Roman's Scrapbin

[Roman]

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

W Y N D // P A S S A G E

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^{_{T B C ♦ T B C ♦ T B C ♦ T B C}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

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^"Quote"

TBC

A B I L I T I E S:

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TBC

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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TBC

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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TBC

R E L A T I O N S H I P S:

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Short summary of your characters thoughts, feelings and regards for the rest of the cast. Optional and can be added to whenever.

[Roman]

[Roman]

Hider

so a person is a portal, or holds a portal within themselves, but the portal presents as a liminal space kind of area that needs to be travelled through but ultimately leads to anywhere you want it to, so the person essentially holds a labyrinth within themselves that leads everywhere, but you have to find your way there.

There's a limited degree of control of the exits of the labyrinth too, so if they person is focusing and well-rested they can find the exit they're looking for quickly, but the worse the person is or the less they're concentrating, the longer it takes to find where they're trying to go.

The person can either spool the labyrinth out of themselves and slowly project it across their surroundings until it takes over and subsumes anyone who's in the area, or go into themselves and disappear into the labyrinth completely, reappearing where they come out.

The labyrinth is, at any point, a reflection of the person's mental state, presenting as serenely or nightmarishly as the person is at the time.

The person can, with effort, trap people within their labyrinth by either inviting them in and refusing an exit, or unspooling the labyrinth into their surroundings until it subsumes them and whoever else completely, and then collapsing the labyrinth with their victim within it, and again refusing to manifest an exit.

[Roman]

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

W Y N D

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^{_{P O E N A V I D S O N ♦ F E M A L E ♦ 1 8 ♦ G O T H A M}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

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^{"Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold."}

A dark, troubled girl, Poe is on-the-run from forces of all kinds - the mundane, the oppressive, the supernatural, the eldritch - but most of all, she is on the run from herself.

Escaping from Gotham after a short stay at Arkham, she remains a 'person-of-interest' to any sapient party aware of her existence. For her part, Poe seeks to drop off the grid entirely, but seems fated to be unable to do so. She has been haunted her entire life, by every corridor she has walked through, every archway she has passed beneath, every stone she has stepped across. The haunting is inside her, and it is hers to release or consume or subdue or, in her most terrible moments, surrender to.

Perhaps there is help in the world outside to calm her world inside; perhaps not. She runs regardless, ever-escaping. All she truly desires is a home to flee to.

A B I L I T I E S:

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^{"What miracle is this? This giant tree.
It stands ten thousand feet high
But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands.
Its roots must hold the sky."}

Poe is a portal.

Within Poe there is a great and terrible labyrinth - an eldritch, shifting space she has dubbed 'The Finite Passage' - and through navigating this labyrinth, she finds her way across the world when she cannot travel in the conventional method. Provided you can navigate it - some journeys easier, some harder - you can arrive at any destination you require. Assuming you don't get lost along the way.

Poe can manifest the Finite Passage two ways: she can disappear into herself, stepping through the portal that is her own body and finding herself on the other side of herself within the labyrinth, re-manifesting at her destination when she has found the exit; or, she can unfold herself into the world around, letting the labyrinth spool out and creep across her surroundings and impose its own surreality upon the world, until it has subsumed where she was and made it where she isn't, just another twisting hallway of the maze. In this way, she can bring others into the Finite Passage in greater volumes, or swallow up those who won't enter the labyrinth willingly.

Poe has a limited degree of control over the labyrinth; well-rested, focused, clear-of-mind, exits manifest plentifully and well-marked, allowing for quick journeys to where she intends to go. Tired, stressed, stricken with strife, the labyrinth becomes confounding, eluding escape and only allowing passage to the most stalwart of navigators. Catatonic, storm-minded, blackout - the labyrinth closes its walls completely. At any time, the Finite Passage is a reflection of the psyche of its avatar, and can present itself as serenely or nightmarishly as is appropriate in the moment.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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<sup>"Little solace comes
to those who grieve
when thoughts keep drifting
as walls keep shifting
and this great blue world of ours
seems a house of leaves

moments before the wind."</sup>

Despite her use of it and her limited understanding of its mechanics and relation to her own mind, Poe is deeply frightened by the Finite Passage, and desperately seeks a salve for the labyrinth that is in equal parts intrinsic to Poe herself, and so alien as to be counter to the human understanding of itself and its place in the universe.

Her fear causes irrationality and paranoia, and most of all she is frightened of uncharted territory within the Finite Passage, of which there is, counter-intuitively, potentially endless acres. She has fled from all shelter, been examined by all practitioners, been incarcerated within all walls, and now seeks what she believes may be her last and best chance of not only understanding - from others and herself - but of belonging as well.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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TBC.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S:

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Short summary of your characters thoughts, feelings and regards for the rest of the cast. Optional and can be added to whenever.

[Roman]

W Y N D

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^{P O E N A V I D S O N ◼ 1 1 N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 5 ( 1 8 ) ◼ F E M A L E}

<sup>“Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all of your carefully conceived denials, whether deliberate or unconscious. And then for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name.



And then the nightmares will begin.”</sup>

▼ A P P E A R A N C E:

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//STATS:

◼ HEIGHT | 5'4"
◼ WEIGHT | 91lbs
◼ BUILD | Malnourished
◼ HAIR COLOUR | Black. Streaks of red in the front.
◼ EYE COLOUR | Amber
◼ 'VOICE' TEXT COLOUR | Hexcode 8B0000
◼ OTHER | Often wearing dark, thick eyeliner, mostly to distract from or mask the heavy bags beneath her eyes. She has blemishes and scratches up her arms where she compulsively picks her skin.

//DESCRIPTION:

Poe is a haunted girl, nervous and in a constant state of exhausting alertness. Her clothes are simple and dark, jeans and tough boots, often wearing large, baggy jumpers and hoodies that swallow her up, serving to both cover her picked-at arms, and help warm her too-skinny frame. Her eyes have the look of someone who's tired to their bones, and dark bags beneath them only emphasize her apparently exhaustion.

▼ B I O G R A P H Y:

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^{"Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold."}

Poe remembers little of her pre-Aegis life, but the scraps she gets aren't pleasant, and she's smart enough to understand contextually that her apparently long-term presence in Aegis facilities doesn't speak to a healthy, well-balanced adolescence. Flashes of an extended but dysfunctional family, of a mother at times both nurturing and frightening, of a father desperate and well-meaning but ill-equipped. Whatever her own struggles, Poe is certain she is far from the first to have battled with them.

Most of Poe's accessible memories are of time in Aegis facilities; she's a 'lifer', no doubt, and has bounced through 4 separate facilities across the United States so far, with both the properly-filed paperwork and without - most recently definitively without. She came to them younger than most, and has stayed with them longer than most - making and losing friends along the way, but for the most trying to survive her own mind, fighting against twisting corridors of paranoia, anxiety, and phantom phobias.

▼ M O T I V A T I O N / O B J E C T I V E:

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^{“For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were. You'll detect slow and subtle shifts going on all around you, more importantly shifts in you. Worse, you'll realize it's always been shifting, like a shimmer of sorts, a vast shimmer, only dark like a room. But you won't understand why or how.”}

More than anything, Poe seeks understanding. Her own mind being simultaneously so familiar and so alien is disconcerting at best, and while she's in full control of her faculties and thoughts and movements and motor functions, there is ever-present paranoia that she remains subtly influenced by the dark corners of her psyche, strings being pulled by a self behind the self. In the most literal terms, she cannot trust her own mind - and how do you find peace when such a fact defines your existence?

Despite its inherent fundamentality to Poe's nature and very being, she cannot help but be deeply frightened of the Finite Passage; who would not be, when your own mind is so innately unknowable? Through her lengthy stay with Aegis she has sought to conquer the intrinsic secrets of the labyrinth, poring through her own mind to reveal what it is hiding from itself; success has been limited, if it comes at all. The issue is looking for something that doesn't want to be found, in a place that doesn't want you - itself - both - to find it.

▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:

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^{"What miracle is this? This giant tree.
It stands ten thousand feet high
But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands.
Its roots must hold the sky."}

//ABILITIES:

◼ The Finite Passage | Poe's mind is, literally, a labyrinth. It is an eldritch, shifting space that she has dubbed 'The Finite Passage', and despite its alien nature to anything approaching humanity as we know it, it is as intrinsically a part of Poe - intrinsically Poe herself - as the colour of her eyes or the the whorls of her fingertips. It is reflective of and adaptive to Poe's mental state at any given time, and she has both absolute dominion over it, and no possible idea how to control it.

The Finite Passage manifests in two ways, but contains myriad peculiarities within itself. Poe can dive into herself, using her own mind as a portal to find herself on the otherside in the midst of the dark stone corridors of the labyrinth, or she unfold her mind into the world around her, spooling the labyrinth out of herself to imprint itself across actual reality and eventually subsume her, her surroundings, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity.

Upon entering the labyrinth, Poe can navigate its corridors to find an exit out into any point, disappearing into herself and finding the right escape to reappear anywhere else on the planet. However, how easy an exit is to find is very variable, dependant on knowledge of destination, navigation ability, and even Poe's own mental state.

There are several other 'unique' aspects of the Finite Passage, as a result of its dual nature as both a representation of Poe's psyche, and its own seemingly-alive eldritch space; but Poe understands these even less than the superficial travel functions of the labyrinth, and is afraid of what true exploration of the Finite Passage's depths might uncover - as such, she avoids it completely.

//SKILLS:

◼ Perceptive, Agile, Survivable | Poe's fear and paranoia has honed her senses toward anxiety-driven perceptive peaks, constantly scanning and processing hundreds of elements from her surroundings ever second, keeping her alert, aware, and well-tuned to even the subtlest details around her. Her lithe frame has afforded her some agility and light-footedness, and from her experiences across her life - inside and outside Aegis facilities, even inside the Finite Passage itself - she has learnt extraordinarily well how to survive.

//LIMITATIONS:

◼ Exhausted, On-Edge, Frightened | Poe's constant alertness has a side-effect: an in-parallel constant exhaustion, her brain always in overdrive analysing every possible detail and threat, wearing her down every minute until she has little-to-no energy to do much of anything else entirely. She's always on-edge, quick to irritability and pessimism, and lives in a sustained state of fear that colours her every interaction.

//WEAKNESSES:

◼ Memory Failure, Autophobia, Paranoia | A side-effect of the Finite Passage, her own physical location isn't the only thing that can lost within its labyrinthian sprawl - memories can and do and have gotten lost as well, and without knowing where they are, or even that they're missing at all, Poe can't recall large chunks of her life. Due to the Finite Passage being an intrinsic part of her psyche, her fear of its unknown nature also deviates simultaneously into a fear of herself and a fear of isolation, both of which cause her no end of struggle. Finally, what little she does understand about the Finite Passage and its psychic properties has devolved into paranoia about Aegis and those around her, and about the 'self behind the self', an 'other' Poe she believes is secretly manipulating her from within her own subconscious and the depths of the labyrinth.

▼ N O T E S:

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//SUPPORTING CAST:

▼ ALLIES

◼ None | Yet...

