New Fan Fic: Batman Strikes Back

[The Joker]

More AWESOME stuff once again, Mr. Gobbs!

I especially loved reading the section where the two goons in the helicopter return to reveal the Joker is dead. To me, the goon's reaction that, "He just ... fell." is spot on. As I don't believe they would have really understood exactly WHY the Joker's grip was eventually lost. Especially at the heat of the moment where they seemed more preoccupied with escaping the premises (I remember them yelling "come on!" alot in the film itself) than as to what may have been going on down below. 

[johnnygobbs]

More AWESOME stuff once again, Mr. Gobbs!

I especially loved reading the section where the two goons in the helicopter return to reveal the Joker is dead. To me, the goon's reaction that, "He just ... fell." is spot on. As I don't believe they would have really understood exactly WHY the Joker's grip was eventually lost. Especially at the heat of the moment where they seemed more preoccupied with escaping the premises (I remember them yelling "come on!" alot in the film itself) than as to what may have been going on down below. 

Thanks The Joker.  As long as there's people like you and Catwoman reading, I'll keep posting more chapters.  I really appreciate your feedback, and although I enjoy writing for my own pleasure, it's always a more satisfying experience when you know people are reading your stuff.

I hope to be posting some more quite soon!   

[Batnar]

Johnny, I promise I will come in and read all your chapters soon. I don't like reading fan fics when my head is all over the place because then I don't get to enjoy it as it should be enjoyed.
I just got through reading Catwoman's great fan chapters and really was impressed. So I definitely want to take up some more reading and I will get to yours as soon as I can bud! 

[johnnygobbs]

Chapter Four: Commissioner James Gordon

Commissioner Gordon was part of a dying breed - Gotham's middle class.  The crime wave that had plagued the once illustrious city for several decades had driven many medium-sized businesses from the central metropolis and with it, the decent, hard-working families that had been its venerable backbone.  In their wake lay a vast gulf between the barely inhabitable high-density tenements and seedy hovels, and vertiginous luxury penthouses and sumptuous family estates that respectively housed Gotham?s impoverished underclass and its supremely wealthy elite.  However, a few suburban dwellings remained scattered along the city?s North-East periphery, including the Gordons? residence, a secluded stone-clad bungalow.  Situated atop a slight hill and removed from the road by a long winding pathway, this unaffected, rustic building, with its cobbled chimney and timber framework evoked a pastoral way of life far removed from the behemothic Futurist towers that loomed above the city centre?s streets.  The oppressive skyscrapers that lined each side of Gotham?s thoroughfares seemed to converge at their summits blotting out whatever little light filtered through the perpetual smog, but from the Gordons? tranquil, unpolluted homestead, it was still possible to breathe clean air and gaze upon a clear sky.

It was nearly forty-eight hours since Jack Napier had plummeted to his death following his failed attempt to celebrate Gotham?s 200th Anniversary by unleashing toxic gas on hundreds of the city?s denizens.  Within that time, Commissioner James Gordon had commandeered a large-scale clean-up operation, including the identification of Napier?s many unfortunate individuals whose gas-filled corpses had lay strewn along Main Street, and the apprehension, arrest and subsequent interrogation of several of his henchmen; not to mention the infrequent up-to-date briefings he was obliged to provide the city?s senior officials, including Mayor Borg and District Attorney Harvey Dent, both of whom were scheduled to address the newly ?crime-free? Gotham at a press conference this evening.

It was now early morning, and having spent the entire last two days without a moment?s rest, the Commissioner was seizing the remaining few hours before he was due back at City Hall, for a short brief nap.  Careful not to awake his wife, who was presumably deep asleep by the time he arrived home at some ungodly hour of the morning the Commissioner, still bedecked in his long overcoat and fedora lay upon his favourite armchair, in an almost upright position with only his head slumped to one side, and his mouth agape and intermittently snoring.

Suddenly, the persistent ringing drill of a nearby alarm clock roused him from his not-quite REM slumber.

?Oh, dammit,? Gordon spluttered as he registered the time displayed on the clock?s face: seven o?clock.  Just barely enough time for a quick shower, a change into a new set of clothes and a quick bite to eat before two of his officers would be arriving in an unmarked police car in order to escort him back into the city.

