Chapter Text
“Well, this is a right goddamn mess,” Harvey Bullock said as he reached into his trenchcoat pocket for his pack of cigarettes. The glare he got from Commissioner James Gordon made him drop his arm with a huff. “What? Not like he’ll mind any,” he said, motioning to the unconscious man lying faceup in a pile of dirt and garbage.
Refraining from rolling his eyes, Gordon shook his head. “Yeah, but I do. Don’t need you tainting what little evidence there is. Save it for your coffee break.”
Carefully stepping around the established perimeter, Gordon took in the scene in front of him. He'd only arrived thirty minutes ago, the scene having been discovered in the last two hours, and the crime scene techs had already put up the large canopy tents to try and save anything that might be left for them to find; the steady downpour making the underlying stench of Gotham rise to permeate the air and sweeping the traces away that would tell them how this had taken place. There were twisted metal bars, shattered plywood, blood smears across the concrete. A steel support beam was dented inward - hard. Somehow the impression in the steel appeared to be an imprint of a fist. How this wasn’t discovered earlier was a mystery but not a surprise. With the way Gotham had devolved over the last year, seeing men unconscious, dead, or nearly there wasn’t uncommon. The tunnel-vision Gotham had honed over decades reached new points of acuity: No one saw anything they didn’t want to.
“Whatever went on last night wasn’t just two guys getting into a fight,” Bullock said, rousing Gordon to look at him. “Or a random mugging. Medical examiner says this was a goddamn war zone…” He swallowed quickly before continuing. “Just what we need in Gotham, right?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
What Bullock meant was that one of the half-finished concrete walls had what appeared to be shuriken embedded in it, as well as a crowbar that was buried about halfway into the wall. Some of the shattered plywood and plenty of the concrete had bullet holes, and there were casings of various calibers lying around the floor. At his feet, Gordon found the barrel of a rifle - broken off from the rest of the weapon which turned out to be at the other end of the floor, near a broken railing near the edge. Beyond that, there were no firearms to be found. The floor, once a dusty grey that concrete was supposed to be, appeared as a rusty brown even under the floodlights. Dried blood had stained the concrete beyond recognition.
”A mess is right,” Gordon said under his breath.
This was the third time in as many months, each one stranger than the last. Those might have just been the ones that were reported. Even before that, there were criminals who had been taken in screaming about a shadow attacking them. Why Gordon was only hearing about it now was beyond him. He had an inkling of why he hadn't—no one cared for the common criminal. All of those who had been beaten had been common thugs with no real gang affiliations to speak. They were nobody criminals, and their pain was inconsequential. Gordon would almost agree, but his affinity for the rules prevented him from letting such violence to flourish. The only reason the reports reached him three weeks ago was because different gangs were being hit by a perp.
“Jesus,” Gordon said, walking over to the railing, and quickly - though too late - deciding that peeking over the edge was a mistake. Bending down to inspect the other half of the rifle, he didn’t forget to pay attention to Bullock. “Similar story, different location. It seems as though they’re coming from somewhere in at least a ten-mile radius, but it’s hard to tell when—”
”Wanna know what we found?”
“Yes,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, eyeing up Harvey’s weathered face. He hadn’t gotten any sleep in a while, and the sideburns over his face made him look downright exhausted. It reminded Gordon of how he felt most days. “I think so. That makes three, which means it’s not a coincidence.”
Harvey nodded once and took out a large file from his pocket. The case honestly fascinated Gordon. The hits were not localized to a single area of Gotham. While most of the singular hits were in the Narrows there were a number of crimes stopped in the Diamond District or the Bowery, little hotspots where these other victims were picked off. This wasn't some loon just walking around with a baseball bat looking for trouble; this was coordinated. Gordon suspected that there could even be multiples; just what he needed: a vigilante group. Every database they had searched showed nothing for the other two—no one had reported them missing and they’d never been processed—not by any system they had access to, anyway. In all his years on the force, Gordon had never seen anything quite like this. Almost one person trying to save the entire city all by themselves.
“Victims? There must have been a shootout somewhere here.”
“13, they said,” Harvey cocked his head to the side in contemplation. A quick look up showed that he was trying to pry the crowbar out of the concrete wall to no avail. The thing didn’t budge, even when Bullock put his full weight behind it.
