**January 27, 1989.** The Chicago-Gotham City train is nearing its final stop.
James Gordon: "Well, that's it… Gotham… no turning back now… I've seen plenty of good guys get transferred to Gotham… some had resignation on their faces, some had despair… there were even those who couldn't wait to try their luck in the new place… I felt sorry for all of them the same… Thing is, I've never once seen anyone get transferred *out* of Gotham to us… a real wormhole for decent people."
Glancing out the window, he watched the washed-out city draw closer to his train. Washed-out—that was putting it mildly. If it weren't for the neon glow from the tallest skyscrapers and the snow-light reflecting in the night sky, the city would have merged with the void of the moonless night.
The train was already crossing Gotham City's point of no return. Looking out one side, you could see three bald, toothless buddies of some drug pusher, with more bruises than clean skin, fighting over a bag of meth. But on the other side of the car, a crowd of men was visible. Hulking, not from muscle but from bulk, dressed in expensive tuxedos from Italy or France, smoking Cuban cigars, leaning against the hood of the latest Mercedes… The city's entire ecosystem in two pictures.
Gordon turned his gaze from the window, staring at the empty seat in front of him as if trying to distract himself, if only visually. A sigh of acceptance escaped him.
"Maybe this is what my time in hell looks like. This whole trip is like one continuous stretch in purgatory. I've heard purgatory is where a man realizes who he's been his whole life and understands what he deserves in the afterlife… I don't know what I was supposed to realize. What sin did I commit to end up here?" He let out another sigh, this one tinged with resignation. "As if it matters… I sent Barbara by plane. Was afraid she'd see what this place is like up close… already regretting I took the train myself. Could've held onto hope a little longer that it's not so bad, especially from the air… This is no place to raise a kid. I know it's not right, I shouldn't think that way, but sometimes I wish there'd been a miscarriage. No child deserves to atone for their father's sins. He's not ready… I'm not either. I still don't know what sin landed me here."
The train's speed gradually decreased, becoming almost too slow… as if on purpose… as if letting you examine your new berth in minute detail… like preparing you for the pit before throwing you into it like a drop in the ocean.
Finally, the agonizingly slow train reached a point where standing still would be faster. It later stopped at Gotham Station, its roof offering shelter from the light snowfall. You don't want to get off… better to keep riding into hell than to be at its center… The station is packed… that's good. The crowd can hide you from the gaze of the void, if only for a short while.
Gordon stepped off the train, trying to push through the crowd to anywhere less cramped, every unconscious bump into another poor soul accompanied by a "sorry," "excuse me," "pardon me," "my apologies" from his lips. His path was blocked by a beggar in church robes, who had already approached many people at the station. All that came from his mouth was "just a few cents," "for the love of God." Gordon, with his characteristic "excuse me," walked past, then glanced back at him.
"Poor guy. I feel a little sorry for him. In this place, faith is nothing more than words. If even God can't help these people… I didn't give him money not because I'm stingy… just didn't want to give him false hope," he said to himself, then snorted inwardly, "says the guy who did everything just to keep his wife's faith that this place isn't so bad."
???: "Hey! Hey, Lieutenant Gordon! Hey… oh, screw it. Hey, over here," a shout Gordon heard behind him, clearly aimed at him (though the "screw it" was obviously not for Gordon).
He saw a guy who looked like the type you'd see at a local bar or a cheap strip club. The man was plowing through the crowd, unceremoniously shoving everyone in his path, not even noticing the contemptuous glances thrown his way.
Arnold Flass: "Whew. Could've met me halfway," he said before catching his breath, "Arnold Flass. Detective, Gotham PD. Here on Commissioner Loeb's orders." He extended his hand to Gordon for a shake, and Gordon reluctantly shook it, surprised by the strong grip. "You're Lieutenant James Gordon, right? Phew, read your file. Seems you're… well, how to put it… passionate about your work, Lieutenant. Pleased to meet a new brother in blue," he said with noticeable sniffling between sentences (sometimes in the middle of them), though it was hard to tell if it was from a runny nose or something else. The sniffling was noticeable but not overly irritating.
James Gordon: "Yes," he said, not exactly eager to keep the conversation going. "Yes, likewise, umm…"
Arnold Flass: "Arnold Flass. But they usually just call me Flass," he said, not at all offended that Gordon forgot his name. "You're from Chicago, right? Must be a sweet spot. Well, I heard it's sweet. I'm right, ain't I?"
James Gordon: "Yeah," he said in the same tone. "Good place, yeah." … "Everything this place isn't," he wanted to say, but the words stayed in his head.
Gordon didn't reply immediately, clearly not enthused about the dialogue with his new colleague. If Gordon had a chance to skip this entire conversation, he wouldn't have thought twice.
Arnold Flass: "Been there once. Chicago Bulls vs. Gotham Goliaths. Man, what a game that was. Wanna brag? I even kept a jersey signed by Michael Jordan from that game. Listen, just between us. You ever meet Michael Jordan in person? Better say no, or I'll start getting jealous."
James Gordon: "No. No, haven't met him," his tone unchanged. "You know, I'm not really, you know, a big basketball fan."
It wasn't that Gordon wanted to continue the dialogue with his new colleague, but he didn't want to seem rude and get into an awkward situation… not that his current situation was any different.
