January 27, 1989. The Chicago-Gotham City train is nearing its final stop.
James Gordon: "Well, that's it… Gotham… no turning back now… I've seen plenty of good guys get transferred to Gotham… some had resignation on their faces, some had despair… there were even those who couldn't wait to try their luck in the new place… I felt sorry for all of them the same… Thing is, I've never once seen anyone get transferred *out* of Gotham to us… a real wormhole for decent people."
Glancing out the window, he watched the washed-out city draw closer to his train. Washed-out—that was putting it mildly. If it weren't for the neon glow from the tallest skyscrapers and the snow-light reflecting in the night sky, the city would have merged with the void of the moonless night.
The train was already crossing Gotham City's point of no return. Looking out one side, you could see three bald, toothless buddies of some drug pusher, with more bruises than clean skin, fighting over a bag of meth. But on the other side of the car, a crowd of men was visible. Hulking, not from muscle but from bulk, dressed in expensive tuxedos from Italy or France, smoking Cuban cigars, leaning against the hood of the latest Mercedes… The city's entire ecosystem in two pictures.
Gordon turned his gaze from the window, staring at the empty seat in front of him as if trying to distract himself, if only visually. A sigh of acceptance escaped him.
"Maybe this is what my time in hell looks like. This whole trip is like one continuous stretch in purgatory. I've heard purgatory is where a man realizes who he's been his whole life and understands what he deserves in the afterlife… I don't know what I was supposed to realize. What sin did I commit to end up here?" He let out another sigh, this one tinged with resignation. "As if it matters… I sent Barbara by plane. Was afraid she'd see what this place is like up close… already regretting I took the train myself. Could've held onto hope a little longer that it's not so bad, especially from the air… This is no place to raise a kid. I know it's not right, I shouldn't think that way, but sometimes I wish there'd been a miscarriage. No child deserves to atone for their father's sins. He's not ready… I'm not either. I still don't know what sin landed me here."
The train's speed gradually decreased, becoming almost too slow… as if on purpose… as if letting you examine your new berth in minute detail… like preparing you for the pit before throwing you into it like a drop in the ocean.
Finally, the agonizingly slow train reached a point where standing still would be faster. It later stopped at Gotham Station, its roof offering shelter from the light snowfall. You don't want to get off… better to keep riding into hell than to be at its center… The station is packed… that's good. The crowd can hide you from the gaze of the void, if only for a short while.
Gordon stepped off the train, trying to push through the crowd to anywhere less cramped, every unconscious bump into another poor soul accompanied by a "sorry," "excuse me," "pardon me," "my apologies" from his lips. His path was blocked by a beggar in church robes, who had already approached many people at the station. All that came from his mouth was "just a few cents," "for the love of God." Gordon, with his characteristic "excuse me," walked past, then glanced back at him.
"Poor guy. I feel a little sorry for him. In this place, faith is nothing more than words. If even God can't help these people… I didn't give him money not because I'm stingy… just didn't want to give him false hope," he said to himself, then snorted inwardly, "says the guy who did everything just to keep his wife's faith that this place isn't so bad."
???: "Hey! Hey, Lieutenant Gordon! Hey… oh, fuck you Hey, over here," a shout Gordon heard behind him, clearly aimed at him (though the "fuck you" was obviously not for Gordon).
He saw a guy who looked like the type you'd see at a local bar or a cheap strip club. The man was plowing through the crowd, unceremoniously shoving everyone in his path, not even noticing the contemptuous glances thrown his way.
Arnold Flass: "Whew. Could've met me halfway," he said before catching his breath, "Arnold Flass. Detective, Gotham PD. Here on Commissioner Loeb's orders." He extended his hand to Gordon for a shake, and Gordon reluctantly shook it, surprised by the strong grip. "You're Lieutenant James Gordon, right? Phew, read your file. Seems you're… well, how to put it… passionate about your work, Lieutenant. Pleased to meet a new brother in blue," he said with noticeable sniffling between sentences (sometimes in the middle of them), though it was hard to tell if it was from a runny nose or something else. The sniffling was noticeable but not overly irritating.