Giving up, Harvey took a second to catch his breath before focusing on Gordon and the conversation again. “No fatalities so far, but we got 13 men in Gotham General with police protection. All of them are mobsters.”
Sighing, he ignored the glances some of his men were shooting him. Despite the absolute chaos of No Man's Land, the Gotham way of life had slowly started to piece its way back together. The streets that he remembered being wrecked by violent mobs were now long restored and about three years ago things were finally starting to feel normal again. The last casualty of No Man's Land was the Wayne tower, and, in just a few days, it was going to be restored. Despite the apparent rebuilding of the past several years, it didn't come with peace. Gordon’s tenure as commissioner had not been an easy one, but showing up to crime scenes would never stop causing all the other cops to give him disapproving glances all around.
“No fatalities?” Gordon asked, stunned. That was… impossible, right? Gang wars were nothing new in Gotham. It wouldn’t even be the first time one of the Irish- or other mob bosses tried a shootout in the void left by the Penguin’s capture. But for them not to lose any of their own, and somehow failing to kill any of their enemies? That was unheard of… unless it had been on purpose, but… why? And how? It seemed impossible.
He settled for turning away and trying to wish away the headache pulsing behind his eyes, feeling the age-old pang for a cigarette that rose during times of stress despite having quit a decade before.
“None,” Bullock confirmed. “Like I said, we’ve got three of the Irish in the hospital, but none of them are dead yet. Some pretty severe injuries though.” He went on, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, correctly assuming Gordon would want to see it. “In pretty bad shape, though.”
“Wait—what do you mean? So no deaths at all- hell, how does a shootout happen with no deaths?” Gordon asked, his confusion mounting. In a sudden afterthought, he waved the last question away like he would a persistent fly. “You know what, never mind. Tell me what else we have.”
As much as the state Gotham was in right now, Gordon’s faith in it never faltered. He was tired, yes, but Gordon’s mind worked best when he was on the ground—finding the strings and where they led rather than sitting back and awaiting answers. Even after ten years, his new position still brought feelings he wasn’t used to. And it only got harder with Mayor James looking for reasons to have him fired for any mistakes.
“You’re sure? Of course you’re sure.” Gordon sucked his teeth, thinking hard. He had done a thorough sweep of the GCPD—teaming up with Internal Affairs in an unprecedented crackdown on corruption to clean out the force as best he could.
And it still wasn’t enough. Gordon checked himself; if he lost his faith in what he had done, then his thoughts would unravel in a way that would cause more harm than good. But there were consequences to his faith before. He tried very hard to not think of the bridges blowing up, but he knew everyone else still was. Gordon knew that some lessons came harder than others—that he needed to continue to be thorough, that trust was earned rather than assumed, but an unwitting sense of disbelief still gripped him.
”You were saying?”
“Let’s see…. Two of ‘em will never walk again, all the others are injured. Plus most of the blood matches the victims.”
Gordon had been busy—too busy—for the past several years. It was grating on him; sucking out what life he had left. One gang was replaced with another almost like a hydra, and things had never been the same since No Man's Land. People just seemed crazier, less stable than they had been before—and that was saying something in Gotham. This city now wouldn’t repeat the past. Gordon wouldn’t let either of them.
“Jesus,” he muttered, more to himself than to Harvey. Gordon needed a minute to collect himself and think about all the missing details. “So… we have 13 victims, all heavily injured and in custody, and no clear evidence in regards to the perps?”
”That’s right,” Bullock nodded.
Even after looking at their bodies himself and examining what he thought were accurate reports, trying to find a rational pattern in their injuries, Gordon only had theories. The most prevalent one at the moment being that the vigilante had decided to interfere in this shootout. But finding the why was what eluded—and bothered—him the most. Gordon’s mind worked fast, prompting him to then take the opportunity to examine one of the discarded rifles on the ground.
“You got anything?” Bullock asked, looking between Gordon and the weapon. He knew, of course, of Jim’s military past, and he seemed to somehow think that made it so that Jim knew everything about guns.
“Special forces kind of stuff,” Gordon explained. His eyes shot back to the mouth of the alley, not failing to notice the gathering of the crime scene investigators. From the way his posture was shifting, he could see that other cops were starting to object to his presence there. “This is not something you find on a store shelf.”
