Chapter 1 : Homecoming
Hello again, Gotham.
The city sprawled before him in the fading light, a vast expanse of steel and concrete stretching to the horizon. Smokestacks punctured the sky, and countless buildings glittered with the approach of evening.
It's been a long time.
Down below, the streets pulsed with life. Neon signs flickered against wet asphalt. People drifted between storefronts. The hum of traffic and chatter filled the air, blending into the familiar rhythm of the city.
A lone figure cut through the street on a motorcycle.
So, who are you these days?
Who have you become while I was gone?
His gaze swept across the transformed cityscape.
You're prettier, I'll give you that. Taller, brighter.
A news screen flashed nearby, the reporter's face too cheerful for the headline scrolling beneath her: PARTY ANIMAL GANG SLAUGHTERS NINE IN BRUTAL ATTACK, INCLUDING TWO POLICE OFFICERS...
But deep down...something's changed.
The motorcycle weaved through traffic, the rider's perspective revealing a city that looked familiar yet foreign.
The rider's visor reflected the surrounding lights, a dark mirror showing nothing of the face beneath.
My third lap around the city and I still can't find it.
The rider leaned into a sharp turn, the back wheel skidding slightly before catching grip.
You used to have a center Gotham. Something hot and beating.
The engine roared through another intersection, swallowed by the noise of the city.
But something's hollowed you out.
Past the deli and grocery store fronts, the bike accelerated again. The rider leaned low, passing through pools of yellow light spilling from shop windows. The taillight burned red in the growing darkness.
In fact, I barely recognize you anymore.
The motorcycle slowed, gliding into a narrow alley. The engine idled for a moment, then fell silent.
The rider sat there for a moment, his helmeted head tilted toward the street.
I'm not sure I like this new you, Gotham.
Silence hung in the air for a moment.
But that's okay.
The rider dismounted and removed his helmet. The man beneath was older, the kind of older that came with stories better left untold. His face was lean, his eyes sharp and green, his scalp mostly bare save for streaks of grey at the sides.
I don't think you're going to like me much, either.
He stood still for a moment, letting the weight of the city sink in.
My name is Alfred Pennyworth.
"And I'm here to do some things."
--
The tea shop hadn't changed much. That warm lighting along with a faint scent of cardamom and old wood remained same.
"So good to see you, old friend," the shopkeeper said, a wide smile creasing his face. "I still keep your favorite stocked."
Alfred managed a small smile. "You're a giant among men, Amir."
"True, true." Amir laughed . "But I wouldn't leave your bike out there unless you're asking for trouble...."
Alfred nodded, already moving toward the back.
Amir left Kabul during the occupation twenty years ago. He'd had Alfred over to his apartment many times. Alfred had even taught his boys how to play cricket, those summer afternoons when the world seemed simpler, when boundaries were clear.
Sometimes Alfred wondered if Amir would invite him back if he knew the things Alfred had done in that conflict.
But Amir ran the only decent tea shop in Gotham, which is why Alfred kept his things next door.
The hidden entrance opened with a soft click. Alfred descended into darkness and a security system activated—red rings of light, scanning and verifying his face.
The room below was exactly as he'd left it. Weapons lined the walls in orderly rows: rifles, pistols and various other tools of his 'particular' trade. A simple table and chair sat in the center of the room along with a computer and other electronic equipments.
Alfred stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.