?James, are you alright?  You looked like you?ve barely slept a wink dear,? enquired Gordon?s wife, Eileen as she emerged from the open kitchen from behind Gordon?s armchair to present him with a warm mug of coffee.

?I?m fine dear.  Thank you for the coffee.  Unfortunately, the boys will be here to collect me in half an hour, so I suppose I?ll have to delay my remaining forty winks for another time.?  Gordon smiled adoringly at his wife as she knelt by the left side of his chair.  A kindly, maternal looking woman with an elegant bouffant of fine white hair, Eileen Gordon had long reconciled herself to the fact that as Police Commissioner to the country?s most notoriously crime-infested city, her husband was never going to be able to settle into a nine to five routine.

?Barbara called last night.  She?d heard about what was happening in Gotham on TV and was worried for you.  She wishes she was here.?

Barbara was James and Eileen Gordon?s adopted daughter, and the most cherished presence in their lives.
 
James Gordon had first transferred to Gotham in 1966 as a veteran officer already in his late thirties, ostensibly as part of a new cleaner than clean task force intended to challenge the corruption that had begun to plague the city?s police force.  A staunchly dedicated officer who had gradually ascended through the ranks via the old fashioned means of pure diligence and hard work, he?d had both eyes on the ball but little time for anything approaching a social life.  Consequently, Gordon had only found true love with Eileen Estler, a former secretary at the mayor?s office at a stage in their lives when neither of held much hope of ever rearing children naturally.  However, the unforeseeable deaths of Lieutenant Patrick Brogan, a younger, albeit close friend and trusted colleague of the Commissioner, and Brogan?s wife had bequeathed the Gordons an unexpected twist-of-fate.  Ten years ago, immediately following a police function in honour of Gotham?s newly installed Commissioner, Brogan and his wife, Maggie had perished in a car bomb apparently planted to avenge Brogan?s recent collar; the high-profile arrest of one of the city?s most notorious mob bosses, Carmine Falcone.  Maggie had died instantly; Patrick, who had managed to avoid the full impact of the explosion died only a few hours later at Gotham County General having sustained first degree burns however, not before he had been able to speak to his best friend and confidante, James Gordon.  ?Promise me, you?ll take care of Barbara,? Patrick beseeched his fourteen-month old daughter?s godfather.  What could Gordon say?  Patrick Brogan had been his one true friend on the force; possibly the only other honest cop in Gotham.  Even without the full clarity of mind under those emotionally gruelling circumstances, it seemed apparent that the Brogan?s murder could only have been orchestrated with the cooperation of some of the officer?s colleagues, Gordon?s own men.  Gordon and his wife would not allow Barbara to be cast into the inequities of Gotham?s social welfare system, and above all he would vow to ensure she was protected from the violence that ravaged the city, and had deprived her of her parents.

Barbara, an academically and athletically prodigious eleven-year-old, had only recently commenced her first term at a Catholic boarding school several miles away from Gotham, and the depravity and deprivation James Gordon had vowed to shield her from.

?Thank God she?s not here Eileen.  I count my blessings that she was smart enough to get into that school.  I love Barbara like she was my own...she is our own, and you know it breaks my heart every day she?s not here.  But when I think of what happened to Patrick and her mother, and all that has happened in the last few days, I swear that we could not have made a better decision than to have sent Barbara away to school.  Gotham is not a place for a child to grow up in.  That much I promised her father.  I?ve seen too many good kids become twisted by this city.?

[johnnygobbs]

As scheduled a police escort arrived at half seven to take the Commissioner, who was now newly attired in his crisp navy blue police uniform to Gotham Central Precinct?s headquarters in the city centre.  The vast white marble steps that led to the police station?s entrance were bordered by two large plinths upon which stood statues that although long weathered, and eroded by acid rain, clearly represented the figure of Lady Justice holding aloft the Scales of Justice.  Gordon entered the swing doors into a large cavernous hall surrounded on either side by several stone archways that led to various corridors and rooms.  Rickety wooden benches lined up against the wall space between the archways, upon which sat various members of Gotham?s vulnerable and dispossessed lower orders, each of them either a felon or victim of crime.  Various officers were shuffling back and forth through the swing doors, bundling arrestees in the direction of the holding cells, or readying themselves for action as they raced out towards their cop cars.  A round four foot high wooden counter sat directly in the centre of the room behind which a burly desk sergeant was stationed.  He was currently engaged in conversation with an older similarly uniformed officer standing on the other side of the counter.  As Gordon approached these two men, the sergeant motioned to his elder colleague who swivelled around to register the Commissioner?s presence.  The elder man, Chief O?Hara greeted the Commissioner with a warm bonhomie that he reserved for very few people outside his close family, where even such displays of affability were sparing.

