politics and journalism frowned upon the concept of a "family business". So he'd opened up interviews to any comers, sweated for weeks about making final cuts and decisions. The word had gone out internationally that Pulitzer Prize winning author Chris Holden was looking for a co-host, and flocks of qualified, experienced, and even recent graduate journalists had descended on Gotham City. So many applicants, so many excellent candidates. He toyed with the idea of letting the staff vote on the final fifteen. A little democracy in action…

Trisha Tanaka. He blushed and cleared his throat as she brought his morning coffee.

"Hey," was all he said. God, he couldn't stand to face her. Felt like such a moron. And a little bit of a racist, something he'd tried so hard not to be.

"Hey," was all she said.

Another awkward encounter. Another in a longstanding series that would last forever until one of them was the bigger man. He was successful, rich, actually male, and her boss. He sighed. "Trish?"

"Yes?" she returned skittishly.

"I um, listen, about what happened-"

"It's okay," she stared at her feet. Well, breasts. Trisha Tanaka was svelte, yes; but there was no way with breasts like that she could see her shoes.

He kicked himself mentally, and moved on.

…it was hard. Even dressed as modestly as she was it was hard. Once you noticed them, you just couldn't help but look. Then not look. Then she noticed you not looking so you had to…

A flush went up her cheeks. "You wanted something?"

"What?" he blushed in turn. "Yes, I um, shit, Trish. I'm sorry-"

"It's okay," she shrugged, fiddling with a stack of papers on his desk. "You can't help it. No one can."

"Yeah, well, about..earlier. The whole speaking English thing-"

"I did not want to embarrass you. After you helped me. I am sorry." She dropped contractions when she was nervous, he noted. And her l's and r's changed, too. So she really had grown up in Japan, he grinned. English was her second language, after all.

"Yeah, well, I was the dick who automatically assumed that immigrant meant limited English proficiency. Forgive me?"

That smile. Damn, that smile. She lit up, so transparent when she was truly happy. "Apology accepted."

He moved to shake her hand, stood too abruptly. Knocked the whole stack of applicants and interview topics clean off his desk and all over the tile. He was so going paperless, after this…

She knelt down, frantically picking them up, the dutiful office girl. She'd been a journalism major, he suddenly remembered. Now look at her, scraping around on her knees, re-filing the applications for a job she'd probably dreamed of for so long. But the FBI had taken that away. Dan Murray had gotten her a hired here, sure; but it wasn't a career or profession. Not the life she'd wanted, and—he realized for the first time—not the one she deserved.

Trisha Tanaka was eager to please. Faked an accent for months as not to embarrass him. She was bright, she was kind, she was helpful. He'd do the right thing by her. Do what Director Murray couldn't: he'd send her back to school.

"Gun control," Trisha Tanaka read aloud. "On Good Morning, Gotham?"

"Yeah," Chris knelt beside her, picking up papers. He might be founder, owner, and Pulitzer Prize winner, but it was his mess. He wasn't so proud he couldn't clean it up. "Our first show. What with the Joker, and the conspiracy theories surrounding Dent's death and that .38, I thought it was appropriate."

That smile never faltered, but the spirit behind it did.

"You seem…disapproving."

"I thought you were educating people here," she shut Lois Lane's CV, pressing the edges crisply. "Not pandering to politicians."

"Pandering?" Chris asked, surprised. "Who's pandering?"

"Hamilton Hill and Greyson Richards," she explained. "Both Gubernatorial candidates. You're giving them a platform, a stage to make whatever play they want on. I thought the whole point of TV 18 was telling the news, Chris. Not creating it."

"One of those men will run this state someday," he stacked Rita Skeiter, Sara-Jane Smythe and Mikaele Blomkist together. The two Brits were older, but formidable; Blomkist had done incredible anti-corruption work, but her heavily accented spoken English hadn't been passable for public television. It was a shame, Chris thought. Any one of the three would have been excellent. And, he had to admit with some chagrin, any one of them would have vastly overshadowed their younger co-host. "I think their stance on gun control is highly relevant. Especially to Gotham City."

"Their opinions on guaranteed second amendment rights are relevant?" those slanted eyes didn't blink once. "Even after MacDonald v. Chicago?"

He chuckled. "Trisha Tanaka, you saucy little minx. Was that actual sarcasm?"

"Their powers as Governor are limited, same as the federal government's. There's nothing they can do, and nothing they should."

