**January 29, 1989. Around 10-11 AM.**
**East Gotham, about a mile or two from the Gotham City Police Department building, in some back alley by the dumpsters.**
A ringing in his ears. Everything was double in his barely-opening eyes. His head was throbbing and spinning. After spending the last nearly 12 hours unconscious, Gordon finally woke from his excessively long blackout. Staggering to his feet, leaning on the nearby dumpsters, Gordon tried to keep his balance. His clothes were crumpled and filthy, his hair was disheveled as if he'd been electrocuted, the right lens of his glasses was shattered. Trying to collect his thoughts and at least understand what was happening, Gordon began to slowly walk from the alley into the open pedestrian area, his legs feeling like frozen jelly, his whole body shaking.
Emerging into a public space, Gordon looked at his watch—though its crystal was cracked, it showed the correct time—10:37 AM. Gordon realized he might have already missed his wife giving birth. His first action was to find the nearest payphone. He called Gotham General Hospital, relieved to hear the delivery went well, but learned he couldn't speak with his wife as she couldn't leave her room in her condition. Next, Gordon looked for a nearby bus stop, found one, examined the Gotham bus routes (still not knowing the city well enough), and, waiting for the right bus and taking a seat, Gordon felt a twinge of fear. It seemed strange, why now, when he'd faced three "muggers" just hours ago without any fear.
James Gordon: "God… what am I going to tell Barbara… got held up at work? She'll notice my clothes. I'll say it happened during an assignment. She'll definitely start worrying. I've already caused her enough trouble with the move, she doesn't need more."
Trying to distract himself from his thoughts, Gordon glanced at his fellow passengers. From his seat right in the middle of the bus, he could make out almost everyone in detail. The bus's clientele was quite predictable for Gordon—junkies, drunks, mothers with infants. Gordon was lucky the bus was moving from east to west in the city, so more civilized people were getting on.
Reaching his stop right by the hospital, Gordon made his way to the reception desk. He didn't have his ID on him, it was in the car, so he showed his police badge. After a call to the police to verify Gordon's identity, they let him through to the maternity ward. Making the not-long, but not-short walk through the corridors accompanied by an orderly, Gordon finally got a chance to see his child. It was a boy. He and Barbara hadn't thought much about a name yet, so Gordon didn't know what to call him for now.
James Gordon, to himself, looking at his son through the glass: "You're already so big. Listen, sorry I was late for your birthday. You know, kids don't always see their parents at the moment of birth either. You haven't done anything yet, and I'm already proud of you. Maybe because you managed to arrive in a world like this at all. I'm sure Barbara is happy for you too."
Gordon decided to go visit his wife in her room, still not having thought of an excuse for being late, but he was saved by a nurse who stopped him at the entrance to the room, and Gordon saw through the door's window that Barbara was asleep after the delivery. It had only happened recently, just 4-5 hours ago, and she hadn't slept at all before that.
For Gordon, this was only a small relief; he still needed to somehow justify missing the birth, and on top of that, he had another matter of urgent importance. Not wanting to delay it, Gordon, asking a staff member for a notepad and pen, decided to just write his wife a note.
*"Darling, it's me, Jim. Sorry I missed our boy's first birthday. Don't know what to say for you to forgive me. Got held up on patrol, then there was a very long briefing, and all that paperwork nonsense, constantly signing twenty forms at a time. Anyway, as soon as our little guy wakes up, tell him his dad is very proud of him. I'm proud of you too. Okay, love you. I'm already late for my shift as it is."*
**The next thirty minutes Gordon spent on the same bus, heading back the other way. Before that, he'd managed to run into an optician's shop and buy new glasses, then wiped down his coat with wet wipes—the fact that those who beat him yesterday hadn't tried to rob him, since they didn't take his money. On the bus, he still couldn't get past his own letter.**
James Gordon: "Why am I doing this. I don't want to make things worse for her, right? I've already done the unforgivable by bringing us to Gotham. If she found out I was beaten by my own colleagues, on purpose… I can't imagine what it would do to her. She'd definitely start worrying, asking me to quit the job… I've been following the oath I swore in Chicago for 15 years now. … Yeah, I swore it in the Chicago PD, not the GCPD. Here, I don't owe anyone anything."
Gordon arrives at the precinct. The time was almost two in the afternoon. He tried to act as if he didn't know about Flass's guilt in his beating yesterday. A couple of minutes later, Gordon got into the patrol car—his partner that day was, of course, Flass again. He, too, tried to act innocent regarding Gordon's condition. He just said, "What, you get run over by a steamroller?" after which they headed out to patrol the district. After about fifteen minutes, Flass, in his usual manner, pulls over for a snack, stopping by a food cart.
Arnold Flass: "What, gonna sit on your ass like usual? You need to eat something. At least take a walk."
James Gordon: "Yeah. Yeah, why not. I could use some fresh air."
Arnold Flass: "Hm. Now that's what I call progress. You need the fresh stuff like never before, you're stinking up the whole car."
After a while, Flass, holding the flatbread with meat and vegetables he'd ordered, and he and Gordon trudge back to the car. On the way, Gordon turns toward the nearest alley.
James Gordon: "You don't smell that? The smell's coming from there."
Arnold Flass: "Ha, didn't know a dumpster could smell bad."
James Gordon: "No, not the dumpster. Something else. Don't you want to check it out?"
Arnold Flass, reluctantly putting his food on the hood of the car: "Ugh, fine, let's go."
Gordon and Flass enter the alley; there's absolutely nothing supernatural there.
Arnold Flass, irritated: "See, just wasted our time. Listen, my food's not gonna stay hot forev—" His words are cut off by one, precise punch from Gordon right to the jaw. Flass falls to the ground, the back of his head hitting a dumpster.
Gordon follows up with another blow, and then another, and another. Flass was already halfway to unconsciousness at that point. Maybe Flass was physically bigger, but Gordon's Green Beret training hadn't gone anywhere. Gordon didn't seem to be trying very hard to hold back, stopping only when the first drop of blood from Flass's mouth appeared on his knuckle, which he wiped off unceremoniously on Flass's coat. Gordon didn't care about the consequences anymore; he wasn't scared of a future report to Commissioner Loeb, or even possible criminal charges. Gordon had sworn an oath to serve the law, but he'd sworn it to another place—an incomparably better place.