Suddenly, his eye fell on something else. A singular, bloody boot print near the edge of the building, where the railing had been broken. Given that the pieces of the railing were scattered all over the floor, it was pretty obvious the railing had been broken in from the outside, making Gordon wonder once again; how?
Bullock shrugged his shoulders. “If you ask me, this guy isn’t connected to the mob at all. Probably just the work of someone else, dressing up and putting on a mask.”
Gordon wasn’t so sure of that anymore. Not after finding various small-time gang leaders and lieutenants with their faces carved up and their bodies strung up from light posts starting eight years ago. If Jeremiah Valeska wasn’t comatose in Arkham Asylum, his worry would’ve taken on a new meaning. Things in Gotham were changing again, and it was never for the better.
“Not even this ‘Red Hood’ character?” Gordon asked, thinking back to the reports informants had been giving his officers. He thought of him as another nut dressing up to make a point—but whether that meant he was a threat at a level the others had remained to be seen.
”Nah. He’s brutal, but not crazy,” Bullock answered, shaking his head. “He has no reason to do this. These people weren’t part of a rival gang.”
Conceding his point, Gordon nodded. If it wasn’t someone already existing on their radar, that meant trouble and a mystery he wished he didn’t have to solve.
“You got anything on that boot print?” When Gordon didn’t get an answer right away, he looked up to find Bullock once again checking his notes.
“Print came from some type of heavy duty boots. Exact make unknown. Doesn’t match any of the shoes those guys were wearing.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Gordon said sardonically. It was too early in the morning for this.
“You should’ve brought coffee,” Bullock shrugged again. “And I haven’t even told you about the civvie reports yet.”
“Do I want to know?” Jim asked, though they both knew it was a rhetorical question.
“Let’s see…” Bullock switched to a different page in his collection of crumpled notes, and then yet another before he seemed to find what he was looking for. “Ah, right. Uni’s report states that no civvies in the neighborhood saw anything, only heard screams from up here in the middle of the night. One guys claims they saw a vampire flying away from the building after the screams stopped.”
“A vampire? Yeah, right. Guess we’ll have to go arrest Dracula.” Gordon scoffed.
With that, he started walking, heading back to the elevator. Rushing to follow him, Bullock caught up just as Jim entered it, hitting the button for it to go back down. Harvey glanced at Jim from the corner of his eye. “You seem to be in a hurry to leave this place.”
“I’ve seen enough. Besides, I need to get to the airport. Bruce Wayne’ll be landing any moment now, and apparently I should be there to welcome him back to the city or something.”
“Really? Why?” Bullock questioned, reaching into his coat’s inside pocket and pulling out a cigar that he proceeded to light while they were still in the elevator.
“Asides from what I did for him when he was a kid?” Gordon mulled it over, debating whether to tell Bullock. In the end, he decided he didn’t care enough to keep it from him. “Lee thinks it’ll look good when I see him again.” Waving goodbye to Harvey, he headed to his beat-up sedan and closed the door, speeding off into the streets.
Alfred didn’t leave his post as lead server once during the entire evening. It seemed that both he and Bruce were wearing masks tonight. Standing in the middle of a group of socialites, Bruce kept that grin firmly in place.
He knew better, it was obvious that Bruce loathed every minute of it. The butler had to fight to hold his own grin back as he viewed the gawking crowd. He instead kept up the professional sternness on his face, he was just glad to see Bruce socializing with everyone else, even if it all was just a performance. It had been some time since he last organized a party set partly in the open grounds. Bruce had not given him any opportunities for organizing festivities after he had returned to Gotham, since he’d technically been back there for weeks. Since the mansion was still being rebuilt and would not be ready before late autumn at best, the few parties he did coordinate were set outside.
It was also a special party, considering what Alfred was used to. No posh guests, no vicious gossiping hidden behind fake smiles, no alcohol. Most of the guests he could see at the moment were far more interested in a bouncy castle. And far more entertaining to observe from everyone else there.
“-Mr. Wayne, can I talk to you-“
“- can you give me your autograph?”