?Commissioner!  I?m glad to see you.  Were you able to get much rest?? he enquired in a distinctive Irish brogue, as he reached out to shake Gordon?s hand with one of his own powerful fists.  Although only a few years younger than Gordon, Miles O?Hara was still a fine specimen of health; a tall, robust, bald-pated credit to the force?s senior ranks, and since Patrick Brogan?s death, Gordon?s staunchest confidante and best friend within his team.  Nevertheless, the entirely mutual reverence each man shared for the other, and moreover, O?Hara?s utter dedication to procedural propriety deterred either of them from ever referring to each other by anything but their official police ranks.

?No.  Not really Chief.  Are we all set for the briefing?? replied Gordon.

?Yes Commissioner.  Most of the team?s gathered in the training room, but before we get started you might want to take a look at this,? whispered O?Hara as he guided the Commissioner a few yards away from the desk where he slid his commanding officer a thin unopened A-4 manila envelope.  Its front face was simply marked ?COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON, GOTHAM CENTRAL POLICE PRECINCT?.  Upon flipping over the envelope Gordon instantly understood why there was no return address.  The back of the envelope was sealed with a tiny insignia in the shape of a black bat cast against a yellow ellipse ? the Bat-emblem.

?We?ve had the forensic team scan the envelope,? O?Hara reassured him, keenly aware that the Commissioner?s natural prudence, not to mention forty years on the force, would compel him to approach such an unmarked package with suspicion, regardless of its apparent source.  Gordon gingerly tore the envelope and removed its contents.  As he scanned the enclosed documents, he smiled.  Batman had answered his question after all.

Gordon and O?Hara marched towards the training room deep within the labyrinthine police headquarters and the only room in the precinct large enough to hold two hundred and fifty officers, the one half of Gotham?s police unit who were not presently patrolling the city.

?Commissioner, we finally got the autopsy report on Alicia Hunt?s death,? O?Hara advised as they proceeded through the corridor.

A few days ago, the beautiful and statuesque Ms Hunt, Gotham?s most famous supermodel, a Vogue cover-girl no less, and the unfortunate former mistress of both Carl Grissom, until recently the city?s most notorious mob boss, and Jack Napier, had plummeted to a grisly death from her penthouse apartment, one hundred floors above the ground.  Though the force of her impact had mangled her once celebrated figure, on closer inspection of her corpse the on-the-scene officers had uncovered an easy grislier distortion of her features.  The entire left side of her otherwise classic catwalk model?s facial features was ravaged by corrosive acid burns.

?No foul play.  Suicide I?m afraid...We found her traces of her fingernails embedded into the outer wall and her shoe markings, several feet away from any of the windows.  It seems she had been standing on the ledge several minutes before she jumped.  I guess this is one death we can?t directly pin on Jack Napier, Commissioner.?

Gordon shook his head solemnly.  Such a tragic waste of a young life; Alicia Hunt had only been twenty-six.

?Has her family been informed?? he asked mournfully.

?Yes.  We?ve contacted her mother and sister in Bl?dhaven.  Apparently she hadn?t been in contact with them since she came to Gotham.?
Familiar story thought Gordon.  Young working class girl from a deprived neighbourhood, probably abandoned by her father at a young age, with not much else going for her but unyielding ambition and the type of good looks that are quickly seized upon and exploited by big city types.  It didn?t take a large stretch of the imagination to realise that a combination of low self-esteem and father-abandonment issues had allowed Alicia Hunt to become so easily mixed up with monsters like Carl Grissom and Jack Napier.  God knew what kind of effect such grotesque scarring had on the fragile mind of a woman who although brighter than she?d be given credit for, had rarely been valued as much more than a physically beautiful trophy.  At that moment, Gordon thought again of Barbara, and the life he and his wife had pledged to provide their adopted daughter.

The training room was stuffed to full capacity with various detectives and uniformed police officers, many of them squeezed against each other and perched atop the desks that adjoined their colleagues? wooden chairs, all mobilised towards a large black-board.

