Gotham: A Novel

[Boba_Fett_123]

So with The Dark Knight approaching, I've gotten a lot more into Batman again, and decided to try my hand at a fan fic novel. I don't know how long, exactly, it's going to end up being, or how long it'll take, but I plan to finish. I figure I'll post chapters here as I finish them, get feedback, and the like. Hopefully, you'll read and comment. I haven't done anything fan fic for a while, so I'm excited to get back into it. This is my first serious attempt at writing Batman, as well, so hopefully I've gotten it to some extent. Here's the prologue:


Gotham: A Novel


Heath


prologue

The city. My city.
Twenty years ago today, Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered, on a small back street called Crime Alley. It had been known as that before. They were on that street, not by choice, but necessity.
The man who shot them did so for petty reasons. For the pearls around her neck. The fifty dollars in his wallet. Things.
He didn’t do it for their son. He did not, I think, relish the fear, the terror, in his eyes when he saw his parents lying in their own blood on the cold, hard cement.
Twenty years ago today, I made a promise to my parents that I would rid the city of the evil that took their lives. I believe someday I will make good on that promise.
Twenty years later, I’m still fighting.

* * *

Night had fallen on Gotham. These days it mostly seems like night anyway, Barbara guessed. It didn’t matter much where the sun was in the sky. Between the pollution, the dilapidation; boarded buildings, defunct light rail. Gotham was a s.hit hole, these days, and no one could deny it. No one tried. Except, of course, Barb thought, Dad. Dad would definitely try to deny it. He’d spent the better part of his life fighting the evil that seemed to have gotten its unbreakable grip around Gotham. And all of her life, for that matter.
Barbara didn’t hold a grudge, though. It was hard to, considering where she’d found herself. Because Gotham didn’t have just one defender. Jim Gordon did good, no doubt, but he had help. The Batman, they called him. He began around the time that Jim moved to Gotham, when Barbara had been five. Not much more than an urban myth. He took out mostly small time criminals. Muggers. Would-be rapists. Nobody thought he was real. He was the Bogeyman, the monster under your bed, a night time story to scare your kid into brushing his teeth. It had carried on that way for a while, Barb remembered.
But something changed. It turned out that the Batman was very real, after all. And for every action…
It seemed, to most, sometimes even to Dad, uncomfortably, that Batman had a knack for attracting the more colorful variety of criminal to the city. It began after his war with the mob. When the Falcone family fell, any structure that the underworld had went with it. And then the Joker.
Barb remembered the Joker well. He had put her in this wheelchair. The Joker had single-handedly ended Barb’s career as Batgirl, one of several members of Batman’s small army. Jason Todd was dead. His blood was on Joker’s hands, as well. Countless others. Too many.
Sarah.
God, Sarah.
So now, Barbara was Oracle. Helping Batman keep tabs on all of Gotham, and occasionally beyond, if Clark or Oliver ever got too out of hand. So she couldn’t hold a grudge against Dad, when she put her life on the line so much more than he ever dreamed of. He knew, now. There was no way around it. Barbara liked it better that way. He knew about Batman, Robin, Nightwing, Huntress…secret identities had lost their usefulness among friends. Especially with so few friends left.
In many ways, Barb thought, that’s what Gotham was. Just a graveyard, full of lost friends. Dead, or worse. Too many good men and women fell prey to whatever it was about this God forsaken city. She’d do better to get the hell out. Something Mom would say. Not Sarah, but definitely Mom. But she owed a debt, to Batman. To her father.
To him. He was supposedly dead. Supposedly, at Batman’s hands. Batman had told her it was the only kill that didn’t keep him up at night. Of course, he had that pledge. “The Batman doesn’t kill,” he had told Huntress, before allowing her into the group. He had been firm. But for him…the world was a better place without the Joker. Everyone knew it. Barbara only wished it had been her. Dad had blown his kneecaps out, after he killed Sarah. And maybe that was revenge enough. For him, at least. But for her…he was dead, and it was still better than he deserved.
Night had fallen on Gotham.
Time to work.

