“If you are a famous criminal, or working hard to become one, then come to Gotham.
It will satisfy a criminal’s every fantasy of scale and methodology.” “From petty fraud and theft to armed assault, or maybe some lunatic will wrap you in explosives, leaving you to guess his tedious riddles amidst the agonizing tick of a countdown.” “The crime-ridden Lower East Side, the filthy sewers, Blackgate, City Hall…
oh, I almost forgot, Arkham Asylum, wrapped in layers of rusted barbed wire!
Many like you have checked in there.
Believe me, they won’t disappoint you.” *** “Wait…
what did you say?
Worried that the freak in the tights and the bat cowl will come looking for trouble?
Hahaha, you must be joking.
This isn’t a comic book.” *** “The seeds of idealism cannot bloom in mud thick with miasma.” “Right!
Since we’re on the subject, let me tell you a bit more.” “Many look at Falcone as the killer of the Wayne family.
A few think it was the the Court of Owls.
After all, Wayne Enterprises’ plan to revitalize Gotham shook the position of those elites.
But take my advice, leave it alone.
Don’t even ask about it!” “Alright, that’s enough of an introduction.
I hope you have fun in Gotham.” …
Vincent snapped awake from the familiar dream, the yellowed sheet beneath him soaked in cold sweat.
Rubbing his aching head, he stepped out of the room.
The wooden floorboards creaked under his feet.
The oncoming smell of mold was damp and strong, mixed with a hint of sourness, like having an iron box of peanuts expired for ten years slammed over his head.
*** He could barely breathe.
The hallway was narrow and dim.
Voices leaped out from the partitioned rooms behind peeling wooden door; the static noise of an old television, bitter arguments, and the professional moans of a prostitute.
Walking into the bathroom at the end of the hall, the dim, yellow light flickered erratically.
Amidst the heavy, stench-filled air, Vincent splashed water and rubbed his face hard, finally forcing his mind to clear up a bit.
He had been inside this body for three full months, yet every time he looked in the mirror, the unfamiliar face still startled him.
An American face.
Dark brown hair curled dryly, and deep-set eye sockets held a pair of bloodshot, gray eyes.
This face was far handsomer than Vincent’s original appearance.
He looked as pale as a vampire.
But recovering to this extent was already pretty good.
Thinking back to three months ago when he first woke up in this body, he had crawled up from a ditch right next to a trash can.
He was stripped completely naked without a single thing to prove his identity.
The only clue was a knife wound that went all the way through his abdomen.
The scar was fresh, the surrounding skin swollen and inflamed, held together by a chaotic mess of stitches.
The original owner of this body had plenty of enemies.
He didn’t even dare go to a hospital after getting stabbed.
Vincent thought, immediately dismissing the stupid idea of grabbing a random bystander on the street to ask, *Do you know me?* Though he had no clue about his current identity, he had found an unbelievably shocking piece of news from an old newspaper in the trash can; this miserable place was actually Gotham City.
“Gotham City, where the citizens are simple and honest; Arkham Asylum, filled with outstanding talents.” That single meme summed up Vincent’s entire knowledge of this blessed land.
Other than that…
Nothing!
Yes, he knew absolutely nothing else.
He wasn’t a comic fan.
His understanding of DC was strictly limited to the movies.
In terms of familiarity, he felt he should have crossed into Queens to hang out with the neighborhood boy Peter, or gone to Metropolis where Superman watched over the city.
There was no reason he should end up in a hellish dungeon like Gotham.
“You could have just let me die, but you went through all the trouble to send me here.
Thanks a lot!” Unsure of who he was talking to, Vincent flipped a middle finger to the sky.
But no matter how unfamiliar he was, he still knew Batman.
That was perhaps his only hope of survival.
So, a bizarre scene played out on the streets of the Lower East Side that day.
A naked man, covering his private parts with a newspaper, wandered the streets asking around for news of Bruce Wayne.
And of course no one wanted to deal with a lunatic, except for the police who arrived after getting the call.
He was pressed down into the freezing, foul-smelling puddles at a street corner, even losing the newspaper that hid his shame.
Vincent was utterly broken, a state of mind that lasted all the way until he was brought outside the interrogation room, where things eased slightly.
A dark hallway thick with the stench of tobacco.
On a long wooden bench, a biker to his left wore heavy smoky makeup and an exaggerated mohawk.
To his right was a brute with a heavy body odor, the sleeves of his tank top torn into jagged edges.
Vincent sat sandwiched between them, covering his private parts, trapped in a male-dominated hell.
The strangely dressed, bizarrely behaving criminals made the clothesless freak look like the most normal person in the room.
Soon, Vincent was called.
The interrogator was a slightly chubby, middle-aged man.
Unlike the other untidy officers, he kept a well-groomed mustache and wore a spotless, dark ochre suit.
The old scars on the back of his hands showed that he was likely a veteran officer.
“Name?” Vincent shook his head, hesitating for a moment.
“…Maybe you can call me Will.” “Any history of mental illness?” “No!
Absolutely not!
I was just beaten up and have amnesia!” Vincent hurriedly exposed the knife wound on his abdomen to the other man, terrified that a second too late would land him a ticket straight to Arkham.
“Fine!
But that is no excuse for public nudity.
Your behavior violates the Gotham Public Space Health and Safety Code, carrying a mandatory three-day detention.
I’ll help locate your family over the next few days…” “Hey, Gordon!
Want to grab a drink after shift?” An officer called out, waving across the noisy police office.
“Sorry, Barbara ordered me to quit drinking.” “Is that so?
Shame.” Through their brief exchange, Vincent learned the man’s name.
Gordon?
Why does that sound so familiar?
Could it be the Commissioner Gordon who lights the Bat-Signal?
The lost Vincent felt as if he had grasped a lifesaving straw.
Waiting until the other officer left, he leaned closer to Gordon and lowered his voice.
“Can you take me to see Batman?
The one wearing the black cowl with the two sharp ears on his head!” Gordon raised his left eyebrow, his gaze filled with confusion, seemingly not understanding what a “Batman” was.
But Vincent clearly misinterpreted the meaning behind that expression.
*It’s no secret that Gordon is Batman’s contact.
Everyone wants to find Batman through him.
Maybe I should be more direct.* “Actually, I have intel to report to him.
Uh…
about the Joker.
You should know the Joker, right!” Gordon raised his right eyebrow.
The confusion in his eyes lessened, replaced by a certain clear decision.
Seeing the man’s reaction, Vincent grew desperate.
“Then just take me to see Bruce Wayne!
That has to work!” Hearing that sentence, Gordon finally had a different reaction.
He let out a long sigh, crumpled the interrogation notes, and threw them into the wastebasket by his feet.
“I’ll contact the staff at Arkham to come pick you up…” “Don’t!” The moment Vincent heard the word “Arkham,” his blood turned cold.
He lunged forward, grabbing Gordon’s sleeve.
Gordon’s eyes turned cold, his hand instinctively dropping toward his holster.
He only relaxed slightly when he realized Vincent had no intention to attack.
“Mentally ill patients usually fail to recognize their own problems.” “But I’m really not sick.” “You claim to know Bruce, but everyone knows he died alongside his parents in Crime Alley.”