James Gordon: "Yes," he said, not exactly eager to keep the conversation going. "Yes, likewise, umm…"
Arnold Flass: "Arnold Flass. But they usually just call me Flass," he said, not at all offended that Gordon forgot his name. "You're from Chicago, right? Must be a sweet spot. Well, I heard it's sweet. I'm right, ain't I?"
James Gordon: "Yeah," he said in the same tone. "Good place, yeah." … "Everything this place isn't," he wanted to say, but the words stayed in his head.
Gordon didn't reply immediately, clearly not enthused about the dialogue with his new colleague. If Gordon had a chance to skip this entire conversation, he wouldn't have thought twice.
Arnold Flass: "Been there once. Chicago Bulls vs. Gotham Goliaths. Man, what a game that was. Wanna brag? I even kept a jersey signed by Michael Jordan from that game. Listen, just between us. You've ever meet Michael Jordan in person? Better say no, or I'll start getting jealous."
James Gordon: "No. No, haven't met him," his tone unchanged. "You know, I'm not really, you know, a big basketball fan."
It wasn't that Gordon wanted to continue the dialogue with his new colleague, but he didn't want to seem rude and get into an awkward situation… not that his current situation was any different.
Arnold Flass: "Ha, I almost feel sorry for you. Missing out on so much," he said, sounding as if he was showing some superiority. "Alright, Lieutenant… listen, you don't mind, do ya, if I just call you Jimmy, alright?"
James Gordon: "We… no. No, it's fine. If that's easier for you."
Arnold Flass: "Ha, settled then. You know, you're not as stiff as you seemed," he said, slapping Gordon on the back unnecessarily hard. What was meant as a friendly gesture only made Gordon recoil.
Arnold Flass: "Well, alright, settled that. Now, how about a little night tour of Gotham. Hit a few spots, this and that, just show you the city, then head to the department. Sound like a plan?"
James Gordon: "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sounds good. Of course, let's go," his tone still unchanged.
The next thirty minutes flew by faster than a single minute on that train. Flass was behind the wheel of some cheap Honda—Gordon wasn't much into cars and didn't know the exact model. They'd already stopped at a street food vendor, where Flass got something that looked like a flatbread stuffed with meat and greasy vegetables. Gordon wasn't big on street food—he had a wife who cooked at home. He just stared out the window, surveying the streets of his new home, while Flass, simultaneously eating his mess and driving, talked about something in the background. He was saying how Gotham isn't as bad as the papers say, that being a cop here isn't so terrible, and that Gordon just needs to get used to it. Maybe for someone else it could've been an interesting spiel, but for Gordon it was like the buzzing of a mosquito by his ear—a mosquito that had drunk so much blood it started saying it didn't need more, though it was ready to do anything for just one more drop.
Arnold Flass, with a slightly full mouth: "You know, Jimmy, I know what they write about this place in the papers, especially outside it. And you know what, as someone who's lived here his whole life, I can tell you? It's all bull, Jimmy. They talk about this place like it's some cage in a zoo. And in reality? Life here ain't even close to its description in the papers. Yeah, it'll take some time to adapt, but is that really a problem, huh?"
Gordon, however, was just focused on his own thoughts, the views of the city streets forcing his mental processes to function.
James Gordon, looking at the streets of his new home: "Hmm. Never thought I'd say it, but… this place is amazing. Truly. The way it throws you into a pit of corruption but tells you it's pulling you out of a pit of ignorance… amazing… What's also amazing are the headlines on every paper. Everywhere the same line, 'Gotham's Prodigal Son Returns After 12 Years Abroad.' What kind of madness is that? He's rich, right? Yeah, probably filthy rich. So why not just leave this city far behind? Especially since he already left, right? Why come back? To see someone maybe? Just weird news lately. That flying guy from Metropolis, that exorcist from London. Yeah, those were strange, but this… just insane."