”Mr. Wayne, what are you planning to do-“
Alfred smiled as he held the tray. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that Bruce didn’t want to be here, despite how important this was for both him and the citizens of Gotham. After all the years of construction, it should have been a monument to the triumphant return of the Wayne family. He held back a sigh and continued talking as he missed the small murmur that arose from a figure moving through the middle of the crowd. He continued unceremoniously. Knowing that, and having seen what grief could push to his then ward, now his employer, Alfred was not going to leave matters be this time.
The butler found Bruce after a few minutes, who had excused himself from a conversation with two members of the upper class. Wayne Tower being rebuilt was another issue that needed to be resolved, as soon as possible. If Bruce was going to show up, he had to. To Alfred’s practiced eyes he didn’t look happy.
Martin “Marty” Stewart tried and failed to rub the cold out of his fingers. It might’ve been spring on paper in Gotham, but the chill that came after sunset had Marty believing that winter was coming back for another go rather than the month giving way to April in a week. His breath fogged in front of his face as he broke into a jog. He had a deadline to meet—cold or no cold.
“Meet the quota and we’ll see about initiation,” Frank had told him. Despite the freezing wind that he swore was nipping at his balls, the small bags of heroin felt like hot coals in his pocket.
Gettin’ close, he thought.
Frank told him to man a new corner tonight. That itself was a dangerous assignment even a year ago. The Falcones, Maronis, and Dimitrovs all had their established territory; you didn’t cross it if you wanted to keep your head. But most of them were dead, and every street was a new front in No Man’s Land. Fear and exhilaration filled his burning lungs. The faces he passed were unfamiliar, wary and scrutinizing—not like those he knew back in his neighbourhood.
Ignoring the tug at his gut like he always did, Marty stopped moving once he found the corner he was after. Four blocks away from Sheldon Park and three from the newly dubbed “Crime Alley”—its namesake self-explanatory after it was ravaged in the riots twice in the space of a year. The buildings were tall and blocked out any light from the moon, trapping in the smog from the steel mill off the east side of the Gotham Harbour and giving the neon lights of the strip clubs, bars, and pawn shops a brighter hue. Jumping back after getting a shoe full of muddy gutter water, Marty considered his options.
Though the street was lit up, there weren’t many people on the sidewalks. Curtains were closed in the windows exposed to the street, throbbing music could be heard further down the block, and he had an eerie feeling that he was being watched.
He’d done what he was told; it wasn’t his fault the corner would take a while to be established. After the 2:00 am mark, his nose running and toes numb, Marty shoved off the wall when something caught his eye. A neon sign above flickered and sputtered, but he swore he saw something big and red at the end of the otherwise empty street—too large to be a fire hydrant and it was moving. When the sign above came back to life, whatever it was he thought he’d seen was gone. The feeling he was being watched only intensified.
“Fuck this,” he mumbled.
Shoulders hiking up to his ears, he turned around and smacked into a wall he swore wasn’t there before. Falling on his ass at the edge of the sidewalk, one hand plunged into an icy puddle, he looked up and nearly bit a chunk out of his tongue.
“You lost?”
It came from the man in front of him—but he didn’t sound like a person. It was deep and artificial, a reverberating grumble that lingered in the air before disappearing. People—normal people—couldn’t make those sounds. Marty almost pissed himself, thinking he’d finally encountered the cops, but he couldn’t see this man’s face—anything beyond hints of red metal around where the mouth should’ve been.
Irrationality stirred by fear had almost convinced Marty he was looking at a Terminator. When he finally stepped forward, Marty scrambled back, getting soaked entirely by the water.
“You’d think someone would’ve told you,” the man said, and it was only then that Marty saw he was spinning a handgun around his finger by the trigger. An arm, thick with corded muscle, reached down and pulled out a long dagger—sharpened to a wicked point. Marty shook so hard his teeth rattled.
“T-Told me what?” Marty asked, trying and failing to sound like he still hadn’t pissed himself.
“This place is closed for business. Red Hood’s in charge now, got it?”
Marty, the hair on his arm rising painfully as the fear choked him, almost threw up when the gun stopped spinning and was pointed at him. He didn’t even have time to beg, to crawl away and tell Frank he quit—the safety flicked off with a click and the hammer pulled back.
“Spread the word. ”