* * *

“Oracle.”
His voice comes in clear, distinct. “Here, Batman.” No nonsense.
“I need a scan of the Upper East Side.”
“Got it.” Barb swiveled around her “command center”, as Huntress so lovingly called it. Once at the proper terminal, she called up the satellite images around the Upper East Side. She had hacks into every major information center around Gotham, some with Dad’s help. Illegal, naturally, but hey, what could a girl do? A lot of things they did were illegal. In her view, it didn’t make it wrong. “It’s clean.”
“Strange.”
“Why?”
“Because you should at least see me.”
“Ah. That is strange.” Barb immediately began running through her head, trying to determine what could be the problem, if there even was one. Some said he could become invisible.
“Focus on the pier,” Batman said.
“Gotcha.” She hit a few buttons. “There.”
“I’m going to throw a flare. Now.” She heard a muffled sound that indicated the flash had gone off. She checked the monitor, then frowned.
“Nothing.”
There was silence for a second. She knew he was frustrated. After quite a bit of practice, it became easy to differentiate the many ways that Batman could not talk. “Someone replaced the images. You can detect movement?” She hated that, the question that really didn’t sound like a question at all, because, as usual, Batman knew the answer first.
“Yeah, it’s a normal image. Someone must have uploaded an archived recording. I’ll see if I can track the date. It’ll take a while, though.”
“Good.”
Barb frowned again. “Anything to worry about?”
“There’s no immediate threat.” That didn’t make sense.
“Then what brought you there?”
“Nothing in particular. I’m returning to base.”
Barb rolled her eyes. It was worst when he got like this. Pious. “I’ll check in. Want me to come over?”
“It can wait.” He signed off after that. It was rude, but she was used to that.

* * *

Batman entered the cave, ragged, tired. But it was Bruce Wayne who slouched back in the chair, in front of the computer screen, cowl pulled back. Alfred, Bruce’s trusted servant and—he shuddered sometimes at the realization—best friend, arrived promptly, as he had for the past twenty years. “Master Bruce?”
“I’m fine, Alfred.”
Of course Alfred knew better. He always did. “I was under the impression, sir, that tonight would be a slow night.”
“It was. Physically.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. He thought Bruce didn’t notice. He never seemed to think Bruce could see, but Bruce could never mind. It was amusing, at any rate, and again, Alfred had never let him down. Never would. “Ah. I see.”
Bruce almost cracked a smile, as he felt his guard finally coming down. “Go ahead, Alfred.”
“I was only wondering, sir, if this had anything to do with Miss Kyle?”
Damn. Alfred always knew better. “You’ve never wondered a day in your life, Alfred.”
Alfred smiled. “Truer words, Master Bruce. If you won’t be needing anything else?”
“I’ll be fine, Alfred. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.” Alfred left again, through some passage or another that would take him out of the caverns to Wayne Manor above. Thomas Wayne’s house. My father’s house, Bruce thought. Never mine. This cave had always felt more like home. But then, Batman had always felt more like a real person. Bruce Wayne, or rather the man Bruce Wayne might have been, had vanished twenty years before. Killed, with his parents. Now, Wayne existed as a façade. A necessity to allow the Batman to operate in secret.
But Bruce Wayne was not without his benefits.
Selina.

* * *

Bruce had met Selina early in his career. She had been a prostitute, seeing no other way to make money in the Narrows, until her pimp raped her little sister. She killed the pimp, took her sister, and left for an orphanage in the East End. She’d been reluctant to share that with him, but he found out anyway. He always had to find out.
Before he learned that, though, he learned of Selina’s own secret identity. Catwoman had been a thorn in his side for sometime, and somehow he had never suspected that she and Selina would turn out to be one and the same. Her loyalties had never been clear to him, and could change at her slightest whim. Lately, he had heard nothing from her at all, foul or friendly. Given her time off the radar, then, her visit to him tonight had been…unexpected, to say the least. “Something’s wrong,” she’d said, enigmatically. She’d been all business. Almost as though she’d forgotten what they had. But then she dropped the real news, and he knew, she hadn’t forgotten at all.
“I’m pregnant, Bruce.” In typical fashion—stupid, Bruce—he’d immediately scolded her for using his true name. She’d gotten angry. She left. Bruce Wayne had a daughter.

 

[Victarion]

Good beginning, let me give you some advice: show, rather than tell. I can't stress that enough. I'm not familiar with the comic mythos outside of the "Big 3", but this sounds pretty good.