Suddenly, Flass stops the car somewhere under a bridge. Nothing supernatural seemed to be in front of the two cops, except for three drug addicts. Flass, wiping his greasy hands on his pants, gets out of the car and approaches the three individuals. Gordon just watches his colleague from the car.
Arnold Flass: "So what's there up, buddies. What's for dinner today? Crack? Weed? Something tougher?" he says, starting to frisk them one by one.
Watching this, Gordon perfectly understands the three guys, seeing how these guys are not exactly thrilled with the dialogue with Flass.
Arnold Flass, pulling a bag of meth from the jeans pocket of one of the addicts: "Oh-la-la, and what do we have here, boys, huh?"
The next second felt to Gordon like a mix of an adrenaline rush and a nap after a dose. All he saw was his colleague deliver a clean punch, right to the jaw, of one of the guys. For the next five seconds, Gordon just watched as Flass's fist met the faces of the three addicts—each blow made Gordon flinch slightly in his seat, whether from shock or from not knowing what to do. Until all three poor souls were already on the ground and Flass was stomping back to the car, Gordon didn't say a word. When Flass, as if nothing happened, took the driver's seat again (still holding that bag of meth), about five seconds of silence passed between him and Gordon before Gordon decided to speak—his voice trying to mimic the nonchalance of his colleague's actions.
James Gordon, right after a small sigh: "So why? Why do it like that? Beat them, I mean. Could've just called for a squad car for the arrest, in case you suddenly didn't have cuffs on you. And what do you need the meth for?"
Arnold Flass, tucking the meth into his coat pocket: "For the lab," he said with a note of surprise and know-it-all-ness in his voice. "The lab boys analyze the recipe, find a match, we track all the patterns, the trends, back and forth, and bam—the cook's ass is already in our pocket on a bottle of justice. A dumb question for someone who should have enough experience with this stuff."
James Gordon: "Okay, fine. What about the first question? Don't wanna answer?"
Arnold Flass: "Listen, your second question was just dumb. But the first one was downright stupid, especially for a mature cop." The word 'mature' carried a note of sarcasm mixed with irritation. Flass sighed lightly, leaning slightly closer to Gordon, and spoke in a tone as if trying to get something across. "One thing Jimmy. I have no idea the hell you were doing back there in Chicago, and not that I wanna know, but listen here. You're not in Chicago now, Jimmy. This is Gotham City. I don't know what you were doing back in Chicago, maybe you were doing fucking nothing or shit like that. But here you are. in Gotham. Here, we do things in your way. You'll get used to it, I'm sure. But for now, you'd better just watch from the side and learn. As they say, welcome to Gotham City, pal."
Gordon said nothing in response, staring at the empty retaining wall of the bridge as Flass started the car. Gordon just wondered if hell was really as bad compared to this place. In hell, at least they don't make you part of its ecosystem.
January 27, 1989. 26,000 feet above the ground. Kathmandu-Gotham City flight.
Bruce Wayne: "There it is…," he says, beginning with a soft, inward 'hmph', "Gotham… no turning back now… From up here it looks different. You could almost believe there's some kind of ecosystem, a civilization here. Might've worked on some poor bastard… a while ago I would have said I wished it would work on me."
Bruce looks through the small window by his seat. From the plane's height, Gotham blends with the land around it. Only the Delaware Bay, spreading northeast of the city, marks its boundaries. No emotion plays on Bruce's face; it's neither relaxed nor tense—it's an empty space.
Bruce Wayne: "Should've taken the train," he says, again with that same soft, inward 'hmph', "can't see the place as well from here. Not precisely what I need. I need to be closer. I need to look the enemy in the eye. … This place is hell. Once, I had an angel who led me through hell, back when I didn't even realize it myself. Pity that tour was only the surface of hell, its very first circle. That angel didn't get to show me hell. Maybe he didn't have time, maybe he didn't want to. A demon killed that angel. Demons are afraid to ask anything of demons higher up. Pity that angels occasionally turn out to have what those demons need, too."
Bruce turns away from the window, leaning back slightly in his seat, looking at the empty seat opposite him. His face remains unchanged.