?Officers,? declared Chief O?Hara as he and Commissioner stood before their team, ?before I begin today?s briefing the Commissioner has a few words.  I know the last few days haven?t been easy, but I trust you?ll show the Commissioner the full respect he?s due.?

?Thank you Chief O?Hara.?  The Commissioner positioned himself at a focal spot in front of the black board, the better for him to affix his full attention on each and every officer present.

?Like the Chief, I appreciate that the last few days have been difficult, and I thank you all for work in restoring order back to Gotham after the chaos caused by Jack Napier and his men.  I now have a few words that I realise some of you will find difficult to accept,? Gordon continued.  ?As dedicated and as capable a team we are, our efforts to bring Napier to justice would have been for nought if it had not been for the actions of Batman...?

A clamorous groan erupted from Gordon?s audience, just the reaction Gordon had regrettably anticipated.  O?Hara, who Gordon knew was no more enamoured of Gotham?s masked vigilante than the vast majority of the assembled officers, stepped forward to sternly reprimand the chorus of objection that had been roused by Batman?s mere mention.

?As I was saying,? Gordon proceeded,? Batman?s actions alone saved hundreds of Gothamites, and as much as it pains me to say so, without his intervention many of us would not still be here today.  Gotham City and the police force in particular own him a tremendous deal of gratitude, and whilst I realise that this goes against every standard protocol we have correctly been trained to follow as police officers, I will today be advising both Mayor Borg and District Attorney Dent to assent to an official amnesty regarding the arrest and apprehension of Batman.?

Further groans and muttered dissent rumbled throughout the room, although one of the few officers who had remained resolutely silent on each occasion Batman?s name had been evoked, had unnervingly caught Gordon?s attention.  Detective Lieutenant Harvey Bullock, whose bear-like frame engulfed the fragile wooden armchair on which he sat, had instead glowered accusingly at Gordon throughout the short speech.  Waiting for the din of his colleagues to die down, he now took this opportunity to add his own personal thoughts on Gordon?s announcement.

Eyeing the Commissioner with the type of insouciance one would not ordinarily expect to see directed at a senior officer, particularly one who was, for the most part, as beloved and respected as James Worthington Gordon, Bullock started to speak.

?You?re seriously asking us to kowtow to a man who dresses in a black S & M costume and chooses to do things to perps that would get most honest, decent, authorised crime-fighters thrown off the force?? he growled.

?Sounds like you?re jealous of the Bat, Harvey.  This hasn?t got anything to do with some suppressed sexual issues perchance?? chided Crispus Allen, a tall, suave, shaven-headed black fellow Detective Lieutenant standing a few officers behind Bullock, and as smartly and nattily dressed for a plainclothes detective, as his target?s attire was shabby and crumpled.

?Or maybe he?s just sore after he and his boys got their asses whooped by Batman the other night,? added Jim Corrigan, a sly, red-haired, roguishly handsome Detective Sergeant, whose apparent ?lady?s man? reputation amongst the force, had been a long bug-bear for Bullock.

Barely disguising his distaste for his slick, ?pretty-boy? colleagues Bullock countered their poor taste at humour.  ?Maybe, with all the energy you boys spend cracking jokes, you and Commish here have forgotten what happened to Johnny Gobs!? he rasped menacingly.