"That's your opinion. I want Gotham to decide their own."

"Switzerland and Israel both have more guns per capita than the United States, yet their overall violent crime statistics are drastically different than ours. Britain has severe restrictions on gun ownership and yet their violent crime statistics continue to rise," she shrugged. "It's not a simple issue, and your average viewer won't comprehend that."

"Sounds like you've done your research. School project?"

"Personal," she bit her lip. "After…well, I needed to know."

After what? That hushed up Immigration and Customs Enforcement invasion of her home? According to Murray, her grandfather had been released. Or was it something else entirely? She'd wandered the streets and lived at Sisters of Mercy, same as he had all those years ago. But it'd been different for her, he was sure. Trisha Tanaka was a woman. There was a story there, he could sense it, but he was too polite to press the issue.

"So, what's your opinion?"

"What the facts tell me," she placed more files on his desk.

"And what do they say?"

"The national Uniform Crime Report since 2013 shows no discernable statistical difference in violent crimes since the implementation of automatic weapons restrictions or magazine capacity. And in 2028, the last year with full UCR data, firearms were used in more than sixty-five percent of homicides, forty-three percent of robberies, and more than twenty-seven percent of aggravated assaults."

His knees were beginning to ache from kneeling. But if she could take it in just panty hose, he could, too. "Sounds like guns are a real problem."

"Seventy-six percent of all perpetrators were male," she continued. "And sixty-eight percent were white. Statistically speaking, testosterone is a more causal agent. Are you going to regulate being male as well?

He scratched his chin. "So guns aren't the problem? People who use them are?"

"The BJS demonstrated over half of prison populations suffered from mental illness, Chris. And that was in 2006. That's a national statistic, and I don't even want to think about how much higher that is here in Gotham. That study further showed that most inmates with psychiatric disorders were arrested for minor charges. Charges that could have been avoided had they been medicated or in psychiatric care."

"So you're saying it's a societal issue, not personal responsibility."

"You know it is not that simple," she also dropped contractions when she was angry, Chris noted. "You analyzed the obesity epidemic, people choose their lifestyles. Doctors treat individual patients…but public health officials enact policy changes, like covering continued exercise and nutritional interventions. And that's what we need here. To fight the problem where it truly lies: poverty, unemployment, health care, mental health resources—especially for male pediatric and parolee populations. We've known for years that juvenile offenders who serve time for nonviolent crimes are thirty percent more likely to go on to commit a felony or violent crime than those who are assigned to public service, yet we continue to sentence first time offenders for possession. We need policy change, Chris. A complete paradigm shift based on scientific fact and not sentiment. If we can prevent the violence, Chris, we can stop it."

"That's liberal thinking. It won't win the election," he said as they stood, the task complete. "And to be honest, Trisha, as much as I'd love to see those issues addressed I don't think we will. I just want to get people to think—"

"Then tell them the statistics. Explain that gun violence in the US is only two to six times greater than in other countries with stringent restrictions, like the UK. That means even with those same restrictions, we can only expect the problem to decrease by those proportions: one half to one sixth. And that's completely discounting the amount of already legally owned and registered guns in the population. What legislation would you propose to round up the existing guns?" She continued passionately. "If you did that, if you tried that, more violence would be created by people—however right wing, red-neck, religious or republican—rightly believing that their constitutional rights had been violated."

"So, what do you propose then, Trisha?" Chris asked. "The violence has to stop somehow. Hire more police?" But that wouldn't work, for the same reasons that access to better mental health care wouldn't: limited resources. Especially in Gotham City. Especially now. Harvey Dent had gutted the GCPD of her corrupt officers…and many more had fled after his demise. Good, twenty-year cops saw this city through the Joker's rampage, then hung up their badges for good. He had a family now. He couldn't blame them.

"We're biased, Chris," she told him firmly. "We've lived in Gotham City for most of our lives. Our experience with violence and gun-related violence isn't the national norm…and it's our job to be objective. We can't let personal experience influence our opinion on the rights and lives of others. The government has enough problems, and handles them poorly enough as it is. Yes, run criminal background checks. Psychological evaluations. Have all handguns be ballistically registered with iARMS and INTERPOL before they can enter the country or be sold. Assign inspection officers to ascertain all weapons are stored safely in according to city, state, and federal guidelines the same as we do for fire extinguishers. And yes, Chris, I know it'll cost," she rushed before he could interrupt her. He hadn't thought to try: she was on fire at the moment, and he was enjoying the blaze. "So use firearms like tobacco taxes: fund them with yearly weapons recertification. Higher taxes on small caliber ammunition and handguns—because arguments that people need guns for hunting or food supply can't apply to those specific rounds. I know there should be restrictions. But the second amendment has been interpreted as a right to personal protection separate from militia involvement, Chris. Let the people police themselves."