Bruce Wayne: "Hi, Dad," this time without the 'hmph', "I'm back here. I missed you, you know. It's been 12 years, after all. Don't know if you missed me. If not—that's fine. Would've been one less thing for you to worry about. You shouldn't be worrying about anything, especially concerning me. Dad,… I want to say… everything I've been doing lately, I've been doing for you. You already know. I just want you to understand… I'm not asking for your approval… just understanding. It's all for you, Dad. I've come home to make this place a home for many… like you once did. I can't ask more of you… don't want to shatter your paradise by dragging you down into hell with me."
The plane is already approaching the runway. Lightly falling snow blends with the stars. Stepping off the plane, just inside the airport terminal, Bruce couldn't go any further. The entire passage was crammed with journalists and reporters—from their mouths came only questions about rumors and gossip concerning the returning star's life over the last 12 years. Bruce didn't even look at them before moving through the crowd toward the other side of the airport.
Bruce Wayne, finally throwing one glance of contempt at the crowd with microphones and cameras, again emitting a soft, inward 'hmph': "Never liked journalists. People without a purpose in life, digging into the purpose of others' lives. Though it's hard for me to blame them. In a place like this, many are ready to do anything just to stop their own lives from looking back at them with contempt."
Continuing through the crowd, Bruce hears a familiar voice coming toward him. The voice of an old man, calling out "I say! Master Bruce! Hm, over here!" with rare, light pauses and audible 'oh, damn its' under his breath.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Good lord, Master Bruce," he says when there are no more obstructing people between him and Bruce. "Let's get out of here. Preferably with haste," he says before he and Bruce put a little distance between themselves and the journalists, approaching the exit. Alfred casts a glance at the reporters, more simple disapproval than contempt. "These jackals. Ghouls, the lot of them. All teeth where the pen meets the paper," he says, his pace slightly quicker than usual, most likely from catching his breath at the same time.
Bruce Wayne, again emitting an inward 'hmph', his face unchanged: "Don't blame them, Alfred. Who knows what you'd do in their place," he says, trying to divert Alfred's attention from the journalists.
Alfred Pennyworth: "I wouldn't be in their place, Master Bruce, that's all. Let's get out of here before the air runs out. One journalist breathes like five men."
Bruce Wayne, again emitting a 'hmph': "That's not an answer, Alfred and you know that," he says, though mentally agreeing with Alfred's idea to get out of the airport quickly.
Each 'hmph' was akin to something like an 'I heard you,' only in a drier, more affectless tone.
Exiting the airport, Alfred takes the driver's seat of their Porsche. Bruce gets in the passenger seat beside him as Alfred starts the car.
Alfred Pennyworth: "So, *light cough*, where to now? Straight to the manor?"
Bruce Wayne: "If you have other ideas, feel free to lay them out," he says, after another initial 'hmph'. His response was obviously sarcastic, though delivered in a completely flat tone.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, *slight pause* who knows with you, Master Bruce. Maybe you'd like to, I don't know, refresh some warm memories of this place," he replies, matching sarcasm with sarcasm, his expression perfectly aligned with his own, though equally dry tone.
Bruce Wayne: "This isn't the kind of place you're left with good memories of. You know that."
Alfred Pennyworth: "I do. Not like the places you've been these last 12 years, there on your Maldives and Hawaii and stuff like that," he says, with a note of mockery in his tone, before putting the car in gear. "You know what, Master Bruce," he continued his unfinished thought. "It seems to me all those good memories you have of this place… you've simply tucked them into the same box, right next to all the bad ones, and you just have stopped distinguishing them. All your memories now, even the good ones, seem bad to you," the last sentence spoke with that same light mockery, though Alfred's attempt to cheer Bruce up was obvious. Bruce himself said nothing in reply, merely emitting another inward 'hmph', showing he'd heard Alfred's words.
The next twenty minutes of the drive passed in silence. It's about a forty, maybe forty-five minute drive from the airport to the manor. Alfred decides to attempt conversation again.