▼ FRIENDS

◼ None | Yet...

▼ ENEMIES

◼ None | Yet...

//STOMPING GROUNDS

◼ Aegis Facilities | Test

//PARAPHERNALIA

◼ None | Due to how Poe ended up in the Alcatraz Aegis facility, she failed to bring any belongings with her. Until such personal items can be transported across the continent, she's starting from scratch.

[Roman]

James 'Jimmy' Gordon is a young and naive beat cop who joined the force out of a genuine desire to do good and help his community, but quickly found the internal corruption to be beyond the scope of his comprehension. Perhaps the only honest cop on the force, he has yet to be fired or killed simply because he's so insignificant and isolated in his ethos that he poses no threat to the status quo whatsoever.

Detective Harvey Bullock is an older GCPD member and Jimmy's partner/babysitter. He's been around a while and is subsequently jaded and cynical; a general asshole and as bought-and-paid-for as anyone else on the force, but not actively malevolent compared to some of his colleagues.

Detective Renee Montoya is a skilled detective often denied the ability to utilise her talent. She's happy to take the money when it's offered, but remains frustrated with the GCPD - though this is simply out of boredom and sheer stifled ambition.

Senior Detective Crispus Allen is Renee's partner and a 'company man' through-and-through. He likes Renee and sees potential in her, but wishes she'd wise up to how to actually make waves and climb the ranks within the force.

Coroner Dr. Leslie Thompkins is the GCPD's resident pathologist and coroner, who's bought off on certain cases but otherwise considered relatively unimportant, as her reports are easily amended after-the-fact to suit any story being spun. She's weary and displeased by the state of the force and the city at large, but has been around long enough to know that accepting payments and allowing her reports to be edited keeps her both in her career and, more importantly, alive.

Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb is a corrupt, loathsome individual, seeing his position as nothing more than a vehicle to get paid and do whatever he wants with little to no consequence. Quick to toe the line and promote excessive force against those who don't, he is the beating heart of everything wrong with GCPD - it starts at the top and infects its way down.

Gotham Mayor, Aubrey James is a stooge for the major corps that truly run Gotham. He ran on a platform of housing rejuvenation, specifically a refurbishment of the Narrows into brand-new affordable homes, but in truth it would have mattered little what he ran on - the votes were in place long before election day, and James was the perfect tool for Gotham's oligarchs to wield.

Editor-in-Chief, Gotham Gazette, Jack Ryder is semi-legendary within Gotham City for his tenacity and sheer journalistic talent, but one doesn't get as far in news media as he has without knowing exactly how far you can push it and no further. He likes to foster the same kind of daring among his reporters but is well-aware that he and his paper are only allowed to operate as far as the elite class let him - and while he has an amount of leniency in rocking the boat, it's a fine line to capsizing.

Field Reporter, Gotham Gazette, Victoria 'Vicki' Vale is one of the Gazette's best and least-published reporters. Kept on by Jack out of journalistic integrity, Vicki's articles nonetheless are often vetoed in the edit room lest they draw ire from those who could quite easily shut the entire organisation down. This far from deters Ms. Vale however, who simply goes at exposing the next scandal or uncovering the next worker exploitation with all the more passion and vigour.

CEO, Antarctic Industries, Oswald Cobblepot is the leading imports, exports, and shipping magnate in Gotham, with his stubby fingerprints gracing nearly every single cargo crate that comes in at, or leaves from, Gotham Harbour. Naturally myriad rumours circulate about what precisely Cobblepot is importing and exporting on any given day, but no official accusations have been (or will be) made, and no investigations have taken place (nor will they).

CFO, Antarctic Industries, Warren White is Cobblepot's right-hand man and guardian of Antarctic Industries' bottom line. A man with few scruples, he's a record-setter for year-on-year revenue growth, hailed as a financial genius and a pioneer of pushing profit margins to new heights; few, if any, have actually dared to ask him how he manages it, however.

CEO, Sionis Industrial & Janus Cosmetics, Roman Sionis is a young playboy who's inherited his father's and mother's companies respectively after a tragic accident that took both their lives, leaving him a fortune and very little clue what to do with it. Currently seeming to mostly be indulging his every whim - surely to assuage himself of the mountainous grief bore upon his shoulders - his board of directors are, for now, content to keep the company business-as-usual in the meantime, although whispers of doubt about his leadership are already rippling through both organisations.

Founder and Lead Jeweller, Félin-Bijou, Selina Kyle is perhaps the only remaining self-made millionaire in Gotham City, a wildly-talented designer and entrepeneur who found success in an independent line of high-end jewellery that caught the eye of a Gotham baroness that propelled her pop-up shop to an aristocratic boutique. While happy with her massive success, Selina is interminably bored with the company she is forced to keep, and finds herself pining for excitement.

CEO, Hightowers LLC, William D. Sommers is the new head of Hightowers LLC, an industry-spanning company with a finger in nearly every pie, from construction to shipping to R&D to real estate. William has stepped in after his father, Bill Sommers Sr., was advised to retire by his medical team due to his snowballing physical decline. William is an ambitious man, and with the Sommers name having a vast legacy in Gotham, he seems set to elevate Hightowers LLC and his family name to new heights.

COO, Hightowers LLC, Victor Zsasz is the single change in the board of directors William has made since the start of his tenure leading Hightowers LLC. Half COO, half William's personal aide, he is a cunning, ruthless man with a guileful business acumen and a steadfast determination to do what's necessary for success.

[Roman]

Antarctic Industries

Cobblepot is the classic mob-boss, having used his shipping company to become THE definitive drug baron in Gotham.

Warren White meanwhile is simply using illegal and unethical business practices to exploit the workers and prop up the bottom line, helping himself to an embezzled skim off the top while he's at it.

Sionis Industrial & Janus Cosmetics

Roman, a natural-born sociopath and abused child, is churning through his inheritance and the company's respective revenues engaging in the wildest, most taboo activities he can think of, half out of spite (burning whatever remains of his parents' legacies) and half out of a genuine desire to just feel something. With the money and status to simply ignore consequence, his odyssey in search of excitement is leading him down some very dark paths.

Hightowers LLC

William was a prominent supporter of Aubrey James' mayoral bid and donated significantly to his campaign, ultimately pulling the right strings to have James 'elected' as mayor so he could puppet him however he liked. James' platform of a housing rejuvenation project in the Narrows was thought up by William, and when James got into office and the project was kicked off in earnest, the construction and maintenance contracts, land lot purchases, lease holders, were all awarded to various shell companies that ultimately funnelled the money straight back into Hightowers LLC. William has further plans for the redevelopment project to further propel Hightowers LLC, but these are yet to blossom.

[Roman]

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ The Batman _________________________________________________________ Vigilante | Independent _________________________________________________________ Earth-93913003 | Open (with consultation) C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - S U P P O R T I N G C A S T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► GCPD Personnel James 'Jimmy' Gordon is a young and naive beat cop who joined the force out of a genuine desire to do good and help his community, but quickly found the internal corruption to be beyond the scope of his comprehension. Perhaps the only honest cop on the force, he has yet to be fired or killed simply because he's so insignificant and isolated in his ethos that he poses no threat to the status quo whatsoever. Detective Harvey Bullock is an older GCPD member and Jimmy's partner/babysitter. He's been around a while and is subsequently jaded and cynical; a general asshole and as bought-and-paid-for as anyone else on the force, but not actively malevolent compared to some of his colleagues. Detective Renee Montoya is a skilled detective often denied the ability to utilise her talent. She's happy to take the money when it's offered, but remains frustrated with the GCPD - though this is simply out of boredom and sheer stifled ambition. Senior Detective Crispus Allen is Renee's partner and a 'company man' through-and-through. He likes Renee and sees potential in her, but wishes she'd wise up to how to actually make waves and climb the ranks within the force. Dr. Leslie Thompkins is the GCPD's resident pathologist and coroner, who's bought off on certain cases but otherwise considered relatively unimportant, as her reports are easily amended after-the-fact to suit any story being spun. She's weary and displeased by the state of the force and the city at large, but has been around long enough to know that accepting payments and allowing her reports to be edited keeps her both in her career and, more importantly, alive. Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb is a corrupt, loathsome individual, seeing his position as nothing more than a vehicle to get paid and do whatever he wants with little to no consequence. Quick to toe the line and promote excessive force against those who don't, he is the beating heart of everything wrong with GCPD - it starts at the top and infects its way down. ► Gotham City Public Offices Mayor Aubrey James is a stooge for the major corps that truly run Gotham. He ran on a platform of housing rejuvenation, specifically a refurbishment of the Narrows into brand-new affordable homes, but in truth it would have mattered little what he ran on - the votes were in place long before election day, and James was the perfect tool for Gotham's oligarchs to wield. Gotham Gazette Editor-in-Chief Jack Ryder is semi-legendary within Gotham City for his tenacity and sheer journalistic talent, but one doesn't get as far in news media as he has without knowing exactly how far you can push it and no further. He likes to foster the same kind of daring among his reporters but is well-aware that he and his paper are only allowed to operate as far as the elite class let him - and while he has an amount of leniency in rocking the boat, it's a fine line to capsizing. Gotham Gazette Field Reporter Victoria 'Vicki' Vale is one of the Gazette's best and least-published reporters. Kept on by Jack out of journalistic integrity, Vicki's articles nonetheless are often vetoed in the edit room lest they draw ire from those who could quite easily shut the entire organisation down. This far from deters Ms. Vale however, who simply goes at exposing the next scandal or uncovering the next worker exploitation with all the more passion and vigour. ► Gotham City Private Equity Antarctic Industries CEO Oswald Cobblepot is the leading imports, exports, and shipping magnate in Gotham, with his stubby fingerprints gracing nearly every single cargo crate that comes in at, or leaves from, Gotham Harbour. Naturally myriad rumours circulate about what precisely Cobblepot is importing and exporting on any given day, but no official accusations have been (or will be) made, and no investigations have taken place (nor will they). Antarctic Industries CFO Warren White is Cobblepot's right-hand man and guardian of Antarctic Industries' bottom line. A man with few scruples, he's a record-setter for year-on-year revenue growth, hailed as a financial genius and a pioneer of pushing profit margins to new heights; few, if any, have actually dared to ask him how he manages it, however. Sionis Industrial & Janus Cosmetics CEO Roman Sionis is a young playboy who's inherited his father's and mother's companies respectively after a tragic accident that took both their lives, leaving him a fortune and very little clue what to do with it. Currently seeming to mostly be indulging his every whim - surely to assuage himself of the mountainous grief bore upon his shoulders - his board of directors are, for now, content to keep the company business-as-usual in the meantime, although whispers of doubt about his leadership are already rippling through both organisations. Félin-Bijou Founder and Lead Jeweller Selina Kyle is perhaps the only remaining self-made millionaire in Gotham City, a wildly-talented designer and entrepeneur who found success in an independent line of high-end jewellery that caught the eye of a Gotham baroness that propelled her pop-up shop to an aristocratic boutique. While happy with her massive success, Selina is interminably bored with the company she is forced to keep, and finds herself pining for excitement. Hightowers LLC CEO William D. Sommers is the new head of Hightowers LLC, an industry-spanning company with a finger in nearly every pie, from construction to shipping to R&D to real estate. William has stepped in after his father, Bill Sommers Sr., was advised to retire by his medical team due to his snowballing physical decline. William is an ambitious man, and with the Sommers name having a vast legacy in Gotham, he seems set to elevate Hightowers LLC and his family name to new heights. Hightowers LLC COO Victor Zsasz is the single change in the board of directors William has made since the start of his tenure leading Hightowers LLC. Half COO, half William's personal aide, he is a cunning, ruthless man with a guileful business acumen and a steadfast determination to do what's necessary for success. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