Let the people police themselves. That struck a cord. "Tell me, Trisha," Chris began slowly. "Is that individuals practicing self-protection, or are you referring to vigilantism?"

"The Bill of Rights guarantees us the freedom of establishing a militia-a group of armed citizens. We live in a world where people use terms like 'gang violence' to describe domestic terrorism. So yes. I believe armed, organized citizens may act as a deterrent…"

She shuddered, unconsciously fingered her breast. "But I also think that any such civilian organizations should be registered, and have to practice within set boundaries as prescribed by law."

Gotcha. "So what you're saying is…you're a Batman believer."

Trisha Tanaka blinked, and took a step back. He crossed his arms, and waited. "I was," she finally admitted.

"And what's the difference between the Batman and a bounty-hunter?"

"He killed Dent," she reminded him sadly. He was surprised to find there were tears in her dark eyes.

"On purpose, or on accident?" Chris asked gently. "There hasn't exactly been a trial."

"Nothing." She answered him. "Nothing. And until that night he did my city a world of good. He saved me, Chris. He saved us all."

"No," Chris smiled. "There is one thing. One very important difference."

"He did it for free," Trisha choked.

Wordlessly he stepped out of her way, and opened the office door. "Congratulations," he called to her retreating back.

She turned, confused. Passionate, well-informed, expressive and articulate. She might be under-qualified, but a degree didn't confer maturity.

…Life did. "Congratulations? Why?"

"You're hired," he slid all those carefully re-arranged CV's ostentatiously into the trash. "Good Morning Gotham. You start tomorrow. Eight am."

Two days later, there was a rose waiting for her at TV 18.

Huffily, Cameron Shaw insisted on asking how on earth she could possibly know it was intended for her since there was no note, and no sender.

…but it was obvious, really. There was a Joker card impaled on an outlying thorn. Good Morning Gotham's "vivacious little Trisha Tanaka" had received her first fan mail. Beck and Chris could kid and tease about her "Secret Admirer" but only because they didn't understand. Couldn't possibly ever understand. And she wasn't about to try explaining it to them.

The rose wasn't fan mail, it was a death threat. And it wouldn't be the last.

But the Joker was behind bars, or at least between padded walls. He'd terrorized this city, terrorized her, but he was gone now. That nightmare of death and explosions was done. True, he might haunt her dreams, but so did Walter Graves, her father's anger, and the shapes of those three self-styled Batmen she never learned the names of. But they were gone now, all gone, and her skin had turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Nothing they did, nothing they said, could hurt her now. Not like Chris Holden could.

He gave her a home and he gave her a job when she had nothing left. Then he gave her a dream. Made her life a fairytale. Her Savior. Her White Knight. Her own personal Prince Charming.

…and she lied to him, every day. Your fiancé isn't what you think she is, Trisha thought. I know who she's slept with. When. Why. What they gave her in return. There for a while, she could do it. Look into his eyes, smile, chat in front of cameras, always cheery and upbeat for the viewers. Then Hamilton Hill came on Good Morning Gotham. She didn't like him, slick, oiled, and greasy. Didn't like the way his hand, like Graves' had, lingered too long, too sweaty on hers. Didn't like his shifty eyes or the way he touched the make-up girls. But it wasn't until he spoke, opened his mouth and answered Chris that she got sick.

She'd never seen his face, but she recognized that voice. Beck found her in the bathroom after, sobbing. Then it all came out.

"Cam?"

"Chris, have you been…crying?"

"Tell me it's not true. P-please tell me it's not true."

"She was going to wait for me, Alfred. Dent doesn't know. Dent must never know."

Rachel Dawes had been a liar, only he knew. A lonely woman in a lonelier city, waiting for the man she loved to come home to her. Then she'd moved on…and she'd been right to, Alfred Pennyworth admitted. Master Wayne had returned, yes; but not all of him. He'd left his innocence behind in a courtroom in Gotham, and that dark shadow of vengeance now would never leave him.