Alfred Pennyworth: "You know, Master Bruce. We indeed did miss you."
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. We?", his tone not so much curious as simply interested in what Alfred will say.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, yes, Master Bruce. The entire city was waiting for your return, you know."
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. They shouldn't have. You're not an incluisi you, Alfred," his tone as if pre-determined, regardless of Alfred's answer.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hm. Maybe so. But you know what else? The feeling of miss comes not from our minds, but from our hearts, Master Bruce. Not always we can decide what we want to miss or what to move on from," he says, again attempting to lift Bruce's spirits. Alfred's eyes occasionally glanced at Bruce's face, as if trying to discern his thoughts so he could tailor his response.
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. Don't let the shine of your heart blind your mind, Alfred," he says in his same dry, assertive tone.
No reply, nor any other attempt at conversation, followed from Alfred. He seemed to already regret trying to find a ray of sunshine in the middle of the night. For the first time, Alfred didn't know what to say to his charge—a rare occurrence for him; apparently, he wasn't prepared for Bruce's philosophy. As if he'd known their dialogue was over before it began, but tried anyway. Bruce himself simply stared out the window, surveying the streets of his, once and now again, home, as the views filled his head.
Bruce Wayne: "Hmph. Nothing's changed. As if I expected anything different. I've heard evolution always wins, but this place refutes that thought. It's completely cut off from the rest of the world… Alcohol, drugs, cigarettes… quick dopamine. Primitive happiness, not real, just like animals. Like one big zoo, whose inhabitants believe they have human civilization here. I know people are animals too, but we were the first animals to reject instinct in favor of our minds. … Empty words, in this place. People should live, not just survive."
After driving about twelve miles, their Porsche stops at the gates of a huge mansion, built in the style of European Gothic manors from two centuries ago. Bruce gets out of the car. Alfred does too, but only to open the gates, after which he gets back in the car and drives it into the garage. Bruce simply looks at his home. His face becomes something resembling a smile, yet still manages to be just as empty at the same time.
Bruce Wayne: "Mom. Dad. Yes. I'm home."
January 28, 1989. Approximately 3-4 AM. The Gotham City Police Department Building. Office of Gotham Police Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb.
Commissioner Loeb: "Well, I trust we've dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's, Lieutenant. If you have any further questions, now's the time to ask them."
James Gordon, with a very slight note of uncertainty: "No. No, sir. I heard you, and… I'm glad to be part of the Gotham City Police. It's my duty. To give myself fully to this place."
Commissioner Loeb, with a benevolent smile, shaking Gordon's hand: "I'm pleased to hear it, Lieutenant. Men like you are a rarity these days, such… dedicated individuals are precisely what the GCPD needs. For all of us, your arrival is another ray of light toward this city's bright future."
James Gordon, with slight relief: "Thank you for your faith in me, sir. I've never been more ready to give myself fully to the job."
Commissioner Loeb, with a knowing smile, his tone utterly calm with a note of quiet condescension: "Don't flatter yourself, Lieutenant. You know, your best course now is to go and settle in a bit. Get to know your new colleagues, look around the precinct, all the things people usually do at a new post. I can only wish you the best of luck."
James Gordon: "Yes. Of course, no problem, Commissioner. Thank you again for your understanding," he says, still slightly nervous, rising from the chair and preparing to leave the Commissioner's office.
Commissioner Loeb: "One more thing, Lieutenant," he says before Gordon can leave the office. "In this place, you don't work for me, you work for the city. And by working for the city, you work for all its citizens. The working men, yourself, and, of course, myself included. Consider this the hierarchy of this place," he says in a slightly serious tone, then shifts to a lighter one to ease the tension. "Alright, sorry to burden you further. Go on, and good luck," he says, tipping his cap slightly in a gesture of respect.
With a slightly uncertain nod, Gordon leaves Loeb's office. The commissioner sits back down at his desk, and immediately there's a knock at the door. Loeb seems to have already known who was on the other side, only briefly looking up.