W H A T I F...? W H A T I F...? ________________________________________________________________________________________ What If... the Waynes never came to power in Gotham? Gotham's corruption, unstymied by the Wayne family's generations of community support and philanthropy, runs rampant through the infrastructure of the city and taints every facet of its nervous system. With no Waynes, other powerful families were allowed to rise in their stead, plugging the wealth gap; the Cobblepots, the Arkhams, the Sionis', the Sommers. With such powerful lineage in place without even a shred of the conscience the Waynes had, there was never a need for the Falcone and Maroni mafias, and no power vacuum for the mob to seize. Gotham's ignoble royalty were crime families, baking corruption and villainy into the very foundations of the city. Eventually, even with no Bruce Wayne, something had to push back. Roaring from seemingly the nine hells themselves comes The Batman, a force of nature visited upon the city itself. No Wayne fortune backing, no vengeful prince of Gotham, no loyal butler or tech industry magnate backing - simply one man, one intrinsically unknowable man, forged out of societal imbalance, righteous fury, and ceaseless brutality. With nothing more than tenacity, resourcefulness, and ferocity by his side, he strikes back at the city that has been content to exploit the common man for every last inch of their soul since its conception, and push Gotham City, kicking and screaming and thrashing all the way, into a better future for all, toppling every Fortune 500 giant along the way. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ A true Year Zero for The Batman, he appears in Gotham apparently overnight and begins a brutal campaign against the criminal elements of the city; but while at first the police appear complacent to let him have his fun doing their 'jobs' for them, heads soon turn when it becomes apparent this new vigilante is waging a war on white-collar crime just as fierce as that on violence and gang-banging. Making quick enemies of powerful people, The Batman becomes GCPD's number one priority, and finds himself contending with the 'boys in blue' and the ruling corporations of Gotham as just more gangs that need putting down. Naturally, as The Batman wages his war, power balances will shift, and the face of Gotham City will change forever.

---

[Roman]

1. Establish setting
2. Establish Batman
3. Establish early plot threads (Cobblepot, Sionis) + setup late plots (Hightowers LLC)
4. Get Batman into early plots
5. Early plots react to Batman's entry
6. Batman gets more into early plots, early plots start panicking
7. Batman gets MORE into early plots, late plots start noticing and considering
8. Early plots start resolving into part 2's (Sionis + White)
9. Close out early plots
10. Get Batman into late plots
11. Late plots react
12. etc

[Roman]

_{#1.01: A Fine Day}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

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"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Oswald Cobblepot stood proud and as tall as his stout, pudgy frame could allow him, his back to the Antarctic Industries boardroom table. The mahogany slab propped up on black iron struts was the closest thing the otherwise starkly-white room got to warm: one wall was a blank white space, barren but for the swirls of paint failing to provide character; the opposite featured a painting similarly devoid of life, some great and terrible acrylic storm of whites and grays that supposedly depicted a vast, frigid tundra; the third wall - the one Oswald was facing now, as he supped whiskey far too expensive for its comparative quality from a glass clutched in his sweaty, stubby fingers - was an edge-to-edge, floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out across the polluted, smog-stained skyline of Gotham City.

Behind him, a cavalcade of portly white men sat around the table smiling and offering each other knowing, self-congratulatory nods and handshakes and dignified chuckles. To the side of the head of the table, offset to Oswald's position but carrying his own air of self-importance and subtle authority, stood the only in-shape man in the room, a thin gentleman with a tidy coif of hair and a pencil mustache. In his right hand he held a thin cigarillo, smoke trailing upwards from the tip, and in his left a tablet, from which he'd just delivered the news they were all patting themselves on the back about: the twelfth consecutive quarter of profit growth against the previous financial year. Warren White - the man holding the tablet, and Antarctic Industries' Chief Financial Officer - was hailed as an industry prodigy and a financial genius, and his tenure on Oswald's executive board certainly lent credence to his reputation. Antarctic was a monolith in Gotham's financial landscape - over the last three years, their already heavy industry presence had only ramped up to monopolistic levels, and the company subsequently now handled the majority of east-coast imports and exports.

"Yes, a fine day in Gotham indeed." Cobblepot continued, turning around to raise his glass to the board, who all offered back empty-handed raised arms. Oswald kept only his personal supply in the building, and his subordinates were not permitted to partake. "But a finer day in this very room. Antarctic Industries continues to flourish under my leadership. This company has soared to heights my father never dreamed of! Truly, Antarctic Industries is a titan - and there is still plenty of opportunity for further growth."

Around the table, board members delivered the general murmured buzz of agreement and congratulation, as was expected of them. They were, after all, mostly figureheads, kept on mainly for their ability to stroke Cobblepot's ego. Sure, a couple had actually delivered the so-called 'duties' of their so-called 'job roles', both for Antarctic and other companies before Antarctic - but since the passing of Elijah, Oswald's father, and Oswald's subsequent takeover and revamping of the organization, Antarctic had seen unparalleled growth that was, frankly, ambivalent to their input or lack thereof, and this had only spiked further with Warren White's entry to the company.

Of course, the unspoken catalyst of this massive growth was Oswald's empire as the singular drug kingpin of Gotham, ruling the city from its underbelly as the Penguin. Warren was instrumental as well, utilizing his financial acumen to artfully fold the illicit revenue stream into the company's legal (and public) profits, laundering their own dirty money through little more than carefully managed bank accounts and ledgers. Whether the rest of the board knew or cared was inconsequential; if they knew, they didn't speak of it, and if they cared, they definitely didn't speak of it.

"Cheers to industry, gentlemen." Oswald finished, sneering from beneath his crooked nose in the best approximation of a sincere smile he could manage. "And to another fine day in Gotham City."

- - -

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Gotham City Police Department Street Officer James 'Jimmy' Gordon raised his eyebrows in shock as a scrawny man in a ratty hoodie and stained cargo pants spat on his newly-polished shoes as he walked past, hustling away before Jimmy could even muster the energy to be angry, let alone pursue him; a few bystanders who'd seen the act chuckled, and a couple more accelerated their weary, dead-eyed shuffles, lest they be caught up in any incoming retribution. Jimmy looked at his foot, grimacing as the thick, phlegm-speckled wad of saliva slowly dripped down the toe of his shoe.

All of this occurred mere micro-seconds before his partner, Detective Harvey Bullock, reappeared from the bodega Jimmy was currently leaning against, and spouted the bizarre, impromptu statement. Harvey had one hand inside his jacket, squirreling away what Jimmy knew was a small brown envelope of cash, while the other was clutching a thick breakfast sandwich, bacon grease slowly oozing out the sides of the bread and down Harvey's fingers. Jimmy snatched away a paper napkin from Harvey's hand and bent over to wipe off his shoe.

"I don't know that that's ever been true in the history of this city." Jimmy said once he'd stood up, and the two of them crossed the street back to their police cruiser. Harvey was already sinking his yellowing teeth into the sandwich, and yolk and ketchup stained his scruffy, unkempt beard. The two men stood on opposite sides of the car, Jimmy waiting on Harvey to unlock the doors, Harvey leaning on the roof as he polished off the sandwich in three more gargantuan bites. With one last impressive swallow, he took another napkin and wiped his face down.
"See, that's your problem, Gordon. You still haven't fished out the bug that crawled up your ass and died."

Jimmy scoffed, shaking his head. His tidy appearance was almost a perfect mirror of Harvey's half-assed attempt to look presentable; the pressed GCPD uniform cut a fine figure down Jimmy's well-exercised body, with the uniform peaked cap sat neatly atop an orderly, practical haircut and his handsome face accessorized by a pair of stylish-yet-subtle glasses and a trimmed, well-groomed mustache perched over a strong, clean-shaven jawline. Harvey was a dark reflection - street clothes creased and stained from the days he'd been wearing it previous, a wild unshaven beard, and greasy hair that cascaded down his neck from beneath a beat-up and raggedy trilby. The two men could not look more unsuited to pairing if they'd actively tried. Harvey finally shoved the keys into the car door and unlocked the cruiser, and the two men slunk down into their seats almost in unison, the cruiser rocking from side to side as the aging chassis took on their weight.

"That 'bug' is a goddamn moral code, Bullock." Jimmy replied, his voice almost a low growl as he buckled his seatbelt. This time it was Harvey's turn to scoff, shaking his head as he stuck the keys in the ignition and turned, the cruiser's engine sputtering to life and a plume of soot erupting from the exhaust. "And I'll be cold in the ground before I throw that away like the rest of this damn city."
"The way you're going, Jim-bo, you might not have that long a wait ahead of you. A moral code is one thing, but where's your self-preservation instinct?"

At this, Jimmy did actually have to concede Harvey had a point. The engine rumbled as Bullock kicked it into gear and they rolled into a light cruise along Gotham's main avenues, Harvey picking corners seemingly at random; with Harvey's 'pick-ups' done for the day and no one specific incident to respond to, the pair had the morning to simply make sure they would be seen. In this town, police presence was a reminder to pay your dues and keep to your own business. It certainly wasn't so that the community could feel safe and secure.

"No one's got a shit to give about me, Bullock, before you start getting soft on me." Jimmy said, prompting a quick eye-roll from Harvey. "One measly cadet no one likes versus the entire force of the GCPD? I'm so insignificant I don't even count as small-fry."
Harvey nodded sagely, already tuning out from Gordon's self-pitying diatribe. Many hours in this cruiser had been spent discussing the dearth of ethics and principles within the police force and the city at large; Harvey had long consigned himself to the pointlessness of rallying against it, even before his assignment as Jimmy's partner. In a way, Jimmy reminded Harvey of his younger, more idealistic self. He wondered if Jimmy, in turn, saw in him his likely future self.

For his part, Jimmy simply took to staring out the window at the passing city, watching the drunks and addicts stumbling on the pavements, the domestic disputes spilling out of front doors into the streets, the purse-snatchers, extortioners, the over-worked, the living-out-of-their-cars. Every fresh tragedy another counted failure for Gotham as a city.
"After all," he said, his final musing for the morning before resigning to a familiar sullen silence that Harvey far preferred over high-minded moral rhetoric, "what can one man do against an entire city?"

- - -

"It's a fine day in Gotham City."