Johnny ?Gobs? Gobley was a real sweet, misunderstood character.  A speed junkie, so-called because of his manic, drug-fuelled, logorrheic way of speaking, Gobs was also, less charmingly a violent and twisted mugger, who had in his younger, more lucid days been under the employ of Carl Grissom.  At the top of his lengthy and notorious rap sheet, the brutal and unspeakable murder of a family of four.  Gobs had smashed his way into their modest home in The Narrows, Gotham?s most deprived district.  Although poor, the well-upholstered facade of this particular family?s ground floor brownstone apartment would have been incredibly inviting to a low-life drug-addict like Gobs scrounging for the cash to secure his next fix.  In the frenzied and ultimately frustrated attempt to ransack their home for some easily saleable valuables Gobs had awoken the unfortunate family, a couple and their two young children.  Brandishing a knife, he?d apparently cornered the family into their kitchen, at the back of the apartment before slashing the father?s abdomen causing the man to subsequently bleed to death on the ceramic floor.  Gobs had then forced the man?s wife and their pre-adolescent son and daughter into the kitchen?s adjoining pantry, a tiny, windowless room barely bigger than a standard cupboard, and applied a kitchen chair in order to lodge its handle firmly in place and therefore, entirely unyielding to the desperate and panicking individuals trapped inside.  Having completed his relatively fruitless plunder of the family home, Gobs, twisted degenerate that he was, proceeded to the pi?ce de r?sistance of his depraved night?s work.  Upon setting out through the apartment?s back doorway at the side of the kitchen that led onto the seemingly desolate streets outside, Gobs twisted one of the knobs on the kitchen?s old-fashioned gas cooker, patiently waiting several minutes for the resultant gas to seep through most of the ground floor, whilst the already terrified mother and children, perceiving the unsettling high-pitched whirring sound of the gas cooker close-by, redoubled their frenzied yet futile efforts to budge open the pantry door, and scream for help.  Finally, Gobs having jogged a few yards away from the building, lit a dishcloth he?d extracted from the family?s kitchen and launched it from some distance in their direction, before darting down the long alleyway choosing not to stick around for the devastating effects of his handy-work.

Although Gobs had not been directly identified at the scene, he was naturally Gotham PD?s number one suspect and having been picked up by squad he?d been completely unable to provide an alibi or any coherent explanation for his whereabouts at the very instance this horrific crime had occurred.  Unfortunately, Gobs had been entirely unable to provide anything approaching coherence upon his arrest.  After hours upon hours of allegedly brutal interrogation, in which the methamphetamine-dependent Gobs had been deprived of his fix and consequently, gone into intense withdrawal symptoms, thereby prompting his subsequent confession; or so Gob?s sly, highly-skilled lawyer, conveniently arranged at Carl Grissom?s expense had contented.  Naturally, Gobs was released on account of these technicalities to the utter disgust and incomprehension of Gotham?s seemingly impotent police squad, including Detective Harvey Bullock, one of the officers who had (mis)commandeered the arrest.

Of course, that was not the end of the story for Mr ?Gobs?.  Merely days later, the degenerate?s pallid, scrawny corpse had been discovered spread-eagled in the gutter in one of Central Gotham?s less salubrious alleyways only a few blocks away from the notorious ?Crime Alley? itself.  Gobs had evidently fallen from one of the rooftops that stood a hundred feet or so above the wretched street below, which was now adorned with his horrific blood-drained corpse.  Whilst it was entirely conceivable that a crazed junkie like Gobs may have jumped, the blood-curdling screams that had preceded the discovery his body by mere minutes, along with the ghastly, petrified expression of absolute fear that spread across his skeletal face suggested otherwise.  Moreover, a shadowy, caped almost animalistic figure had been identified by a various number of Gob?s fellow deadbeats and junkies moments before he had apparently disappeared, more specifically rumoured to have resembled a giant bat...

?What do you care, Harvey?  Since when were you and Gobs drinking buddies?? scoffed Allen, in response to Bullock?s uncharacteristic display of concern for the prior wellbeing of a known criminal, especially one so utterly despicable, and with somewhat untactful reference to his colleague?s borderline alcoholism.

It was obvious that Bullock was no stickler for police procedure, and would have happily have ended Gob?s life himself.  This incident was merely one of the most notorious examples of Batman?s own merciless and apparently fatal brand of justice, and a convenient way for Bullock to focus his colleagues? attention onto the lawless methods of his current b?te noir.

Asserting his authority and re-seizing attention before his officers could continue this line of discussion, the Commissioner re-addressed his troops.

?There is no evidence to substantiate Batman?s involvement in any murder, including Johnny Gob?s.  It?s clear from our investigations that the fatalities that have been linked to Batman were conducted in self-defence.  Moreover, Batman can no longer be perceived as a threat to Gotham.  I look forward to the day when this Police Department has the resources appropriate for dealing with the most crime-ridden city in America, but I regret whilst we deal with the fallout of Grissom and Napier?s deaths, we may come to rely on the support and capabilities Batman can provide.?

From the back of the room a slender female hand raised to the air amidst the throng of overwhelmingly male officers.

?Yes, Officer Montoya?? Gordon pointed in the direction of a tall, trim, classically beautiful twenty-year old Latino rookie officer straight out of the police academy (who would surely, had she been so disposed, have guaranteed a successful career as a fashion model).