I hope that day comes, Rachel told him. I hope that day comes…

False hopes and broken promises. He burned the letter. For Bruce. For her. Rachel Dawes deserved to live on, her memory unstained by bitterness or rage. Rachel Dawes had deserved to live…

Let her.

"How could you do this to me? You could you lie to me, Cam! How could you lie about this?"

"I never lied."

"Yes, you did. Every time. Every single goddamned time you said you loved me!"

"I do! I do love you!"

Harvey Dent was Gotham's White Knight. Laid to rest in a closed casket funeral. He'd lived a hero, Jim Gordon thought sadly. Had it been too much to ask Gotham to let him die one as well?

Now the Batman was a murderer, and "Honest Jim" was a liar. It was a legacy so sour he could hardly stomach it. But Barb? And the kids?

Jimmy understood. B.B. was too young. And Barb?

"Then what was that, what the fuck was that—? You fucked them. All of them! Sturgis and Hill…a-an-and Flass! Arnold fucking Flass, for God's sake Cam!"

"I never loved them."

"You slept with them!"

"Oh, and you've loved every girl you've ever fucked, Chris? I did it for the stories! I did it for us!"

…Barbara Kean-Gordon understood him all too well. Harvey Dent went after the person he loved most: and he'd chosen his son, not his wife.

And now Jim had chosen Gotham over her. She didn't kick him out, didn't make him sleep on the couch. No, night after night she'd lay there next to him, stiff and silent, immune to all pleas of forgive me, please forgive me…

Her ire he could take. Yearned for. Their family could weather counseling, separation, a summer at her mother's house, even divorce…But this passive-aggressive frigidity left no room for anger or forgiveness. They'd won, he and the Batman, and Gotham was safe. But it was a pyrrhic victory, one so bitter he could still taste bile.

"You going to leave me, Chris? Fire me?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"No. I'm not going to leave you. You left me."

"Oh, grow up, Chris! It's not that simple! You want something, you have to be man enough to get it! I'm the most prolific reporter on your goddamned payroll. Even newspaper sales have gone up since I started. I bring in the most revenue!"

"You think money is what I wanted? From our relationship?"

"Oh, go on, then! Grow some balls and fire me!"

"…No."

"What?"

"No. I'm not going to fire you, Cam. Like you said, we all have to make sacrifices. You lived for those stories. You worked So. Very. Hard. And I would just hate to be the one to take that away from you."

"Go fuck yourself, Chris!"

"I'd say the same, Cam…but you already have."

Natalie Hendricks' apartment was cramped, but home. And in the wake of the Joker's rampage Trisha Tanaka continued to clip articles, adding to that scrap book that was her journal into Gotham's heart. She'd never told anyone, not even Michael, about the night the Clown had saved her. He was a terrorist, yes; an awful, evil man…but still capable of good.

JOKER INCARCERATED AT ARKHAM

DR. QUINZEL CONVINCED OF INSANITY PLEA

He was human, she realized, perhaps the only in this city who did. Human.

VIGILANTE TURNED VIOLENT

HUNT FOR THE CAPED CRUSADER CONTINUES

….he was, she thought sadly, the perfect antithesis of the Batman. "You were my hero," Trisha told him sadly. For a time, they both had been.

AN: Medschool. Family illness. Depression. Being a grown up sucks.

Seven months without updating? Man, you guys are going to kill me (if you're even still reading that is). I apologize for the worst editing in a fanfic ever. I'm like Peter Jackson: I simply suck at making short , concise stories. I try and try to edit and cut, but my editor is me and I can always convince her there's a good reason for leaving something in. Next chapter, Odysseus Rises, coming sometime in April (you can trust me. I'm *almost* a doctor). In the meantime, go check out Irish Luck, AZ Woodbomb, and Lauralot. JHorror hasn't updated in years, but her unfinished stories are still well worth the read.

Anyways, Fugitive is still unfinished. What was meant as a small, break-away project took on a life of its own. You don't have to read it to understand Ernestina, but it does shed some light onto Chris Holden's backstory, with a little dash of Rachel Dawes, Officer Eugene Bradley, Sergeant James Gordon, Carmide Falconi and Paltron for spice. A note for any beginning writers out there, if you heartlessly murder characters in the seventh chapter, you can't spend the rest of your career writing flashbacks because you feel guilty for killing them off.