Mayor Aubrey James, a toad-like, sweaty man, stood at the podium in front of city hall and paused for dramatic effect. In front of him a sea of reporters and members of public office pointed cameras and microphones and held pencils carefully against paper; he took a moment to adjust his too-tight tie against the flabby flesh of his neck that spilled from his collar, and drew a breath to continue.

"Yes, a fine day in Gotham City indeed. When the good people of Gotham sensibly voted myself as their elected official to lead this city into new, more prosperous times, I was sworn in with the promise of delivering real, tangible change - no wishy-washy, vague policies that could be hand-waved and delayed." He paused again, clammy hands slipping slightly where they gripped the edges of the podium. He withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and carefully dabbed his forehead. "I promised to bring stability to the economy and new, affordable housing to the people - and look at our great city today. Home-grown, grassroots, Gotham-led companies aren't just stable but thriving, bringing jobs and revenue to the city at levels Gotham has never seen before. The Narrows Restoration Project is well-underway, with a planned 10,000 new homes over the next two years, all with affordable, long-term leases attached."

There was scattered-but-steady applause across the crowd, and Mayor James paused again to allow those scribbling feverishly to catch-up. It had been a strong first year of his term, at least by Gotham Mayor standards, and his office knew that if he delivered in the Narrows, he was a shoo-in for re-election. Even in a city as execrable as Gotham, the Narrows were especially heinous, a buzzing hive of the worst the city and its population had to offer.

"Of course, our work in the Narrows wouldn't be possible without the proper funding, and my platform of unburdening the taxpayer remains steadfast! Gotham's tax-paying citizens already pay for our fine public services, and we cannot expect to maintain the quality of these services if we expect the common men and women of Gotham to fund the Narrows Restoration project as well. To this end, my office has spear-headed a brand new platform of shared funding for public works projects, to allow particular citizens of Gotham to give back to their city."

James gestured to the seated guests to his left, the first of which was a rake-thin, sharp-chinned man dressed impeccably and with a warm smile as he stood and waved, slowly approaching the podium.
"So please, join me in a round of applause as I introduce a close personal friend, William. D. Sommers, who is as passionate about rebuilding our great city as I am!"

James stepped aside, shaking William's hand and leading the crowd in heavy applause as he continued to smile and wave. Reporters within the crowd practically licked their lips; Sommers was a known entity already, a heavy supporter of Mayor James' campaign during the election period, and his company - Hightowers LLC - was already in the public eye due to the recent changeover in leadership. Bill Sommers Sr. had been known to be ill for some time already, and he had finally stepped down from his position and handed the reins to William, his only son and heir to the Sommers empire and industrial fortune. William had started his era at Hightowers strong, introducing new policies and working conditions that had both elevated public opinion of the company and increased revenue for the private market. He was, right now, Gotham's golden child, and Mayor James was eager to milk that popularity for all its poll-improving worth.

William allowed the applause to die down before beginning his address, every eye rapturously fixed upon him.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you so much to yourselves and my good friend Aubrey for having me here today. Please, let's have another round of applause for Aubrey, and all he's managed to accomplish in only a short twelve months!"
William lead the crowd in another scattering of applause, beaming at Mayor James, who smiled back and played the humble card, a well-practiced series of gestures and facial expressions designed to engineer good faith.

"It's true - I have been graced with this honourable opportunity to give back to the city that has done so much for me and my family. Without the good people of Gotham, Hightowers would still be the mere pipe-dream of my father and his father before him; this great city that has helped us so much deserves to share in that success. So Hightowers is donating generously to the Narrows Restoration project from our own profits - an even split with the taxpayer, straight down the middle. 50/50. So that we can, all of us, contribute to the improvement of the city that we share and love. I for one, can't wait to see Gotham usher in a new golden age for the city, and I can't wait to help every step of the way!"

The applause went up again, and cameras flashed and popped as Aubrey came to stood next to William, the two holding a strong handshake and a smiling pose toward the reporters. The Narrows Restoration project was well and truly funded, with minimal impact on the common citizens of Gotham. That Hightowers LLC had been awarded, through one shell company or another, every public and private contract for every aspect of the project wasn't mentioned, nor would it be, and neither was the fact that as a result, Hightowers' generous contribution went straight back into its own pocket, straight alongside the taxpayer-funded half.

William smiled, all teeth, eyes sparkling with something other than philanthropic pride. Aubrey smiled, thin lips, sweaty forehead, eyes squinting in the afternoon sun and hiding a nervous trepidation about who'd actually been elected mayor last year.

[Roman]

_{#1.02: The Bat}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

---

Earl Skinner was a drug dealer, a hired thug, a gang initiate, a general scumbag, and a landlord.

His father’s father has been in construction and lived in what was effectively a worker’s village contained to a single two-story bloc estate, 8 apartments of 4 rooms each (including the combination den/kitchenette and the cramped en-suite bathroom) forming a brutalist square around a double-function courtyard and parking lot for bikes and the one guy who’d scrimped and saved enough pay to buy an actual car. Eventually the other workers had died or moved away, and it had been just Ol’ G-Paw Skinner left, living off state pension, nursing arthritis and lung disease. When G-Paw died Earl was still a boy, and didn’t understand that G-Paw had been a long-time blocker to companies that wanted to purchase the lot for redevelopment; he didn’t know that his father had been made an offer for the bloc shortly before G-Paw’s sudden decline after a decade battling illness, nor that his father had countered the offer with the inheritance and bought the whole run-down, crumbling estate himself with city guidance he make the bloc as a whole presentable amidst the other developments around them. What he did understand, through his father’s tutelage, is that paint and spackle was a lot cheaper than actual structural repairs, and that desperate people would pay far more than what a place was worth just to have a roof over their heads on those sodden Gotham rainy nights and a bed to lay their children in. By the time Earl learnt the truth of G-Paw’s demise - confessed by his father on his own deathbed - his only real thought was ‘why ain’t ya do him in sooner’.

Since his father’s death, he’d come into ownership of the bloc and its leases himself, and he’d developed new, even more degenerately cunning methods of extracting money from his tenants and funneling it into his own assets; see, Earl only took rent in cash, in stark defiance of the modern age, and Earl's pal Brad owned a payday loan business in the same neighborhood, just on the right side of shady to still be operating. Between them, they also knew a revolving door of gang initiates looking to cut their teeth on some violent scut-work.

So with all the pieces clicking together, the play went like this: Earl would demand payment from whoever was coming up to rent day, and because he demanded it in cash, he'd wait until the unfortunate tenant had made the withdrawal, and then have them mugged. Unable to pay, the tenant invariably found a very un-sympathetic Earl would begin imposing late fees day-by-day, while the stolen cash would be taken straight to Brad. As the victim grew desperate beneath the looming threat of homelessness on Gotham's unforgiving streets, one of two things would happen - either they found a way, almost always a horrible way, to stump up the cash, plus late fees, and Earl and Brad split the original rent money for a tidy little profit; or they came to Brad's door, who was genial and polite and more than happy to lend them back their own stolen money to pay Earl's rent and late fees and all at a tidy little interest rate of 100-150% to start with.

The sustainability of such a model mattered little to either man; when the pair's combined ploy eventually drove someone out of the bloc entirely, Gotham's endless font of desperate unfortunates was quick to plug the gap. Anyone who suspected Earl Skinner was never in a position to do anything about it.

Earl Skinner was about to have a bad night.

- - -

Maggie hurried home through the streets on yet another rainy Gotham night, her jacket held up to shield her hair from the downpour. In truth, she didn't hate the rain; the streets were quieter, she liked the sound of it, and more often than not wet nights were warmer than dry ones, which she felt grateful for in her unheated apartment. The rain hit against her skin and she tried to embrace it rather than shiver. On her thighs she still felt the greasy, clammy grips of the barflies who'd pawed at her as she'd delivered drinks and paraded shots - but it made for good tips, so instead of recoiling in disgust she smiled, put a hand on a shoulder, bent over just enough to present the tray as well as her cleavage, and tips were sorely needed. Today, rent was due. Earl had messaged to remind her this morning. She gripped the envelope of cash tight.

A couple streets over, Earl Skinner sat in his Chevy Suburban, a ghastly SUV monster that looked all the more ridiculous in its overblown and gaudy pompousness when it was sat outside the neglected and degrading apartment block that he'd used to finance it. He fiddled with his phone, flipping between apps and webpages and generally killing time while the rain beat down around him and he waited for the evening to proceed. Out in the wet his goon was splashing across the asphalt, off to fetch Earl his money.

Maggie was close to home, and grateful for it; she felt like she must be approaching terminal wetness, a plateau of simply how soaked a single person could physically be, and the rain seemed only to worsen in response. She was drenched to the bone, and without a working boiler she was in genuine danger. Towels and blankets might not be good enough to dispel this chill from her core, but she had no other options. Her clothes would take days to dry.

Ahead of her, the road was awash with a great lake of water; there was a blocked drain and the rain had taken full advantage to sink the street into a shin-high marsh. Maggie didn't even stop to consider her options; she couldn't face having to walk through it and ruin what was left of her shoes - her feet pounding the pavement in double-layered socks was about all the warmth she had left in her right now. Instead, she took a sharp turn, ducking between two buildings to cross through the alley in between them, intending to circle around the flood; she was maybe a block, block-and-a-half from home, and she even had the day off tomorrow. Home, some food, some dry clothes.

She didn't even see the man holding the crowbar until he stopped her forcefully with a heavy hand against her collarbone. He almost felt like a caricature of Gotham's standard run-of-the-mill muggers; dressed head-to-toe in a grey rubber poncho, balaclava covering his face beneath the poncho, booted in black wellies and gloved hands forming a tight grip around his choice of weapon. Maggie simply started to cry.
"No dramatics, lady. Just make this easy on the pair of us and hand it o-"

He was interrupted mid-sentence by the sudden and forceful impact of a stranger's shoulder to his midsection, and his yelp of surprise and pain was cut short by the ringing of metal as they hit a dumpster and the dropped crowbar hit the floor. There were several wet thuds in fast succession and more yelps, and then the stranger stood, hunched over, one hand gripping the goon by the collar of his poncho, the other balled into a fist and rearing back; it came down hard, and even through the poncho and the balaclava, the sound of a fractured jawbone rang clear through the rain. The terrible hands found the discarded crowbar and this too was raised, flashing in the sky against the streetlight like the flaming sword at the gates of Eden; it found its mark against a kneecap, and the cry of pain cut ice through Maggie, even as it came out garbled through the broken jaw.

The stranger stood tall, fist still clenched around the crowbar. Maggie didn't dare breath. He was some manner of terrible demon: all-black, horns erupting from his head, terrible wings trailing down his back like flayed skin slung over his shoulders, something branded across his chest. His hot breath spooled out as fog from his mouth in the evening air. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, Maggie leaned forward, trying to get a better view of the symbol across his torso; when he finally moved, turning toward her, the illusion was dispelled.