?Commissioner Gordon, will we be able to contact Batman?? Renee Montoya asked earnestly.

Gordon smiled approvingly at Montoya, an extremely promising new recruit who?d aced her physical and academic aptitude tests way ahead of her peers.  Displaying the envelope he?d received that morning he proceeded to remove various documents.

?We received a letter from Batman.  He states that ?Gotham City has earned a rest from crime...but if the forces of evil should ever rise again, to cast a shadow on the heart of the city? we should call him.  With this message he has provided the blue-prints, including the exact specifications for its dimensions and location, for a symbol.  The Bat-symbol,? and with that Gordon was done.  He handed the floor back to Chief O?Hara before preparing to depart for his rendezvous with Gotham?s senior officials, anticipating yet more of the same scepticism and discontentment that had greeted his meeting with Gotham?s rank and file.

To be continued...

[Sandman]

Wow This is some really good stuff, I like to see it turned into a comic or GN.

[Catwoman]

awesomeness!

you're kicking my ass.

[johnnygobbs]

awesomeness!

you're kicking my ass.

Thanks Sandman and Catwoman.

P.S.: Catwoman your fanfic is brilliant and much more dynamic than anything I'm capable of writing.     Still, the important thing is that people are reading our stories! 

[johnnygobbs]

Chapter Five: Bruce Wayne

Gotham City, Thursday 7th December 1989, Early Afternoon.  Alfred pulled up the Rolls Royce alongside Seventh Avenue?s pavement, yards away from Pearl and Phillips Street which led to the aptly named ?Crime Alley?, and solemnly proceeded to usher Master Wayne and Miss Vale from the vehicle.  Bruce gravely emerged from the Rolls clutching a thin piece of paper carefully wrapped around a pair of fresh roses in one hand, and the other arm tightly interlocked with Vicki's, who was dressed in an uncharacteristically sober black cape-like hooded coat.

?Thank you Alfred,? uttered Bruce as he and Vicki departed the car.  Vicki smiled and nodded appreciatively to the earnest butler, registering their shared reverence for the occasion in hand.

?Please offer my respects Master Wayne.?  Alfred bowed his head respectfully and clasped his hands against his front in an obeisant manner as he waited dutifully besides the Rolls, whilst his employer made his way towards the very spot where his parents had been taken from him twenty-two years ago to the day.

Formerly the hub of Gotham's thriving commercial district during the height of the post-war era, Seventh Avenue's array of high-end department stores and classic family diners were now little more than a barely plausible memory.  If his recollection of that fateful night in 1967 had not been so unbearably vivid, Bruce would have struggled to reconcile the grim, barren virtual wasteland that now stood in Seventh Avenue's place, with the bright, bustling city centre of its 1950s and 60s heyday.  Even the smaller five-and-dime stores that had once stood yards away from their more prestigious commercial rivals had been long abandoned; the rusty shutters and wooden boards that barracked these buildings inflicted with decades of wear and tear.  The once majestic Monarch Theatre was a mere remnant of its former glory; faded, barely decipherable posters heralding 'Footlight Frenzy' still streamed across the side walls, testament to the show's one and only performance.

The murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne had caused a seismic jolt amongst Gotham's hitherto carefree and untroubled elite.  To the city's privileged classes, the deaths of two of their most respected and esteemed peers represented a warning shot from the then burgeoning criminal underclass; the city centre was now out of bounds for all but the most seedy and sordid of Gotham's inhabitants.  The tree lighting ceremony that was to have taken place that Christmas had been immediately cancelled; for the subsequent two decades, the city's infamous festive celebrations proceeded on a much reduced scale.  The Monarch Theatre had temporarily closed during the investigation into the Waynes' murder, the surrounding streets having been cordoned off from the public for much of the remainder of the festive period.  Unfortunately, after weeks of fruitless investigation the city centre had receded into a virtual ghost town.  No longer would a respectable, average citizen venture into this part of the city, far less for the light-hearted escapism of a family evening at the theatre.
 
No, this part of town had been resurrected as a playground for Gotham's criminal underworld; a no-go area for anyone else, especially if they were rich.  If one had money and still wanted to live within the city, they would have been best advised to purchase a place in the tallest and most impregnable penthouse they could get their hands on.  Better yet to have fled the centre of Gotham entirely, and to have moved to one of the various suburban or rural enclaves on the city's periphery.