Commissioner Loeb: "Yes, yes. Come in," he says in his usual calm, smug, deliberate tone.
Flass barges into the office, slightly out of breath after a long walk through the police building.
Arnold Flass: "Hey there. What'd you need, Commissioner?"
Commissioner Loeb: "Just a couple of your minutes, Arnold. About the new one."
Arnold Flass: "And why I am being dragged in it?"
Commissioner Loeb, with mild irritation: "Cause you've spent more time with him than any of fellows. I want your opinion of him. And please, be honest straight."
Arnold Flass, thinking for a moment: "Straight… *pause* Straight… y'know, this Gordon guy... he's a good pal. Passionate about the work… got that. But… how to put it… he can do the job alright, but he doesn't quite get the grip of the nature of his work here, you know. How to put it… you know, in a smart-ass way… well, he's such a straight moralist, makes you wanna puke."
Commissioner Loeb: "I see," he says, standing up and looking out the window. "The shine of his heart will blind his eyes."
Arnold Flass: "Yeah. Yeah, something like that. Y'know, the guy might be good, but… like you said… that 'shine of his heart' gonna make him a pain in ass of a man. A guy like that will get in the way of how we do business. I spent just a couple hours with him and already know he's a headache."
Commissioner Loeb: "I heard you. I understand what you want. To handle him."
Arnold Flass: "Well… not 'handle' him. More like, you know, teach him a lesson. So he understands how we do things here."
Commissioner Loeb, after a second of thought: "Alright. You have my… informal approval. But remember. I'm out of this. If you make a mess, you'll be the one cleaning it up."
Arnold Flass, with a note of forced acquiescence: "Yeah, as you say. Oh, and here," he says, pulling the baggie of meth from his coat pocket and placing it on the Commissioner's desk.
Commissioner Loeb, with little interest: "Hm. Take it to the lab. Let them figure out the recipe. We have enough problems as it is."
Arnold Flass: "Yeah, as you say," he says, picking up the baggie of meth. "Listen… would you mind if I…?"
Commissioner Loeb, with little interest: "Hm. Fine. Anyway there's no difference with or without it for someone like you."
Arnold Flass: "A'right, appreciate it," he says, before snorting a small bump of the meth.
Later that evening. Parking lot adjacent to the Gotham City Police Department building.
It was around 10 PM. Most working folks are already home at that hour, spending a quiet evening with family or on their own business. Gordon's shift had only just ended.
James Gordon, speaking into a payphone in the parking lot, his tone slightly weary but positive: "Yes, I know, dear. Got held up a bit today. You know how it is, all the new guy paperwork. … Yes, I know the route. Consider me halfway there already. … Yes, I can't wait to see him either. … Okay, I gotta go. It's freezing out, the car'll take forever to warm up. … Okay, love you."
Gordon hangs up and heads toward his Daewoo Nexia.
James Gordon, with a darker expression: "Barbara had contractions this morning. The neighbors took her to the hospital. Got lucky with them. … Why now? It's only the eighth month? The doctors already said the birth could be any day now. … We waited too long. Don't know if it would've been better sooner or later now. … What a day this has been."
He was about to get into his car when a shout from behind caught his attention.
???: "Hey, you! We got business. Just a second, won't take long."
It was three men. They were dressed in heavy clothes, but their builds were clearly substantial. They wore ski masks and held baseball bats. Gordon obviously thought they were typical street muggers. He wasn't particularly scared or surprised—after all, this was his job.
James Gordon, trying to defuse the situation: "Listen, guys, I don't have time. My wife's in the hospital, she's about to give birth." The three men didn't inspire that much fear in a fight; he was a police Lieutenant, and a Green Beret to boot.