Stood before her was a man, 6-foot and change, well-built and broad-shouldered; he wore dark-grey military pants, the legs tucked into heavy black boots. His hands flexed inside padded gloves, and his torso was clad in a matte-black armoured jacket; across the chest was the painted insignia of a bat. A cape wrapped around his neck and fell backwards over his shoulders, the ends ragged and torn, and finally a hardened cowl covered his head, that furrowed his brow and darkened his eyes, with great pointed ears sprouting from the top. In the murky night, through the rain, he cut a hellish otherworldly figure; as Maggie adjusted and the terror subsided, he became a saviour, and simply a man.

They looked at each other for a long time; Maggie didn't move, and neither did the Bat; he kept a firm grip on the crowbar, and she still clutched her pay. Finally, with a rasping breath, the Bat stooped over again, passing the crowbar from one hand to the other and picking up the would-be mugger's uninjured leg. Step by step, the Bat began to drag the man past Maggie, his ferocious gaze set on some distant objective that Maggie couldn't see through the rain. He growled as he passed her, offering only a few short words,
"Get home, get dry. Save your money. No more robbery tonight."
And then he was gone around the corner, and the spell on Maggie was broken; she scrambled away, running all the way back to the bloc.

- - -

Earl yawned and rubbed his face, feeling eyestrain from staring at his screen in the dark of the car's interior for the last hour. He wondered where the hell that jackass rookie was. That was the problem with kids these days - no drive, no common sense. If he'd taken the money and split, he'd be on crutches within the week, and that was best-case scenario. As it was, Earl was still fixing to deliver him a black eye, or maybe a broken nose, just for the tardiness.

Something groaned outside the car.
"Alright, fuck this dumb kid." Earl muttered to himself, sitting up and twisting the keys in the ignition to bring the engine to life.

There was a great crunching and creaking of metal as something heavy hit the car and the roof buckled beneath the weight. The car rocked side-to-side, something else tumbled down the windshield and landed on the bonnet, and then everything was still, only the beating of the rain against the car once again. Earl breathed heavy, panicked breaths, mind racing. Shakily, he brought his phone to his ear, dialing the rookie.
What the fuck is going on out there?

Earl jumped as his phone connected and the rings made the car hum like thunder. He peeked over the steering wheel and now saw the object on the bonnet for what it was; his rookie's phone, lighting up against the night and vibrating with each ring. Slowly, but surely, Earl watched the phone vibrate its way to the edge of the car and tumble to the ground; the call fail immediately as the phone cracked and switched off. Earl looked up, and now noticed the outline of a limp hand hanging over the lip at the top of the windshield. Nervously, and with some effort thanks to its now partially-crumpled frame, Earl pushed the door open to try and look at the individual on the roof and confirm his suspicions.

A strong hand gripped Earl roughly by the back of the collar and pulled him bodily from the car, tossing him hard onto the wet asphalt of the road. Earl blinked, trying to wipe the rain from his face and get a good look at his attacker; he scrambled to stand, trying to push himself up, but a forceful kick to his elbow sent it bending the wrong way and put him straight back on the ground. He clutched his arm, growling in enraged pain.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you have no idea who you’re fu-”
There was a flash of metal in the streetlight and the crowbar Earl had handed the rookie not even an hour previous came down onto his ribs; Earl felt at least three crack from the impact and growled again.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you-”
This time the crowbar hit his kneecap dead-on, shattering it. The leg would be useless for weeks; he’d never walk on it properly again.

Earl screamed, and there was a crashing sound of glass from the car; through the pain, Earl looked up. The crowbar was lodged through what remained of his windshield.
The light from behind Earl’s head was eclipsed as a great shadow stepped behind him. Earl couldn’t twist to see properly, and he was hazy through the pain and the downpour, but he saw…blackness. A dark figure, with wings and horns and a snarl like a primeval beast, looked over him.

The Bat put a single careful boot on Earl’s wrist.
“You will never hurt another person again. You will never take money from another person again.”
The pressure on Earl’s wrist increased and he groaned, unable to pull himself free.
“You will never push drugs again. You will never rob again.”
Slowly, slowly, more pressure; Earl could feel the small bones grind against each other, the asphalt bite into his skin.
“You will never rape again. You will never kill again. You will hide, and you will think, and you will regret your pathetic life, your sad life, your vicious little life that has been predicated on hurting, and taking, and exploiting, and trafficking, and you will never do any of it again. Because if you do, I will know.”
The Bat pushed down with that last little push that was needed, and a series of short, sharp snaps popped from Earl’s wrist as it was crushed beyond use entirely. The Bat crouched, inches from Earl’s panicked, terrified face, a demon snarling the truths of Hell into his ear.
“And I will come back for you.”

Earl fainted, the pain finally washing him out of consciousness. The Bat stood up, and walked away, disappearing into the night.

[Roman]

Enormous, rough-hewn stone walls expanded in every direction forever, their rugged surfaces a mix of eroded curves and harsh, hand-chiseled edges. The cragged, pock-marked plane snaked away around corners, wrapping in on itself with corridors that weaved and knotted and intersected at crossroads and loops and spirals. You could walk for five hundred days and never find a dead-end, never cross back on yourself, but you'd have made no progress at all. Above was a black, empty expanse, an endless sprawl of agoraphobia that weighed down on top of you and made the stone hallways all the more narrow; claustrophobia in equal measure.

Poe, rake-thin, 3-foot-something, hair matted and greasy, curled into herself against the cold floor that was simultaneously the cold stone of the walls and a clinical vinyl linoleum tile, each version of itself straining against the other to assert their own reality; eventually, the linoleum gave way, and stone swallowed up what was left of where she'd come from entirely. She pressed the butts of her hands into her eye sockets, refusing to see what she could hear and feel and know in her very core. This was a world she was familiar with but wanted little to do with; a world she knew in glimpses and fragmented nightmares. A surreality that defied all logic regarding its incomprehensible, immutable being. It was and is and would be. It was frightening. It is dangerous. It would be navigable, would Poe simply come to understand it. Alas. Such a thing defied understanding just as much as it defied all man's ken. Poe, young and scared and of little experience of known reality, let alone this other, outside-place, could not dwell on extant metaphysics - she could only cower.

Poe, rake-thin, 5-foot-4, hair brushed and straightened and falling far past her shoulders, lay in a hospital bed, mattress soft and firm. The clean plastic and metal of the bed's frame were a stark contrast against the ragged rock and stone of the surrounding labyrinth, the muted pastel green and cream almost blinding against dark grays and blacks. The tube in her arm suggested an IV drip had at some point been in place, but such a feature was absent now - just a loose cannula draping over the edge of the bed, the last few drops of saline from the open end the last indication of any medical attention she had been receiving. She was bleary and confused, and though a part of her couldn't help but recognize where she was, how she came to be here, and the implications upon her circumstances that both fragments of knowledge imparted, there was a fog against her mind that prevented a conscious acknowledgement. She was here, she had been somewhere else, she would arrive elsewhere entirely; all were important, none felt relevant. In the haze, she merely lifted her arm, observing her pale flesh sparkle in the black starlight from above.

Poe turned away from these particular versions of herself, caught in here, ensnared in the maze. Which version of her was more true she did not know; if either were constructions, either of her own making, or the labyrinth's making, or from some further alien source, she could not place their origins and she could not recollect herself in their places. They were mirages, conjured up to frighten or threaten or elucidate or distract; it didn't matter, she didn't want them, and suddenly they were gone as the walls stretched and scraped with a great stone-on-stone grinding to finally slam closed and box both in entirely, before the corridors before her stretched away at such a pace she felt nauseous; and that was that. Out of sight, out of mind.

Distantly, distantly...shouting? Poe turned, her brows knitted together. Hallways spanned out before her but choosing was a lottery; the sound seemed to come from each in equal portion, bouncing off the rock to surround her with shouts becoming half-heard whispers. She knew, in her bones, that if she wanted to find them, she would, regardless of choice of direction, but she wasn't sure she did. Something else in her gut told her not to go looking. Which instinct to trust, which hunch to rely upon? Curiosity rallied and ignited the fire; with five passages splayed out in front of her she spread her fingers and slapped her hand hard against the rock before holding her arm out in front. Her ring finger hurt the most, so that was the way she picked.

Twisting, turning, running hands along rough stone. Shouting grew steadily closer, and though she could hear the source moving it gained no ground on her. She circled it, drawing ever-inwards as it frantically span in a frenzied search. She could hear it properly now, make out the words, although wouldn't deign to guess whether that was because she was close enough or she was now simply allowed.
"Poe! Poe, where are you?! Poe!"
Searching for her. A sliver of ice ran through Poe's chest and she nearly tripped, distracted by shock, but her hands caught herself on stone rushing to meet them and she steadied. In response, the walls shifted, and what would have been a circuitous, rounding path suddenly opened at its core and there it was, the source; a well-groomed, stern-looking older gentleman in a clean-pressed and expensive suit, flanked by a man and a woman, looking slightly less collected, in white coats and wielding syringes. Poe's eyes flared in panic as she noticed the needles; the gentleman's eyes flared in poised anger as he noticed Poe.

"Poe! Poe, come with us now."
Poe stepped backwards, scared, threatened. Quietly, the straight path shimmered and what had been, momentarily ago, an endlessly spooling corridor behind the trio, was suddenly thick with stone. Of the white-coat pair, the man noticed first. He sprung back - Poe recognized swelling panic flush across his face, a mirror of her own expression. The gentleman only glanced subtly to either side, seeming to assess his immediate surroundings.
"Poe, come on now." A calmer tone, but with the words came another advance, and his advance prompted Poe's retreat; she didn't know who these people were, didn't desire to, and her attention was fixed on the metal of the needles that still glimmered in the non-light. "We need to be getting on."

The woman ran out of patience and darted forwards, prompting the gentleman to yell out, but not before Poe was away and sprinting backwards; they were chasing, faster than she could escape - and then came that grinding of stone against stone again, and more shouts,
"Poe! Don't leave us here! Poe! Don't! DO-"
and then the stone slammed shut and there were no more shouts and Poe was alone again.

[Roman]

What If...Deadman was just a kid?

[Roman]

He's got a massive whinge he hasn't got a too right! Built like a uluru heaps he's got a massive icy pole. Grab us a gobful piece of piss you little ripper swag. As cunning as a stonkered mate he hasn't got a mullet. He's got a massive whinge he hasn't got a too right! Built like a uluru heaps he's got a massive icy pole. Grab us a gobful piece of piss you little ripper swag. As cunning as a stonkered mate he hasn't got a mullet. He's got a massive whinge he hasn't got a too right! Built like a uluru heaps he's got a massive icy pole. Grab us a gobful piece of piss you little ripper swag. As cunning as a stonkered mate he hasn't got a mullet.

He's got a massive whinge he hasn't got a too right! Built like a uluru heaps he's got a massive icy pole. Grab us a gobful piece of piss you little ripper swag. As cunning as a stonkered mate he hasn't got a mullet. He's got a massive whinge he hasn't got a too right! Built like a uluru heaps he's got a massive icy pole. Grab us a gobful piece of piss you little ripper swag. As cunning as a stonkered mate he hasn't got a mullet. He's got a massive whinge he hasn't got a too right! Built like a uluru heaps he's got a massive icy pole. Grab us a gobful piece of piss you little ripper swag. As cunning as a stonkered mate he hasn't got a mullet.