 

[Boba_Fett_123]

Well, yeah, show don't tell is a big rule. It's tough with this opening, mostly because there was just a bunch of backstory that IS relevant to my story, but that wasn't going to actually take place in the story, and so yeah, I kind of had to go exposition heavy. That was part of the reason I chose to just do a prologue and get it all out of the way. Plus, I'm obviously tweaking continuity a bit for those who really follow the Batman mythos, so I needed to kind of smooth all the retcons over in the beginning, as well. The rest of it should be a lot less exposition-y.

 

[Boba_Fett_123]

First part of chapter one:

chapter one

Dark. Always dark. Dad in the living room, drinking in front of the television, or else passed out in front of it. Watching the same old ****. Miami Vice, or old reruns of stupid shows that were never funny. Mom alone in her room, never talking to anyone. Not even me. It had been this way for sixteen years, and it would never change. Gotta go. Night had fallen on Gotham. Time to work.
Selina opened the window to her bedroom, too practiced at this, as always. The bravest men didn’t want to traipse around the Narrows at this time; Selina did it nightly. Her sister had already left, she guessed. She would have to kill Maggie later for that. Fourteen was no age to be out on your own, though, Selina thought wryly, sixteen couldn’t be that much better.
Selina reached the ground, wet from earlier rain. A cat hissed at her from a dark corner. One of Mom’s. She always did prefer the cats. Selina walked down the street, alone, unafraid of what might happen. That was what the gun was for. She’d stolen it from her father’s room a month ago, after a drunk tried to rape her on her way to work. He’d been a paying customer two nights later. God, what the hell am I doing? Selena thought. This was no way to live. She laughed to herself at that thought. In the Narrows, that was the only way to live. She reached her corner, expecting to meet Stan. For change, would you believe it? She had to give these people change. But Stan wasn’t there.
Confused, Selina stood, assuming the best thing would be to just get on with it. Try as she could, though, something wouldn’t let her go. She contemplated for a second going back home, quickly decided against it. Where the hell was Stan? She knew his address; a dumpy little shack of a place, broken windows and a door half of the hinges, up the Narrows a bit toward the East End. It was by Crime Alley. People mostly avoided the area. It had gotten a bunch of publicity four years before, when that rich couple was killed. Wayne, their name was, she thought. The thought got at her…the Wayne’s had had a kid her age, Bruce. He stayed at the manor now, outside the city a bit. They said he was a troubled one, a so called “problem child”. She couldn’t blame him.
Did she want to go the way of the Waynes? The Narrows were bad enough. It wasn’t worth the night’s pay to try tracking down Stan. It was his own damn fault he didn’t show up on time. Home, then. Annoyed more than anything, Selina turned back to her house. She retraced her steps through the Narrows, this time heading the opposite direction, toward the better part. Like you could call anything about it better. As she walked down the street, she saw the dilapidation, the sheer hopelessness that had seized the city, refusing to let go for anyone. Not even for two girls caught in some crap, useless family. A hobo on the street stirred as she walked past, handle of vodka clasped securely in his hand. Prostitutes walked up and down the Narrows, Selina recognizing some of them. She felt a twang of anger—self pity?—as she fleetingly realized that she was upset because one of them would undoubtedly run her corner for the night. She needed the money, though. Someone had to support Maggie, and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be Brian. Her waste of life father made just enough to buy the booze he needed to get through the week. Her mother spent all her time alone anyway, like she wanted out of this life. Like anyone didn’t?
A light breeze had picked up, causing Selina to wrap herself a little more tightly around herself. She noticed that there were no police around, something that had, once upon a time, surprised her. Now she knew the reality, that Detective Flass was paid off by Carmine Falcone to keep out, and the rest of the GCPD was all too happy to comply—as long as Flass shared. She’d be insulted, but it was her livelihood they were keeping intact. Two more years and she’d be out, anyway. Finally.
Reaching the house, she found it exactly as she’d left it. Brian still passed out. Mom who knows where. Maggie still not home. That was the part that worried her. She crept upstairs, figuring she’d make an attempt at striking up a conversation with Mom, if only to figure out if she had a clue where Maggie had gone. Fat chance, Selina thought. She opened the door to her parents’ bedroom—really just Mom’s now, it wasn’t like Dad ever came upstairs—and froze.
Mom was on the bed, half her head blown across the mattress and sprayed across the wall. Her cats were around her body, one licking at the blood near her scalp. Selina crept over and picked that one up, moving it away. There was pistol in her hand—Selina recognized it as Dad’s—but nothing else was out of the ordinary. No note, no goodbye. Just a dead mother.
She’d finally had enough, Selina supposed. Most kids would scream, cry. Selina found it hard to believe that anyone but her could just shrug and say, “About time”. There was sadness, she supposed, but more for the pathetic woman her mother had been than the gutless way she chose to die. She turned to go back downstairs, wondering vaguely if Dad would care, and as she descended the stairs, she decided exactly what she was going to do.
She stood in front of the couch. “Brian.” She never called him Dad. He didn’t deserve it. He stirred, looked at her.
“What do you want?”
“Mom killed herself. I’m leaving, and I’m taking Maggie with me.”
And with two sentences, so few words for such a gigantic change, Selina Kyle walked out the front door of her father’s house, with no intention of ever looking back.