Bruce knelt down at the spot where his parents had been killed.  Carefully, he placed each rose on the ground.  "Rest in peace," Bruce whispered, semi-aware that these words partly represented a self-directed plea to him-self to move on from his torment.  Vicki placed a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder as he rose up.
 
"It's over Bruce.  We can now get on with our lives."  Bruce turned to face her.  Vicki's face was suffused with genuine compassion, but the sorrow in her bright, azure eyes was not simply grief at Bruce's loss, but seemed to be pleading with him for as much her sake as his.  His parents' murderer had been avenged.  He had finally been able to lay them both to rest.  It was now time for him to let go.  Batman?s purpose had surely been extinguished, and Bruce could finally begin to live some semblance of a normal life without the inexorable grip of his desire for justice.  "I hope so," he semi-lied.

Maybe, Vicki was right.  Maybe, it was over.  ?Crime Alley? may have been beyond redemption, but there were already signs to suggest that the "times were a changin' back".  Within the last few months, several of Gotham's leading citizens, like corporate raider and the 'Gotham Globe's' recently nominated 'Man of the Year', Max 'Maximillions' Shreck, had begun reinvesting much of their long-accumulated wealth into various local businesses, particularly within the city's financial district, including Gotham Plaza (one of the few central locales that had remained relatively unscathed by crime during the city's worst years).  The various developments that had instantly sprung into development during the last few months following the demise of the monolithic Grissom, and his deranged prot?g?, Jack Napier, already heralded a new dawn for a long beleaguered metropolis; the vast entertainment complex owned by the uncannily perspicacious Shreck, which bordered Gotham Central?s harbour, was mere months away from completion.  Perhaps Gotham City was back, and just maybe, it no longer needed Batman as its saviour anymore.  After all, for a city to need a hero, it also needed a villain...

To be continued...

[johnnygobbs]

Chapter 6: District Attorney Harvey Dent

A veritable mob of reporters had braved the chilly December late afternoon frost and were gathered expectantly on Gotham Port for what was surely to be the city?s biggest story since Jack Napier?s campaign of terror had very nearly contrived to bring about its very destruction.  In fact, since the revelation that Gotham?s very own guardian angel had emerged in the form of a six-foot bat, things had been dispiritingly (and uncharacteristically) quiet for its local journos.  Just as well that hack, Alexander Knox was too preoccupied with his own book launch tonight to steal anyone?s thunder on this story.

The rapacious mob had been kept waiting for a couple of hours and were each desperately rubbing their hands or pulling tightly against their thick winter jackets in order to insulate themselves from the harsh winter sea breeze.  All eyes were converged on one spot in the distance, Abaddon Island, the foreboding location of Gotham Penitentiary, one of the country?s most notorious penal facilities.  From their vantage point, one and three-quarter miles from Abaddon, it was possible to identify the movement of the gargantuan wooden doors that served as the only legitimate exit to the vast twenty-foot high stone perimeter that enclosed the prisons.  Moments later, a tiny white flashing light, signifying a speedboat began to emerge from across the strip of water that separated the twenty acre island from Gotham?s mainland.  Within minutes the vehicle lined up against the short pier that projected from the port, prompting the legion of assorted news-people and camera crew to ascend in its direction.  Huddled between two uniformed officers, and finally preparing to presumably savour his first steps upon mainland in ten years, was the object of their journalistic fervour, Carmine Falcone.