[Roman]

A L I A S
A L I A S

^{"Witty Quote"}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Given Middle Surname _________________________________________________________ Occupation | Affiliation(s) [If Applicable] _________________________________________________________ Multiverse | Open or Closed to Collaborators C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

W H A T I F...? W H A T I F...? ________________________________________________________________________________________ This is where you outline your vision for the character including any notable changes or differences from the regularly accepted canon. This should be a short summary that provides insight into where the character is in terms of their overall progress and development. You could also include any notable differences from the standard canon you've added to your character. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go? For a driving character, there should be enough of an outline present to interest other players along with specifications towards how many players you're looking to involve or available roles. For supporting characters, this should indicate either a plot you've arranged to be part of or the type of plot you're looking to be involved in. Roaming characters have the privilege of doing either or simply stating a roadmap for the character to exemplify how you'd ideally like them to move between plots.

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[Roman]

Gotham gazette

Faux subreddit comment chain?
Or just texts.

Then title card
Then Sommers
Then starting the Bat on Penguin’s trail.

[Roman]

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*Artists' Impression, the Bat-Man of Gotham _________________________________________________________		NOBLE HERO OR CRAZED VIGILANTE? Have you seen the Bat-Man of Gotham? Victoria Vale Across Gotham City, reports of sightings and encounters with the mysterious chiropteran assailant supposedly stalking the streets at night continue to flood the desks of GCPD officers, as well as journalists, bloggers, podcasters, and influencers, keeping everyone's eyes on one bewildering mystery: who is this cryptic creature roaming our city? While often un-corroborated and rarely delivered by more than just a single witness, all stories do share a common thread: the prevention of a more serious crime, through the dispensal of profound violence. So far, Gotham's citizens seem to see this 'bat-man' as a dark protector against the seedy underbelly of Gotham City; but if he is indeed simply a man who's had enough - as many reports say he is - is he overstepping as a lone vigilante, disregarding the due process of the law in favor of street-administered 'justice'? Reporters who spoke to staff at both Gotham General and Saint Peter's hospitals confirmed that there has indeed been a rising increase in admissions for fractures, concussions, crush injuries, and similar wounds consistent with blunt-force trauma - but hospital staff are unable to disclose patient history or identity, and GCPD have failed to see an equivalent rise in assault cases. Are these victims of the vigilante too afraid of him to speak out, or is this new trend in hospital admissions simply unrelated, and this 'bat-man' is another invention of Gotham's superstitious citizens, like the ever-popular tale of Grundy-of-the-Marsh, a similar cryptid fairytale from Gotham City's rich history?

One recent would-be victim, MARGARET PAGE, spoke to the Gazette of her close encounter only a few nights ago:

"I was coming home from work late one evening last week - when we had all that dreadful rain - and trying to avoid a flooded street I tried to cross a block over through an alley. Dumb, I know. Obviously there was some thug just waiting for me. It felt like the opening scene in a horror movie, you know? When lone girl bumps into the monster and gets killed. God, had the wet shirt and stringy hair and everything..."

"Anyway, I guess it was kind of like that, except the thug wasn't the monster. He just appeared so quickly, like he'd just stepped out of the shadows - like he'd just...materialized, you know? And he side-swiped the guy and all I could hear over the rain was just, him beating on this guy, just these dull wet thuds, you know? And then he stood up and he honest-to-god looked like a demon. Those horns, the big wings, claws, all-black, and that brand across his chest...but then he moved and he looked at me and it all changed. He was just a guy, you know? A guy who'd had enough. You could see it in his eyes. He was so scary, but when he looked at me I knew he wouldn't hurt me. He hurt that thug a bit more, sure, I wasn't exactly about to stop him. And then he just...he told me to go home. To save my money. And he just walked off, dragging that thug behind him. And I felt like he was watching me the whole way home. And the funny thing was, I did save my money, because my landlord told me to keep the rent. And I knew that was because of him. He protected me, you know?"

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The Gazette does know; Ms. Page's story mirrors that of many others across the city - a mugging, or a rape, or a robbery, or even a murder, interrupted seemingly out of nowhere by this mysterious costumed assailant. It's little wonder many citizens of Gotham are hailing this stranger as a hero, valiantly defending the vulnerable across the city that the GCPD often forget about. However, not everyone shares the same view of this man as a protector - EARL SKINNER, Ms. Page's aforementioned landlord, came forwards exclusively to the Gazette to share his side of the story: "Guy's a f--king maniac. I was just sitting in my car, trying to wait out the rain, and he completely wrecks the thing - caves the roof in, puts a crowbar through my windshield - and then when I'm getting out to see what the f--k is going on, he pulls me out and starts wailing on me. I have no idea what I did to this guy, but he's left me practically crippled. And then he threatens me that he'll come back to finish the job if I don't pause rent indefinitely for my tenants. Fine, I get it, times are hard - but how am I supposed to maintain eight apartments to a decent standard without any income? I'm just an honest landlord, I don't have an endless font of money. Free housing is a lovely ideal but it's not realistic - if this guy's willing to assault and kill people for some lefty nonsense, none of us are safe. It's just another step towards war by the woke agenda." While the Gazette can't comment on any political leanings or agenda that may or may not be behind this man's actions - he has left no manifesto and refused to contact any publishing organization in Gotham - Mr. Skinner's story certainly does call for concern around the methods employed by this vigilante. For now, Gotham's police force may be content to allow this rogue agent to mete out violent justice in their stead, certainly as it seems those falling foul of the 'bat-man' are reluctant to report their encounter; perhaps, to the GCPD, this is an opportunity to cut down on their paperwork?	*Mr. Skinner, pictured with his injuries _________________________________________________________

In any case, opinion is certainly split across the city, while those who may be held responsible for investigating or even stopping this man appear largely apathetic. The Gazette approached both the GCPD Commissioner and the Gotham Mayor's office for comment on these swirling rumours, but were provided no statement from either. It seems that amidst cryptic sightings and unconfirmed reports, the city's leadership has more pressing, extant concerns.

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_{#1.03: Slow News Day}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

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Jimmy startled as a rolled up newspaper slapped the top of his desk, breaking him out of his focus on the computer monitor in front of him. He quickly alt-tabbed, hiding the research into this mysterious 'Bat-Man' he'd been doing from whoever was now rounding the desk to interrupt what had until now been a relatively peaceful morning.
"You seen this shit, Jimmy?"
Jimmy looked at the copy of the Gotham Gazette that was unfurling on the desk in front of him. An artist's sketch of Gotham City's latest legend stared back at him from the front page, with a couple sensational headlines next to it.
"Looks like a slow news day to me." Jimmy replied, turning his attention back to the computer and some background paperwork he'd had up just in case. Harvey scoffed.
"If some headcase in bike leathers thinks he can do our job better than us he's welcome to try, but I won't have the papers call us lazy."
"You are lazy, Harvey." Said Gordon, to which Bullock just rolled his eyes.
"And you're an asshole, Jimmy. Only one of us is worth writing about to the Gazette, though."
Jimmy had to concede a chuckle at this one. Despite their differences, there were far worse partner assignments in the GCPD, and in a way Jimmy felt fortunate that the worst he got was a burnt-out, over-the-hill lard-ass with a cap and jacket severely in need of a wash.
"Still," Harvey continued, scratching his beard as Jimmy watched the flakes of the morning's pastry drift slowly to the floor, "it has been a bit quieter around here. Can't say I miss the paperwork.
Jimmy raised an eyebrow as Harvey pulled up a chair and sat down, propping his boots up on the edge of Gordon's desk. "You know what Jimmy - I'll say it. We let him have his fun for now. And then when he washes up in the Gotham River, we'll fish him out. And I'll wager doing that paperwork that he won't last the rest of the month."
Harvey held out his hand, waiting patiently for Jimmy's assent. Jimmy rolled his eyes, but ultimately leaned forward, sealing the bet with a firm shake.
"Excellent. Now get your jacket - we've got patrol beat. Maybe you'll get lucky-", Harvey said, standing and gesturing toward the PC that Jimmy had been working at- "and catch a real-life sighting to add to your research."

Jimmy startled, having underestimated his partner again, while Harvey just chuckled and left to fetch the car keys.

- - -

An erratic, vibrant piano piece echoed through the penthouse apartment at the top of Gotham City's most premier high-rise. Layered over the top was the white-noise of a shower running full-blast, and from the corner of the apartment that housed the bathroom a steady tide of mist rolled through the open-plan doorway.

The clear morning sky - finally clear after the torrential rain of the past few days - streamed bright and crisp sunlight through the skylights and wall-panel windows into the main chamber, splashing across white marble walls and dappled zebra-wood flooring. On the far side of the penthouse from the bathroom was the kitchen, a grand row of counter and cabinets that right-angled against the wall around a subtle but imperial island.

Stood against the counter was a suited attendant - one of the penthouse's hired staff - who cracked an egg into a frying pan at the stove, and silently cursed as the sizzle immediately indicated the pan was too hot. He lowered the flames and hoped his employer wouldn't notice. Sat at the island, a bald man in small dark glasses and a long, stately coat raised a single eyebrow momentarily, before returning his attention to the model in front of him; it was a scale miniature of one of the housing blocks in the Narrows before it had been torn down as restoration works began. The bald man was working carefully with a pair of tweezers and a Kolinsky Sable brush to get the replica corpses of the murder-suicide they'd had to clear out prior to demolition just right.

The water from the shower shut off, and the attendant nearly jumped at the sudden absence of noise. Footsteps - light, yet purposeful - traced a pattern from the bathroom to the nearby bedroom, then paused, then back out again and across the penthouse where they finally came to rest as the owner took a seat at the island.
"Oh, do put that ghastly thing away, Victor. It's too stunning a morning for your morbidity."
Victor Zsasz, Chief Operating Officer of Hightowers LLC, and William Sommer's right-hand man, brought a large rectangular case from the floor up to the island's surface, and carefully stowed away his model within, sealing the clasps and placing the case back on the ground. The attendant turned, a plate in each hand, and set William and Victor's breakfasts before them, before quickly returning with two delicate, designer, price-tag-over-function mugs, and a french press to match, carefully pouring the still-steaming coffee into their vessels. William watched him with skepticism, and then frowned impatiently as he set the french press back down.

"Well? I've just had a shower. The bathroom needs wiping down. I shouldn't have to tell you every time."
William had in fact never asked for the bathroom to be wiped down, but the attendant simply nodded nervously and walked away. Victor was already silently starting on his breakfast, his expression as stone-faced and inscrutable as ever. William inspected his eggs.
"Burnt. Shocking. Victor, do make sure to fire that imbecile once he's done for the day. I want someone actually capable of handling food tomorrow morning. Get one of Chez Vous' boys. Hell, get the owner."
Victor nodded, solemnly chewing the rest of his breakfast. William sipped his coffee and made a show of grimacing slightly in distaste, despit eat what was a perfectly-made espresso with the finest beans William's considerable fortune could acquire. With Victor offering little in the way of conversation, and William liking it that way, he reached for the day's Gazette. He perused the front page and its evocative artwork, before opening the broadsheet in full and vanishing behind it.