* * *

“Master Bruce? Do you need anything?”
Alfred Pennyworth peered into Bruce’s room. The boy, merely sixteen, was still coping with the death of his parent’s. Understandably so, Alfred thought. Alfred had been trying for some time to get Peggy to take him back to England for a spell; Gotham was no place for children. But Bruce had been resolute. He’d stay. “I’m fine, Alfred.”
Alfred had been around people for long enough in his almost fifty years to know that his was not the voice of “fine” people, but he had also been around Master Bruce long enough to know not to argue the point. He considered bringing up Peggy’s flat again, but perhaps twice in a week would be too much pressure on the boy, and heaven knew he’d had more than enough of that. Instead, he turned to leave the room, knowing that if he were truly needed, he would be summoned. “Very well, Master Bruce,” he said, curtly turning down the hall and down the stairs, down to the foyer, the grand entrance hall that would never again be used by Thomas and Martha.
Given the hour, he was quite surprised to be called upon. Standing already in the foyer, apparently having let herself in, was Leslie Thompkins. “Hello, Alfred,” she said simply.
“Isn’t it rather late, Leslie?”
“I was in the area. How is he?”
Alfred sighed. “He’s coping as best he can.”
“It’s been four years. I still stand by my previous recommendation.”
Now Alfred began to get annoyed. Leslie believed Bruce should seek counseling for his grief; Alfred quite agreed, but Master Bruce had refused the attempt. Alfred didn’t see it as prudent to force him into anything. He deftly turned the conversation into a different direction. “What brought you into Gotham?”
“Work. I’m an attending at Wayne Memorial now,” Leslie said. The hospital at which Thomas had worked (and to which he had donated generous sums) had been renamed for him nearly a year after his murder.
“So you’ll be living in the city, then?” Alfred asked.
“Yeah. I have an apartment in the Fashion District.” She folded her arms, fishing for the next thing to say. “So maybe we’ll be seeing more of each other, now?”
Alfred closed his eyes. Why like this, why now? “Why would you come back here, Les?” It was the question she’d come to hear, in a way, Alfred knew. She had doubts, must have had doubts, but she needed somebody else to raise them. She always had.
“I guess I’m tethered here, Alfred. Every time I try to leave, I end up back again. If I have to stay, it may as well be for Thomas.”
“You could have stayed in Metropolis,” Alfred said. “Somewhere safe. Better.”
“I could have. But I can do good here.” She sounded like Thomas, Alfred thought. “I believe in Gotham City, Alfred. If enough people try to save it, Gotham can be saved.”
“Some things can be too far gone.”
Leslie locked her eyes with his. “Nothing is too far gone.” She was burning with a passion Alfred hadn’t seen in a long, long time. “I’m going to stay here and fight. You remember the time, Alfred, when this city was good. It hasn’t always been like this.” She was right, of course. Gotham was steeped in history, had only in the last forty or so years truly began to decline. “This used to be a place to raise your children, to build your family. We can get that back.”
Alfred looked at her intently, and even as he did, he thought of Peggy. He took a deep breath, seeing her point, but still knowing what he held to be true. To be right. “Gotham is no place for children.” He saw the light in her eyes go out as he said it, felt the knife piercing his own heart as he felt her own pain, her own disappointment in him.
“You’ve changed, Alfred.”
“So has Gotham. So has the world.”
She looked sadder than Alfred had ever seen her, but he knew that he could not support her in this. “Good night, Alfred. I’ll show myself out.”
“Good night, Les.” She turned and left through the door. Alfred stood alone in the foyer and watched her go, watched the moonlight creeping in through the crack in the door slowly fade as it shut behind her.