Gordon's attempt at resolving the situation was futile, which became especially obvious as the three men began marching toward him. Realizing a fight was unavoidable, Gordon simply stood his ground, waiting for the first swing. First bat swing—Gordon dodges, immediately countering with a punch to one attacker's jaw. Second swing—another counterpunch from Gordon to the attacker's jaw. Third swing—a direct hit to the back of the head. Gordon immediately dropped to the ground from the blow, clutching his head, groaning softly in pain. Then came another blow, and another, and another—the direction no longer mattered—it was a simple beating of a downed Lieutenant. The two remaining attackers shook off the meeting of their jaws with Gordon's fists and joined in the beating, laughing mockingly all the while. Gordon was on the verge of blacking out, but he could still make out the laughter. He'd heard that same disgusting laugh earlier that day—Flass.
January 28, 1989. Around 9 AM. The rear grounds of Wayne Manor, 12 miles west of Gotham City.
It's usually light out by this hour, but since it's winter, the sun's rays were only now beginning to light up the earth. On the back lawn of his home, Bruce was smashing bricks, one after another, with a single kick of his foot. The fact he was doing it in regular street clothes made it all the more striking.
Bruce Wayne: "I spent the last 12 years in Purgatory. They say it's where you realize who you've been your whole life to understand what you deserve after it," a hard kick to a brick gives a temporary pause to his thoughts. "It's all bull. You can rethink your past as much as you want—it won't change the future. Purgatory is to prepare a man for his final stop. To make him understand what he deserves after death, independent of you, your desires, your thoughts," his train of thought halts as he glances at all the shattered bricks. "Purgatory gave me skills and knowledge. But only true hell can give me the methods to use them. I shouldn't delay. One man disapproves of it… Yes, Dad, I know I'm just disappointing you so far," he says before shattering the last brick.
Later that evening. Around 11 PM. The South-East End, Gotham. In a parking lot, Bruce sits quietly in his Porsche, as if waiting for the right moment. In his hands are a false beard and light makeup on his face—a disguise. Sure, from a distance you might not recognize who's under it, but up close? Though, given the kind of inhabitants this neighborhood has? Distance probably doesn't change a thing. When Bruce apparently decides the time has come, he puts on the false beard and exits the empty lot—cars for people in that area were just a word, so there was no one to spot Bruce. A couple of minutes later, Bruce is strolling the junkie-ridden streets of the South-East End, observing the local 'fauna.'
Bruce Wayne: "The South-East End of Gotham. … Some prisons have special wings for the most dangerous and violent inmates. Comparing this neighborhood to the most brutal prisons is a compliment to this place."
Bruce quietly surveys the streets of the South-East End. Wherever you look, you won't see people here—just animals. Like an isolated ward with the most rabid monkeys, where instead of bananas, it's heroin. Every local has their own distinguishing feature, and together they form one big portrait of the area's inhabitants—rotten teeth, bald heads (obviously not natural balding), bruises and bags under their eyes, gnarled hands.
Bruce Wayne: "As a kid, Father forbade me from visiting this place. Though it's not like I often left the manor, and he knew that, he still told me how rotten this place was. Nothing's changed."
The people around Bruce passed by one after another, but the effect from each to the next didn't change. A single mother, maybe 20, with a son in a stroller, smoking a cigarette, needle marks visible on her forearms; a homeless man around 50, dressed in rags, holding a cup for handouts, a sign next to him saying 'I tried'; a garish crowd of junkies shaking down some poor bastard for his last pennies.
Bruce Wayne: "Our world is one big organism, with its lifeblood flowing through it. The way blood flows through our veins, water runs through pipes, electricity courses through wires… flows through this organism. This place is no exception. Only through its streets flows not blood… but fear—fear of what a man is capable of when nothing can restrain him. It's a virus poisoning the last cells of rational life. All organisms have a heart, pumping their blood. The heart of this place is my target. I just need to find its cure for the virus, and give it a precise injection in the right spot."
Bruce's thoughts are interrupted by his view of a scene unfolding before him—a man, surprisingly well-dressed. Standing before the man is a young girl, maybe 19, short, with light hair, dressed like a prostitute, clearly unhappy with the conversation.