"This bat-character is stirring up the city lately, isn't he?" William remarked casually, and at this, Victor actually began to pay attention. "I assume we're keeping an eye on him?"
"Yes, sir. Reports are...sporadic at best. We really don't have much more information at this time than the major outlets. But they all point towards one thing so far."
"Which is?" William prompted, not coming out from behind the paper.
"One man, no funding. Street-level crime only. Seemingly no greater ambition than common thuggery vigilantism."
"So far." William corrected, and Victor cleared his throat.
"Yes, sir. So far. We are monitoring his behaviour."
William reached around his paper for his coffee. "Good. Let him play for now. Good to give the people some hope every now and again. Keeps them hungry."
"Yes, sir. And...if he moves against us?"
William used a single finger to fold down the corner of the Gazette, a dark gaze boring holes in the back of Victor's skull that he felt even through his obscuring glasses.
"We have him killed, Victor. Really, it's not that complicated. Can't have the muck getting any funny ideas."

- - -

The rain of the past few days had done little to clear out the humidity in the sweating alleyways of Gotham City. Steam belched from building vents as the sun set past the skyline, and 'Sunny' Sonny Shepard couldn't be happier for the clammy conditions. The rain was terrible for business - he didn't do house-calls, and no one wanted to wade through the streets in the middle of a monsoon to find his den - and the uncomfortable mugginess made people itchy, antsy; what better way to alleviate that agitation than with some quality product?

Well, maybe 'quality' was a little generous, although Sunny Sonny, chipper as his name would imply, was always quick to remind you that 'quality product' didn't specify what quality. 'Low' was still, semantically speaking, of a quality. And if you argued the point any further than that, well, there were always other dealers, if you could find any that hadn't blacklisted you by the time of your hospital release from a perforated abdomen.

As the sun finally disappeared Sunny Sonny made his way back to the den, tucking in to a greasy and well-stuffed gyro as he went; a vice of his, even if the authenticity was dubious despite the stall-owner’s claims. Still, it was a close enough approximation to be nostalgic of his mother’s, without being better, which Sunny Sonny thought was important - if you had a better version of something your mother used to make you, that’d be the version you’d want from then on, and one more thread of home would be severed. Gotham was too far already. The gyro was as good as it had to be, but no better.

The den approached quickly, or Sunny Sonny approached the den quickly, one of the two - he was too lost in reminiscent daydreaming to pay attention to his journey, the steps along simply muscle memory, running on auto-pilot. He finished the gyro, licking the last of the tzatziki from his fingers (autopilot), balling up the wrapper to toss in the dumpster down the side of the den (autopilot), fishing his keys and slipping them in the lock (autopilot), not noticing the lock had been jimmied and span loosely rather than getting stiff at that six-eighths rotation (autopilot), stepping through the door and his foot coming down squarely onto the trigger-plate of a bear trap set exactly where Sunny Sonny always put his auto-piloted foot after coming into the den.

Sunny Sonny tumbled to the floor hard, screaming and swearing, writhing in pain and desperately grasping at the vicious metal teeth that dug their way into his calf muscle and shin bone. Blood seeped out and soaked his jeans, and the sticky-slick ooze made getting a purchase against the metal impossible - every slip of the hand just jostled the trap and sent new white-hot flares of pain up his leg. He swore, his face red and eyes stinging, desperately wheeling his head about for either aid or his attacker.

The Bat dropped from the ceiling where he’d wedged himself for the last hour, landing between Sunny Sonny and the open door, kicking it shut behind him as he advanced. Sunny Sonny, in his agonised fury, went for the pistol in his waistband; the Bat was faster, and a forceful, steel-toed kick to Sunny Sonny’s wrist shattered the carpal bones and sent the gun skittering out of reach. Sunny Sonny, ever the optimist, tried to through a punch instead.

Sunny Sonny now found himself in the un-enviable position of being caught in a beartrap with a broken wrist on his dominant hand and the fist of the other caught in the Bat’s grip.
“Sunny Sonny Shepard. You deal dope, crack, amps, percs, drops, and however much more besides, for a fifty-block radius in this borough. You don’t have the means or the mental capacity for production. So what I want to know…” the Bat moved his grip on Sunny Sonny’s good hand to seize it by the wrist, and wrapped his other fist around the index finger; with the widening eyes of Sunny Sonny’s sudden comprehension, and a short, sharp yank, the finger snapped, and Sunny Sonny howled in pain again. “…is where you get your supply?”

The Bat moved his hand away from Sunny Sonny’s index finger, now crooked and sticking out at an odd angle, and wrapped his fist around the middle finger instead. Sunny Sonny and the Bat locked eyes, and despite the defiant gaze from the injured man, his face paled against the ferocity behind the Bat’s eyes, which said everything without needing a word:

You have eight fingers left. Don’t make me show you what happens when you run out of them.

[Roman]

_{#1.04: Dottle}

Earth-93913003, Gotham City

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Jimmy paused as he slid his key into the front door of his flat, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. As one hand turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, the other tugged at the tie around his neck, removing it in a practiced motion as he crossed the threshold into his home. The smells hit him first; lingering aromas from the evening's dinner he'd missed, the slight mustiness of the worn-out AC unit in the window, the dampness of the last few days' rain that still loitered on the coats hung on the wall. Jimmy slid into the small chair next to the door and started unlacing his boots.

"James? Is that you?"
Barbara Kean’s voice, soft and quiet, cut through Jimmy’s short-lived fugue and brought him back to the flat; he pulled off his other boot just as his fiancée appeared around the corner from the den. She leaned against the wall, and Jimmy couldn’t - wouldn’t want to - suppress a smile as he looked at her, drinking the sight of her in to ferry away what he saw of Gotham every day on his beat. She was a vision in pyjamas, wearing some navy sweatpants and one of Jimmy’s academy hoodies, simple grey cotton with the GCPD logo on the breast. Her hair was a stunning orange in a wavy bob-cut; her eyes a bright and glittering green; her face a map of freckles that Jimmy still counted in order to fall asleep. She was intelligent - having surpassed Jimmy academically at every step of their relationship - and funny, and vivacious, and optimistic in a way Jimmy aspired to in his work and ethos. Jimmy had no idea how he’d landed her, or how he continued to hold onto her - and, quite frankly, was smart enough not to question it, lest she catch on and go find the better man she was sorely capable of getting.

“Yeah Barb, it’s me.” Jimmy replied, smiling warmly as he stood and moved to pull Barbara into a tight embrace. She reciprocated, burying her face in his shoulder as they wrapped arms about each other, and then simultaneously pulled their heads back to kiss. “How was your day, hon’?”
“It was fine.” Barbara answered, giving Jimmy one last squeeze before they broke apart, and holding onto his hand as they moved into the den where the television was playing quietly, the soft white glow illuminating the modest room. “The kids can’t stop talking about this Bat-Man. I guess it all sounds like comic-book superheroes to them.”
Jimmy chuckled, thinking about his own off-the-books investigation, no better than a few printed Gazette articles, blogposts, and notes taken from Reddit posts, tucked into a manila folder and hidden in a locked desk drawer. With the way everyone seemed to talk about him, he was hardly surprised Barbara’s schoolkids - mostly nine- and ten-year-olds, maybe one eleven-year-old proudly the class’ elder - had captured this mythological figure in their fanciful imaginations as some kind of caped crusader against their Saturday-morning villains.

“I think it’d all be a lot simpler if he were a comic-book character, Barb. GCPD hasn’t a clue what to make of the guy. Pretty sure half the department isn’t even convinced he exists.”
Barbara smiled, sitting back down on the sofa and pulling her legs into her, retrieving a mug from the sidetable. Jimmy could smell the herbal fragrance of the tea and couldn’t help wrinkling his nose.
“There’s leftovers for you, top shelf of the fridge. I made meatloaf.” She said, pointing over her shoulder at the kitchenette on the back wall of the den without looking away from her telenovela. James kissed her from behind on the top of her scalp in thanks, and moved to the fridge in search of dinner and a beer. One quick microwave later, and Jimmy sat at the small, two-person table eating straight from the Tupperware, sipping from a stubby, and watching the television over Barbara’s shoulder.

“What do you think about him?” Barbara asked, after about fifteen minutes of silent contemplation while she listened to Jimmy chew. Jimmy swallowed his last bite and took another sip of his beer before wiping his moustache with a sheet of kitchen towel.
“I think he was a damn fool to cheat on her. And with her own sister! No way she won’t be able to figure it out.”
Barbara laughed and spun around, hanging over the back of the sofa and resting her head on her forearms as she looked Jimmy in the eye.
“No, not the show - the Bat. What do you think about the Bat?”

Jimmy leaned back in his chair, folding his arms together and tucking his hands beneath his armpits. He frowned thoughtfully, his expression one of true cogitation.
“I think he’s out there. I think he’s resourceful. I think he’s tactically intelligent, if not just plain straight-forward intelligent. I think he’s got some kind of plan, not just stopping a couple muggers here and there. And I think he’s angry, which makes him dangerous. For everybody.” Barbara frowned, and Jimmy put his hands up in pre-emptive surrender as he finished his thoughts. “But I think... he has good intentions. But you know what they say about those.”

Barbara nodded, turning back around.
"I think he's finally doing what we all want to do in this city." She said, with such a solemn matter-of-factness that Jimmy was momentarily convinced she herself could be the vigilante.
"Which is?" Jimmy probed, standing up to wash his plate and cutlery in the sink.
"Fight back."
Jimmy nodded, and let the matter settle there.

There were a few soft burbles from the baby monitor on the kitchen counter, and Jimmy and Barbara caught each other's gaze.
"I put her down a couple hours ago. I'm surprised she didn't wake when you came in."
The burbles continued before raising in volume, becoming groans and whines.
"She probably needs changing. I'll get her."
"Be my guest," Barbara said, smiling and turning back to the TV as Jimmy moved to the bedroom, "those diapers have been foul since she switched to solids."

Jimmy left the den and gently pushed open the door to the bedroom; the double-bed dominated most of the room, with a built-into-the-wall wardrobe on Barbara's side and a standalone wardrobe pushed against the wall on Jimmy's side. At the foot of the bed was a crib, and in the crib was Jimmy's daughter, Barbara Gordon. She thrashed her little limbs in her onesie, her blanket now a muddled ball in the corner of the crib; as Jimmy crossed the room and appeared into view, his daughter babbled and giggled, reaching up towards his face, the endearing noises and movements punctuated by a few wet farts and a distinct odour.
"Hello, trouble." Jimmy said, and Babs cooed softly in response.