Long before the likes of Grissom and Napier had seized their malign grip upon the city, not to mention the swaggering likes of young-bucks such as Sal Maroni and his ilk, Carmine Falcone had effectively controlled Gotham?s powerful underworld with a vice-like grip.  It was his emergence as the city?s prime mob Don that had inexorably transformed Gotham?s landscape from a relatively family-friendly metropolis, to the seedy den of inequity it had become in the last few decades; and yet, for the more seasoned of the present crowd, the once formidable Mafioso was now a mere shadow of the virile, dominant character of their recollections.  The Carmine that stood before them cut a forlorn, humble figure, making every attempt to disengage his sight from the multitude of flashing cameras, and the looming microphones and tape-recorders that were being thrust towards him.  Although Carmine?s naturally jowly, olive-skinned face had never been particularly handsome, even in its heyday, his features? once vibrant, robust character had receded, weathered by a decade behind bars, an environment where youth and physical strength counted for far more than the wealth and power he had accumulated on the outside.  Yet, here he was, released back into society having served merely half of a twenty year sentence for a multifarious list of felonies, including burglary, extortion, drug trafficking, racketeering, the organisation of illegal prostitution and conspiracy.  Following lengthy deliberations, a four-man parole board panel composed of four of the city?s most esteemed criminal experts had adjudged Carmine Falcone eligible for release.  Yes, Gotham?s one-time most notorious criminal had ultimately been deemed a credit to the rehabilitative and restorative functions of the penal system; though more accurately, it had perhaps been a gesture of mercy for an elderly, borderline frail and seemingly defanged man whose unprepossessing form surely posed no imaginable threat to the world.  A far greater gesture of mercy however, would have spared this chastised figure the indignity of the invasive and borderline hostile crowd that stood in his way.

?So Carmine, you got any plans now that Carl Grissom?s out of the picture?? enquired a particularly brash and rather insinuating reporter.

At that very moment, a tall, wiry late twenty-something man with a head of uncommonly bright red hair and garbed in a very slick, tailored suit and shades cut a purposeful swath through the crowd all the way up to Carmine, and the two officers, whose own exit had been forestalled by the teaming pack of reporters.  He had emerged from a black limousine with tinted windows, parked yards away from the docking bay, and was immediately followed by two further figures; a powerfully built platinum-blonde bedecked entirely in black, including shades and a stylish velvet pillbox hat, who could almost be described as beautiful were it not for the contemptuous, unfeminine scowl that permanently burdened her face; and a younger, thinner, bespectacled and relatively handsome man who wore his thick dirty-blonde hair in a rather unruly mop, and dressed almost identically to the first gentleman yet carried himself in an altogether less prepossessing manner than either of his companions.

?Our father has got nothing to say to you parasites,? affirmed the red-haired gentleman through gritted teeth, as he placed one arm around Carmine?s back as support.

?Parasites!? exclaimed a squat, middle-aged reporter dressed in stereotypical tabloid hack?s attire, all wide-brimmed fedora and tawny trench-coat amidst a roar of loud guffaws.

?That?s okay Alberto, I?m not an invalid,? affirmed Carmine as he brushed his eldest son?s arm away before turning to face the assembled crowd.

?I realise that when I stand before you and renounce my criminal past it will be hard for many of you to stomach.  After all, that is what you would expect me to say.  I also realise that for many of you I have not paid my full debt to society, but it is true that ?there is no person so severely punished, as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse?,? Carmine announced, asserting much of authority he once carried.  

He continued placing his left hand against his upper left torso got added effect.  ?I experienced a very real epiphany during my time behind bars.  I have seen the effects that crime can ravage on the lives of not only the victims, but the criminals themselves.  You mention Carl Grissom.  With respect to my former associate, I can honestly state that I would rather die a poor invalid, than become a wealthy bullet-ridden corpse...I am truly sincere when I say, with my hand on my heart, that I am a changed man.  Now, I would be grateful if you would please let Alberto, Sofia, Mario and I make our way back home in peace.?

Alberto exchanged a dismayed frown with his similarly incensed sister, Sofia, one that seemingly escaped their impassive younger brother, Mario.  The arrogant defiance with which Alberto and Sofia had initially met the crowd had turned, upon their father?s contrite words, to barely concealed rage.  With those words, Carmine turned towards the limo, his children in tow and allowed himself to be ushered into the vehicle by his strapping hulk of a chauffeur.

?It?s good to have you back sir,? greeted the driver, in a deep, reverberative bellow of a voice.

?Thank you Flass,? Carmine responded.

As the Falcone?s limo sped away from the incessant heard of reporters, Summer Gleason, a slender, vivacious tabloid TV news correspondent swung her head, along with her glamorous mane of long, glossy, wind-resistant red hair, to face her colleague?s TV camera.

?This is Summer Gleason reporting directly from Gotham Port for ?Gotham Live?,? smiled Ms Gleason staring directly into the camera?s glare.  ?Carmine Falcone, one-time king of Gotham?s underworld has renounced a lifetime of criminal activity spanning several decades, and an entire gamut of felonies.  Where the infamous Falcone family will go from here is anyone?s guess...?