Arnold Flass: "Ha, I almost feel sorry for you. Missing out on so much," he said, sounding as if he was showing some superiority. "Alright, Lieutenant… listen, you don't mind, do ya, if I just call you Jimmy, alright?"
James Gordon: "We… no. No, it's fine. If that's easier for you."
Arnold Flass: "Ha, settled then. You know, you're not as stiff as you seemed," he said, slapping Gordon on the back unnecessarily hard. What was meant as a friendly gesture only made Gordon recoil.
Arnold Flass: "Well, alright, settled that. Now, how about a little night tour of Gotham. Hit a few spots, this and that, just show you the city, then head to the department. Sound like a plan?"
James Gordon: "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sounds reasonable. Let's go," his tone still unchanged.
The next thirty minutes flew by faster than a single minute on that train. Flass was behind the wheel of some cheap Honda—Gordon wasn't much into cars and didn't know the exact model. They'd already stopped at a street food vendor, where Flass got something that looked like a flatbread stuffed with meat and greasy vegetables. Gordon wasn't big on street food—he had a wife who cooked at home. He just stared out the window, surveying the streets of his new home, while Flass, simultaneously eating his mess and driving, talked about something in the background. He was saying how Gotham isn't as bad as the papers say, that being a cop here isn't so terrible, and that Gordon just needs to get used to it. Maybe for someone else it could've been an interesting spiel, but for Gordon it was like the buzzing of a mosquito by his ear—a mosquito that had drunk so much blood it started saying it didn't need more, though it was ready to do anything for just one more drop.
Arnold Flass, with a slightly full mouth: "You know, Jimmy, I know what they write about this place in the papers, especially outside it. And you know what, as someone who's lived here his whole life, I can tell you? It's all bull, Jimmy. They talk about this place like it's some cage in a zoo. And in reality? Life here ain't even close to its description in the papers. Yeah, it'll take some time to adapt, but is that really a problem, huh?"
Gordon, however, was just focused on his own thoughts, the views of the city streets forcing his mental processes to function.
James Gordon, looking at the streets of his new home: "Hmm. Never thought I'd say it, but… this place is amazing. Truly. The way it throws you into a pit of corruption but tells you it's pulling you out of a pit of ignorance… amazing… What's also amazing are the headlines on every paper. Everywhere the same line, 'Gotham's Prodigal Son Returns After 12 Years Abroad.' What kind of madness is that? He's rich, right? Yeah, probably filthy rich. So why not just leave this city far behind? Especially since he already left, right? Why come back? To see someone maybe? Just weird news lately. That flying guy from Metropolis, that exorcist from London. Yeah, those were strange, but this… just insane."
Suddenly, Flass stops the car somewhere under a bridge. Nothing supernatural seemed to be in front of the two cops, except for three drug addicts. Flass, wiping his greasy hands on his pants, gets out of the car and approaches the three individuals. Gordon just watches his colleague from the car.
Arnold Flass: "So what's up, buddies. What's for lunch today? Crack? Weed? Something a little stronger?" he says, starting to frisk them one by one.
Watching this, Gordon perfectly understands the three guys, seeing how他们也 are not exactly thrilled with the dialogue with Flass.
Arnold Flass, pulling a bag of meth from the jeans pocket of one of the addicts: "Oopsy-daisy, and what do we have here, fellas, huh?"
The next second felt to Gordon like a mix of an adrenaline rush and a nap after a dose. All he saw was his colleague deliver a clean punch, right to the jaw, of one of the guys. For the next five seconds, Gordon just watched as Flass's fist met the faces of the three addicts—each blow made Gordon flinch slightly in his seat, whether from shock or from not knowing what to do. Until all three poor souls were already on the ground and Flass was stomping back to the car, Gordon didn't say a word. When Flass, as if nothing happened, took the driver's seat again (still holding that bag of meth), about five seconds of silence passed between him and Gordon before Gordon decided to speak—his voice trying to mimic the nonchalance of his colleague's actions.
James Gordon, right after a small sigh: "So why? Why do it like that? Beat them, I mean. Could've just called for a squad car for the arrest, in case you suddenly didn't have cuffs on you. And what do you need the meth for?"
Arnold Flass, tucking the meth into his coat pocket: "For the lab," he said with a note of surprise and know-it-all-ness in his voice. "The lab boys analyze the recipe, find a match, we track all the patterns, the trends, back and forth, and bam—the cook's ass is already in our pocket on a bottle of justice. A dumb question for someone who should have enough experience with this stuff."
James Gordon: "Okay, fine. What about the first question? Don't wanna answer?"
Arnold Flass: "Your second question was just dumb. But the first one was genuinely stupid, especially for an experienced cop." The word 'experienced' carried a note of sarcasm mixed with irritation. Flass sighed lightly, leaning slightly closer to Gordon, and spoke in a tone as if trying to get something across. "Listen, Jimmy. I have no damn clue what you did back there in Chicago, and it's not like I wanna know, but understand this. You're not in Chicago anymore, Jimmy. This is Gotham. I have no idea what you did in Chicago. Maybe kicked back and did who knows what. But here, in Gotham, we do things differently. You'll get used to it, I have no doubt. But for now, better just watch from the sidelines and learn. As they say, welcome to Gotham City, pal."
Gordon said nothing in response, staring at the empty retaining wall of the bridge as Flass started the car. Gordon just wondered if hell was really as bad compared to this place. In hell, at least they don't make you part of its ecosystem.