Jimmy smiled back and picked Babs up, holding her beneath her armpits as he carried her to the bathroom and laid her gently on the pop-up table, purchased for its incredible one-hand-only ease-of-use. Babs pawed her pudgy fingers at her father's face as they went, grazing his moustache and nose, trying to take tiny fistfuls of both; Jimmy made a game of weaving in and out of her grasp, the pair of them grinning and cooing, until she finally managed to seize a few strands in her infant grip, and Jimmy let out a low yelp as she tugged. Gently, carefully, he pried her fingers off his facial hair, and set about the task of changing her. Barb hadn't been lying; the contents were indeed foul.

She had the hair of her mother - the wisps were starting to come through in the vibrant ginger that adorned Barbara Sr. - but her eyes were the cool storm-gray of her father, and while her nose was still mostly the smushed-button styling of a newborn, Jimmy suspected he'd lent her that feature as well.
"Let's just hope you got mom's smarts." He said softly, fastening the new diaper and pulling her into a cuddle against his shoulder.

To say Jimmy and Barbara's engagement had been something of a shotgun proposal would be to betray the deep, devoted affection they each held for each other; but that's not to say Barbara's unplanned pregnancy hadn't played its own part on Jimmy's decision. Ideally, they'd have been married by now - but finances were tight already, and when Barbara's father, Everett Kean, died suddenly last year, what they'd managed to save for a wedding was instead spent on funeral expenses. Ultimately, the promise and the desire remained, but the financial situation to support it wasn't quite in the right place. Jimmy unconsciously rubbed his engagement band, a forlorn feeling bubbling up inside him, a disappointment in himself for being unable to provide.

Babs snored softly on his shoulder and Jimmy came back. She'd fallen back to sleep, and he crept back to the bedroom to replace her in the crib before sneaking out - leaving the door slightly ajar just-so - and returning to the den. Barbara looked around at him.
"Changed her and she fell straight back to sleep. What a life." He remarked, and Barbara chuckled. Her show had ended, and the television was now playing some generic late-night chat-show crap. Jimmy predicted Barbara herself would nod off within minutes. He went to the front door and fished around in his coat pockets for-
"Don't light that in here, James." Came the stern words from Barbara, who knew exactly where Jimmy's mind had gone. "You stand out on the fire escape if you're going to smoke."
"Yes, hon'." He answered dutifully, finally seizing his own late father's pipe from one coat pocket and his tobacco and book of matches from the other. He planted another kiss on Barbara as he passed back through the den - she wouldn't let him after he smoked - and climbed over the kitchen counter and out the window onto the fire escape, rusted metal creaking under his weight. The cold night air was brisk but felt energizing, and as Jimmy packed his pipe and sparked a match, he felt a sense of relief wash over him as the stresses of the day finally, however infinitesimally, began to melt away.

A knock at the window from inside the flat made him jump, and he and Barbara shared a chuckle as she leaned over the counter through the open window.
"Here-" she passed Jimmy another stubby, "I know that look. Relax a bit." She handed him his coat too; he pulled it over his goose-bump skin and leaned forward for another kiss. Barbara assented, though she pulled a face afterwards, half-mocking. "Smelly. I'm going to bed. Come cuddle when you're done. Love you."
"Love you too, hon'. Sleep well."

---

Jimmy could feel himself nodding off as he sat, reclined, on the soggy lawn chair they kept on the fire escape for these very evenings, when he'd contemplate the world looking down the length of his father's pipe, navel-gazing through the hazy smoke that drifted up from the bowl. He sat up, able to convince himself no longer that he was simply 'resting his eyes', and drained the last of the stubby, before standing and taking a few short steps to the edge of the metal gantry to toss the empty bottle into the dumpster below.

Jimmy froze as he reached the edge and his eyes caught fabric fluttering in the soft night breeze on the fire escape of the building opposite; reflexively, his eyes followed the edge of that fabric up to its source, and Jimmy suddenly felt very cold and very vulnerable. One-up from him, perched on the edge of the gantry, was the Bat-Man of Gotham, staring at him. Neither man said a word for a very long while.

"How long have you been watching me?" Jimmy finally said, feeling like he was breaking out of some kind of spell by speaking aloud. The Bat made no movement, the gentle fluttering of his cape in the wind the only indication he was really there at all.
"I followed you home. Listened in on your evening. Had to make sure."
"I'd have seen you." Jimmy lied.
"You did. You just didn't recognize me."
"Is that the reason for the getup? So you don't get recognized?"
"No. The suit is so I do. So I can be what I need to be."
"A maniac?"
"A symbol."

Jimmy paused. He had no idea, of the hundreds of emotions swirling within him, which should guide him in this moment. He had no weapon, no cuffs, and even if he did, what was he supposed to do? Leap the gap between the buildings and chase this vigilante up rusty metal ladders? What if he caught him, then what? Charge him with what? Take him to the station and stick him in a holding pen? Would a jury convict him? Would he even get as far as a courtroom, or would Jimmy find himself losing that bet with Harvey?

"Don't hurt my family." Jimmy said softly, settling on a course of action: to protect his loved ones.
"I'm not here for them. Or for you. I'm here to talk, to the only man in the GCPD who'd listen."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow, undeniably curious and almost, in a way, flattered. There was a presence about the Bat, and even now, in the midst of what was ostensibly just a surprise conversation between an off-duty cop and a lunatic, it felt like something far grander was at play.
"I get it. Trying to get the only good cop on your si-"
"You're not a good cop." The Bat interrupted, and only shock prevented Jimmy's anger from rising up to strike back. "You might think you are. You might think, because you don't take bribes, you don't collect racket money, you don't shake down Gotham's citizens for protection, you're the last good cop in Gotham City. But you're wrong."

Jimmy stuttered, his hand trembling as he held out his pipe like a accusatory finger, fumbling for a response.
"How many mob fronts has your partner, Detective Harvey Bullock, picked up cash from this week? How many times this month have you, in your cruiser, passed someone getting beaten, because the paperwork wasn't worth it? How many incidents of racism, sexism, homophobia, have you heard, witnessed, silently participated in, today? How many beat cops, your peers, your colleagues, the people you graduated the academy with, do you know - know - have killed someone?"
Jimmy lowered his arm, his head hanging low.
"And what have you done about it?"
_"Nothing."
"Because you can't. You can't lodge a complaint, or raise a report, you can't even correct them in conversation. Because at best, you'll lose your job, and at worst, you'll run foul of the wrong cop and lose your life. So what was your plan? Change the system from the inside? Be the one good example that no one else would follow? You might not participate - but you're still complicit. And to change the system, the system has to want to change. You're nobody. You're just one man, shouting silently into oblivion, waiting to be swallowed up."

Jimmy breathed deep, lashed by the truth in the words. He stared down at the alley beneath them, before tossing his empty bottle off the edge of the fire escape, watching it sail silently through the night air before landing in the dumpster down below.
"So you just came here to put me down, remind me how pointless everything is? What about you? You're just running around in a costume, beating up a few thugs. They go to the hospital for a couple days - they don't even make it to jail - they rest up a week or two - then they're back on the streets for, what, you to beat them up again and hope it sticks this time?
"No. I came to remind you why you ever joined the GCPD in the first place. That spark of hope - that's what the city has forgotten. That's what you need to hold onto. That's what I can be, more than just a man. And I came to ask for your help. You're not a good cop. But you're the best one the city has. And I will need you on my side."
"Why? Why now?"
"Because everything is about to change. I've got my own plans - plans I can't tell you about, plans I've been following - and now, I'm on the brink of everything. Gotham will change overnight."
"How."
"Because tonight, I'm going after a cop. And when I bring the entire GCPD down on my head, I need to know there's one cop - just one - on my side. A single cop that I - that the city - can trust."

Jimmy rubbed his eyes, rattled by the conversation, feeling like he'd had some veil ripped from his vision and a deep, stark truth laid bare before him. But there was also a sense of inevitability - like it had all been leading to this, like it was always going to have been leading to this - and he felt like denying it, here and now, would forever cast him into the abyss he'd been running from his whole life.

"Y'know, I was never much of a smoker, before my father died. He loved his pipe - when I was a kid, real little, I used to think it was some kind of tusk, like a elephant's, that's how often he was pulling on it. 'Course, I grew up, realized what it was, and then I hated him for it. He got the warning signs real early, too early, the coughing, the breathing trouble, the fatigue, but he kept right on smoking. I just thought, why was he doing it to himself? Why was he doing it to us? Didn't he know it was killing him, that he'd die too young, that he wouldn't get to see us grow up, get married, have kids? He'd never dance with my wife, never tell my daughter stories, never give...never give me advice on how to be a husband, or a father, or even a goddamn cop?"
Jimmy wrinkled his nose, his eyes stinging. He staunchly refused to cry, but it didn't seem to matter.
"About a year after I graduated the academy, I witnessed my first homicide, right in front of me. Senior detective. Shaking down this young...young man. A kid. He'd been asked to do a job, a nasty job, and he'd refused, so we were sent to teach him a lesson. Kid was fiery, strong. But stupid. The detective was a vile man, but he knew the right people, accepted the right bribes, so he was safe. He shot that kid right in the face, point-blank. Then he pointed the gun at me, gave me my story."
Jimmy held the pipe in his palms, staring at it. Tears dripped onto the lacquered wood.
"I picked tiny little fragments of that kid's skull out of my face in the station bathroom. And that night, I bought a pack of tobacco, and lit my old man's pipe when I got home. Had to lie to Barb that I'd picked up a smokes habit in the cruiser and was trying to cut down with the pipe instead. She still doesn't know why I started. But that time, alone, smoking...it helped. Helped me collect myself. Helped me separate being a cop from being a human being. I think my dad probably had a similar story. The rate he smoked, he probably had a couple hundred."

The pipe tumbled out of Jimmy's hands, falling down to the street. It missed the dumpster, and cracked in half on the concrete beneath them. Jimmy watched it all the way down.
"I'm in." He said, looking back up at his new partner.

The Bat-Man had disappeared. Jimmy nodded, sniffing, feeling a strong conviction in his fresh alliance. He climbed back into the flat, closing the window gently behind him, and went to be with his family.

[Roman]

Entroponetic crosstalk

[Roman]

Det. Arnold Flass
Ring of narcotic detectives who run a drug supply
Leader of ring (Lieutenant Bill Cranston) collects the supply and passes on to detectives to then supply a list of authorised dealers.
Dealers not on the list are busted by narc squad.
List comes from ‘The Penguin’ but no one’s actually met him or knows who he actually is.
Lead of narc squad resupplies every third Thursday during a night shift.

Ambushes Flass but Flass actually manages to fight back
Scuffle, Flass get knocked out. Wakes up in an abandoned abbatoir/meat-packing plant - one that the narc unit previously raided as drugs were being shipped inside carcasses. shut down the operation (as a 'win' for GCPD and some raises/awards for the narc unit) and then took it over for the Penguin.

‘Please god don’t kill me’
‘You’re praying to the wrong person’

Some Oswald stuff, some GCPD stuff with Jimmy and Harvey
‘I quit smoking’
‘You looked daft, Gotham only city where quitting hurts your life expectancy’

Flass brought before Penguin for blabbing.
Bird puns. ‘Squawking’, ‘canary’, ‘stool pigeon’ etc.