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Season 0: Year One C38: Gotham's Lost? (END) (Paid-Patrons)
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 14:03:13 +0000 UTCDay #8:
Prior to his arrival to Coast City, Deathstroke had anticipated many things.
“Wh-Why are you doing this?!“
He had expected a battle of a lifetime,
“Please!“
He'd expected a long and bitter skirmish that would bring the whole of the beachside city to its knees.
“Just please spare me!“
Hell, he'd even come with the expectation to lose and possibly die! What Slade hadn't expected was for the Imp to just up and vanish after a single confrontation! He'd even given the Demon more than enough time to catch up, yet…
What a let-down…
Pressing the nozzle to the back of the seventh target's head, a woman in her forties the mercenary hadn't bothered to remember the name of, the Super-Soldier sighed wistfully, “I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! PLEA—” And pulled the trigger, painting the glass with brain matter that slowly slid to the ground.
While there was a survivor, Slade was no longer interested in the contracts, not without an opponent to put his skill to the test. He had never found much joy in the act to begin with.
To him, it'd always been a means to an end, and that end was to prove himself to himself.
It was the reason he came to Gotham in the first place: To prove his might and expertise against Ras Al Ghul's Chosen Successor. Now that the seven contracts had been completed, and the Imp had scurried in the dark to lick his wound, there was no longer a reason for him to stay…
Lounging in his chair, Slade Wilson silently smoothed the creases on his forehead as a thought took root in his mind. 'Gotham.'
Since the protégé had been defeated, the next course of action was obviously to take down the master, but according to reliable sources, the Bat had disappeared after a riot in Arkham.
Nevertheless, the Bat wasn't the only cape around.
There was a pig waiting to be butchered,
A plant to be trimmed,
Killers to be slaughtered, kingpins to be humbled, and if the Imp were alive, he would surely head to Gotham next!
Throwing the body over the balcony, Deathstroke wiped the crimson stains from the barrel of his gun and vanished into the distant skyline on his grappling hook, unbothered by the screams and cries below.
It's just another life...
What did it matter to a man who'd been through more battles than he could count? Especially when an even grander battlefield awaited?
“Gotham it is.“
Gotham it has to be.
~ § ~
Day #9:
Truth be told, Alfred didn't like Wayne Manor. He'd hated it when he was young, and now that he had grown old and feeble, he hated it even more.
The building, while befittingly majestic for a man of Thomas's stature, had always seemed somewhat... Too cavernous, too empty for his taste.
Too—lifeless. Yes, that was the word.
Even when Thomas and Martha Wayne had been alive, the place had always felt somewhat lifeless.
The problem grew much worse after their deaths, and even more severe when Bruce decided to wander the globe in search of like-minded people and mentors.
And then his ward returned one night, drenched from head to toe, before taking up the mantle of Batman.
How Alfred loathed that alias.
It might not seem like it, especially with how often he had gotten Bruce out of troubles in his nightly crusades or gotten him, but that was only because the butler knew the young man would be Batman with or without his help, and that he'd regret it his whole life if his ward died because he wasn't there to help.
Ever since, he'd been forced to watch Bruce slowly wither away while the Bat only grew in prominence with each victory under his belt.
It had reached the point where he often found himself having nightmares in which he would go to wake his ward one morning, only to find him dead with that damned cowl stapled to his face.
The butler was prepared for nearly every scenario, from the bad to the terrible to the absolute worst!
But nothing could have prepared him for the uncertainty.
It would have been better if Bruce had turned up a mutilated corpse.
At least then there would have been no shred of doubt he was gone.
Being MIA, on the other hand, stoked hope.
Hope that he'd turn up the next morning looking irritated but otherwise fine.
Hope that was very slowly eating the old butler up from the inside with each passing second.
"Alfred?"
Hearing the concerned voice of Bruce's adoptive son, the butler turned, the biological mechanism in his neck creaking loudly like the old clock hiding the entrance to the Batcave. Resisting the urge to ask if Bruce or Rowan had turned up, if only because he knew his heart wouldn't be able to handle another 'No,' the butler sighed.
“What's the matter, Master Dick?“
“Th-The bacons are burnt…“ He glanced at the pan and, sure enough, found charred strips curled in on themselves where delicious brown pork belly should have been.
The butler held back a groan, rubbed his forehead, and sighed for the nth time that morninh. "My apologies, sir. I'm—"
"It's okay." The boy interrupted before he could finish, hand bunching a fistful of his tailcoat. "I know."
To say Alfred was touched would be putting it lightly.
He knew it couldn't have been easy for young Richard either.
After all, it had only been a few months since the tragedy of the Flying Graysons, and already he was facing the loss of a second family. If it were him, if he were around Dick's age, Alfred would have been absolutely devastated.
He might even have blamed or thought of himself as cursed.
“They're not dead.“ The boy suddenly said.