Quickly figuring out what's happening, Bruce in his usual manner approaches the pair, pretending to just walk by, but suddenly delivers a clean, well-placed punch to the man's jaw. The blonde took a couple steps back in shock and fear—what Bruce saw as an act of help was confusion to her. Bruce didn't look her way, and was preparing to deliver another blow to the man, but is quickly stopped by another girl, slightly taller, with short black hair, who appeared as if from nowhere. Bruce was surprised by her noticeable fighting skill, but one kick to the jaw from Bruce was enough to subdue her. While Bruce was distracted by her, the man hadn't been idle—one stab with a knife right under Bruce's rib quickly knocked him off his game.
Hearing police sirens, Bruce hurried to get out of there—the knife in his body was slowing the bleeding. Bruce retreats to the other side of the street, where not far away he had pre-parked an inconspicuous Mercedes ('inconspicuous,' of course, relatively speaking) and wasted no time starting the car and heading home.
A couple of hours later, around 1-2 AM, Bruce, not without difficulty, covered the 12 miles west from the Gotham City border. For the last twenty minutes, Bruce had been sitting in a chair while Alfred dealt with his wound—after all, the seemingly harmless butler had once served in British special forces and had experience as a combat medic.
The wound wasn't too deep, though Bruce was lucky no organs were damaged—still, it wasn't a kitchen knife but a small street blade. While Alfred continued stitching the wound, Bruce was sketching something in a notebook. Though Bruce was right-handed, the knife had gone in under his right rib, forcing Bruce to use his left (which, surprisingly, didn't affect much).
Alfred Pennyworth, finishing the stitching: "Well, that's that. Good as new, Master Bruce. By the way, settled on an alibi for the wound yet? Shall we say a cat sank its teeth in, or stick with the clawing idea?"
Bruce didn't answer, not particularly enthused by Alfred's sarcasm. His attention was focused on the drawings in his notebook.
Bruce Wayne, mulling over his evening walk through Gotham: "I was too overconfident. I managed to avoid the gaze of this place, the fear it instills… I need to learn to instill fear myself, learn to do it more powerfully than this city."
Bruce puts the notebook down on the nearby coffee table, leaning back in the chair, covering his eyes with his palm.
Bruce Wayne: "Dad… I know I rarely ask you for anything. Not because I'm afraid of seeming weak, … though that too… I don't want to trouble you unnecessarily. I'm not asking for much, Dad. You know everything I do… it's all for you. I'm not asking for help… just a clue. Just give me a hint, Dad, I'll understand… please."
As Alfred pours tea, and Bruce removes his hand from his face, a bat flies into the living room through an open window, catching the attention of both manor residents.
Alfred Pennyworth, in a not-very-surprised voice, almost to himself: "Hm. As usual."
Bruce Wayne: "Where did it come from?"
Alfred Pennyworth, in a slightly weary tone, handing Bruce a cup of tea. "From the caves beneath the manor. They have a nest there. Appeared right after you left, Master Bruce. Quite the coincidence," he says the last phrase with light sarcasm.
Bruce Wayne: "So that's what you've been up to for the last 12 years? Chasing bats?"
Alfred Pennyworth: "Yes, not easy work. If only I'd chased girls in my youth the same way."
Bruce Wayne: "Hm. You still have your whole life ahead of you, Alfred."
The bat continues flying around the room for about ten more seconds.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, *slight pause*, I'll go fetch the net."
Alfred gets ready to put the tea service on the table.
Bruce Wayne: "Why? Just let it fly. It's not bothering anyone."
Alfred didn't argue with Bruce's words.
Alfred Pennyworth: "You know what. I've read somewhere that a bat, in literature, means the death of the man inside oneself. Or maybe it was the death of the soul in a living man…" he muses, then waves it off. "Ah, can't remember now. … this place actually did feel… dead, you know, while you were away."
Bruce Wayne, not very interested in Alfred's story: "Not that I'm interested."
Alfred Pennyworth, fetching more tea: "This place actually did feel… you know, dead, while you were away."
The bat continues flying around the room for another minute or so. Bruce again catches its sight, as it flits around the room.
Bruce Wayne: "Yes, Dad. You're right. I must become the bat."