Where he'd found such conviction, such... faith, Alfred hadn't a clue, but the butler was oh-so tempted to believe him, even while the voice in his head continued to whisper that the quicker they could accept the truth, the easier it would be for them both.
“Master Richa—”
"I know what's being said around Gotham, but I know they are alive. I can feel it… They're alive, but away so we need to hold the fort for their return."
Alfred smiled in response.
It was a weak and feeble thing, barely more than a twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it was the only smile he'd been able to muster ever since Bruce and Rowan had both upped and vanished without a trace.
Then he looked around at the kitchen counter covered in a fine layer of dust, which would have horrified the Alfred of a week ago, before dumping the charred contents of the pan into the sink with more force than necessary. "It'd appear I've been terribly sloppy as of late..."
He reached for the dish towel next, but was gently stopped by Dick, who placed a firm hand on his wrist and ushered him toward the kitchen doorway.
"Let me handle this."
"Master Dick, I need to clea—"
"What you need is to rest. Please."
It was embarrassing to be guided toward his quarters by a child decades younger than him, but as Alfred sank into his favorite armchair, he suddenly elt the sweet, irresistible pull of sleep beckoning him like an old friend.
While the old butler drifted into much-needed unconsciousness, Dick Grayson went about cleaning the kitchen.
He couldn't do as thorough a job as Alfred, but he was happy with the result.
Afterward, the boy made his way down the familiar stone steps that descended into the Batcave, where the vast, unlit chamber awaited him in silence.
The space felt different without its usual occupants… He looked toward the massive Bat-computer where Bruce would usually be hunched over the keyboard, then shifted his gaze to the extra chair where he had seen Rowan casually lounge on those few occasions when both were present.
Finally, Richard's eyes settled on the green, red, and yellow suit displayed right beside their larger, more imposing costumes. They were alive, yes... And as long as he was too, they'd live on.
"Bruce, Rowan. Where you two are, I could use a little guidance."
On the ninth night, someone finally answered the Bat-signal. That 'someone' was smaller than expected; younger than hoped for, but it was something, and Gotham would take what hope she could get.
That night, the real Robin made his debut.
~ § ~
Day #10:
On the tenth day, the US government finally had Gotham surrounded, while the situation in the city itself began to stabilize.
Three major powers had risen, the first of which belonged to Two-Face, who'd taken New Gotham which used to be Cobblepot's seat-of-power and the Eastern section of Old Gotham where Poison Ivy's influence ran the thinnest.
What little space left was taken up by Scarecrow or Deacon Blackfire, both of whom been a little late to the party. Black Mask's False Facers, meanwhile, controlled the whole of Somerset, whereas Uptown or Burnley was divided between the Falcone and the Maroni crime families.
It had taken time, it had taken lives, but with the united effort of kingpins whose urge to expand had been temporarily sated, along with old and emerging heroes working together, one might even mistake No Man's Land for the sinful, yet glamorous city it used to be, if one squinted really, really fucking hard, which was about the opposite of what he wanted.
Hence—"Why have you come to me, Clown?"
Joker's smile was smaller than usual as he examined the chemical apparatus scattered across Scarecrow's makeshift laboratory. "You know what I love about chemistry, Doc? Mix the wrong things together and... Boom. Or in your case, more like... Ahhhh!"
Wheezing through the coarse burlap sack that covered his head, Jonathan Crane raised a vial filled with amber-yellow liquid, tilting it toward the overhead bulb to examine the dark mixture within.
“There are other villains you could approach. Villains with considerably more resources and substantially less... Unpredictability than I."
"Resources, sure. But vision?“
Blowing through his nose, the Clown skipped to an empty chair.
“Harvey's playing house with his new territory. Roman's counting bills.
Meanwhile, out there, people are starting to get comfortable again. They are starting to hope. And, well, that's just not right, is it? I mean, what is the point of all this lovely chaos if people just... Adapt?
Besides, I heard that while they were fighting over territories, you were quite busy yourself! Imagine my surprise when I went to Ozzie's ol' chemical warehouse only to find it looted!“
And Crane was so sure his operation had been discreet.
"What are you proposing?"
"Oh, I'm not proposing anything. I'm just thinking out loud. Thinking about how nice it'd be if everyone could share in your... Perspective on life. Really get to know what fear feels like."
While Crane was still contemplating the arrangement, the green-haired freak had produced a vial from his coat, holding it up to catch the light like he did the Fear Toxin earlier.
"Citywide dispersal would require significant infrastructure. And coordination. Hypothetically speaking, of course."
"Of course." The Clown grabbed his vial and crossed it with his own mystery compound, watching how the colors shifted to an ominous brown when brought together.
Drawn by the colorful swirls like a moth to an open flame, Scarecrow couldn't help but reach forth, fingers carefully grazing the vials.
"ACE Chemicals has some lovely tall smokestacks. Very reaching. Very... Atmospheric. Getting there might be tricky. All sorts of complications these days."
"You have access." Crane accused,
And the Joker grinned. "Words had it that it was taken over by a bunch of laughing maniacs just the other day!“
Staring at the leader of said 'maniacs', whose grin was about to stretch from one ear to the other, literally, Crane called for his henchmen, but none answered, even after he'd called for their presence a second time.
Strange.
His henchmen were never late.
They wouldn't dare.
“Harley, dear?“
Not long after, a woman in a skintight suit with red and black diamond pattern skipped through the door, dragging behind her one of Scarecrow's thugs whose face had clearly become well-acquainted with her baseball bat.
Though blood was trickling from his split lip and his eyes were swollen shut, the poor fool was still conscious enough to whimper when he spotted his boss.
"Test subject, Puddin'! Fresh and ready for science!"
Cackling, the Joker gestured toward the combined vials. "What do you say, Doc? Ready to see what our collaboration can accomplish?"
Scarecrow glowered at his beaten henchman, fury radiating from his burlap mask, seizing the man's jaw and prying his mouth open despite his muffled protests.
Then, without ceremony, Crane poured the mixture down the thug's throat.
The man's pupils immediately dilated to pinpricks before his face contorted into an impossibly wide grin.
Simultaneously, blood-curdling screams tore from his throat, terror and laughter warring for dominance as his body convulsed violently.
Then his heart rate began to spike, veins standing out like ropes along his neck, all while his diaphragm spasmed uncontrollably due to the conflicting impulses.
Foam started bubbling from the corners of his lips, tinged pink with blood from where he'd bitten his own tongue.
For a moment, clarity shone in his eyes as they found Scarecrow's, running through recognition, betrayal, and finally horror of what had been done to him—all trapped behind a face that would only express maniacal glee. And then he dropped, dead at last.
"Oh well! We can tweak the dosage later, but you get the idea!"
~ § ~
Day #13:
Marcus stood in line at dawn, clutching his ration card with hands that hadn't stopped shaking since the bridges fell. The queue stretched three blocks down what used to be Fifth Avenue, now renamed 'Duality Street' by Dent's enforcers.
The woman ahead of him cradled her infant daughter, both of them thin in the way that spoke of days without proper nutrition.
Behind him, Mr. Kim leaned on a makeshift crutch, his left leg having been broken when the False Facers raided his apartment building.
This was their new way of life now: Wake before sunrise, join the queue, hope Harvey's coin landed favorably, then return to whatever shelter you could find. Funny how everything had changed, and yet nothing had.
'But that's life.' He consoled. 'That's life.'
"Next!"
Marcus shuffled forward, watching the woman ahead receive her portion of ration, which consisted of a plastic bowl filled with watery porridge, a piece of stale bread, a small cup of murky water distributed by monsters in the guise of men. Monsters who wore half-masks to mirror their boss's disfigurement.
When Marcus reached the front where the enforcer barely glanced at his card.
The bowl placed in his hands contained maybe eight ounces of thin gruel while bits of grain floated on top of what might have been broth but, in his experiences, tasted like dishwater. It was warm, though. And in Two-Face's Gotham, warmth was already a luxury.
Then he found a spot against a rubble-strewn wall to eat, spooning the mixture carefully to make it last.
Around him, others did the same, trying to make themselves full with what little they'd been given.
But it wasn't the sight that made him despair, it was the silence that allowed Marcus to hear his own heartbeats.
In the old Gotham, even in the worst neighborhoods, there had been noises… There'd been life! Now people ate and worked quietly, because speaking up meant being noticed, and being noticed in Dent's territory could mean anything from receiving extra rations to a getting filled with lead, depending on which side of the coin caught the light.
'God…'
A gunshot echoed from two blocks away, and no one flinched.
It probably wasn't important anyway.
Someone had likely tried to take extra food,
Or failed to show proper respect to an enforcer,
Or simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
'How did it come to this? And more importantly—'
Marcus scraped the last of his porridge from the bowl, carefully licked it clean, then wordlessly tucked the bowl into his jacket. Containers were precious now, and losing one meant eating from cupped hands tomorrow.
His hands trembled halfway through the motion, not from hunger but from the sheer effort it toon to swallow his rage along with the tasteless gruel.
'Why the hell are we just taking it?!'
As he walked back toward the bombed-out office building where he'd been sleeping, Marcus was reminded why by the two bodies hanging from the streetlights, placards tight around their necks. 'THEFT' and 'DISRESPECT.' The coin had spoken for them too, just as it'd speak for all of them eventually, and the coin was rarely merciful.
Laying on the pile of documents that might have been important once, he rolled over on his right, then on his left, before settling on his back, kept awake by something other than the gnawing hunger.
Something that burned hot in his belly.
'Tomorrow.' Marcus told himself.
Tomorrow he'd fan it into something more.
