**January 29, 1989. 11 PM, though the sky would suggest the dead of night.**
In South Gotham, three local junkies are performing their nightly routine, robbing an apartment on the third floor of a multi-story building. Struggling to haul the stolen goods—including a toaster, a TV, and a ripped-out sink—down to the lower floor, all that comes from their mouths is cursing, "hurry up," "what are you, a rag?", and other examples of local vernacular. Reaching the landing between the second and third floors, already descending to the second, the two in front hear a shout from their partner behind, followed by the sound of something fragile breaking, and then the sound of a fall, but it was already coming from outside the building.
One of the remaining two, who was carrying the toaster, decides to check what those sounds from behind were. Walking forward a bit, he sees the sink lying on the floor, then notices the broken window. He decides to approach the window and look out, but just as he looks down and sees his partner lying on the dumpsters below, he hears a voice from behind him, which was impossible, because behind him was only the underside of the stairs: "You don't want to share his fate."
The burglar turns and sees two white points, shaped like eyes. The body was hard to make out, but it seemed to be hanging right on the vertical surface, and the light from a streetlamp outside reflected off the grime of the broken window, casting a shadow of a figure resembling bat wings. Just as the man's slow brain starts working, he doesn't even have time to scream before the figure leaps from the stairwell and in mid-air delivers a clean kick to his jaw, sending him flying a good distance, his back hitting the wall, and the toaster he was holding smacks him right in the face.
The third burglar, who had the TV, after a couple of seconds in shock, decides to use his television, and swings it at the black figure that had landed on the floor, hitting it right in the back, sending it flying out the window and landing on the same dumpsters. The burglar himself, because his scrawny arms were already barely carrying the TV, and now he'd somehow lifted it higher and mustered his last bit of strength for the swing, gets thrown back by the recoil and, stumbling, falls down the stairs to the second floor—the whole time the TV was falling after him, hitting him with its weight.
Outside, the bat-like figure gets up from the dumpsters, holding its back. Hearing police sirens, it slowly makes its way out of the alley. Knowing the police cars are coming from the east, it heads west through alleys and backyards.
**A couple of hours later, around 3-4 AM, Gotham Police Department precinct.** The three burglars had already been picked up by the cops, and the last couple of hours had been an impeccable interrogation of the three junkies. Captain Howard Branden was overseeing it.
Captain Branden, to an officer approaching him: "Well, what?"
Officer: "Same story. Giant bat. We took their blood. Traces of heroin, about 8-9 hours ago. Experts say possibly side-effect hallucinations."
Captain Branden, annoyed: "No shit, I'd never have guessed they were high. For them, taking a hit is like prayer for Arabs. Just wasted a syringe. None of them changed their story? I don't believe three junkies got beat up by a giant bat. You sure there wasn't a fourth guy who jumped them?"
Officer: "No, sir. Stories haven't changed. One just couldn't decide if he had a sink or a toaster. Nothing major."
In the same building, Gordon was sitting nearby, observing the interrogation of the poor bastards. He still didn't care about the consequences of his actions earlier that day. He was even surprised Commissioner Loeb hadn't called him in for a talk. But right now, his thoughts were occupied by what was happening before his eyes.
James Gordon: "A bat… what is this city waiting for? Maybe it'll throw in a clown spraying gas next? Do I believe them? … I don't know. I only know that in this place, a giant bat isn't the strangest thing yet. … It came for criminals in the act of a robbery, right? That means it'll come for any of us here. The whole police force is one big ball of corruption. … I'm no exception."
**Meanwhile, on the upper floor of the precinct, in Commissioner Loeb's office, there's a knock on the door, and Flass enters, creaking with pain, holding an ice pack to the back of his head.**
Commissioner Loeb, noticing but not overly concerned with Flass's condition: "Ooh. Got yourself roughed up good. What, a steamroller get you?"
Arnold Flass: "Ugh, no… Gordon."
Commissioner Loeb, openly mocking: "Gordon driving the steamroller?" Followed by a slight pause. "Remember I told you you'd be cleaning up any mess you started yourself?"
Arnold Flass: "Yeah, yeah… I remember." He says, momentarily removing the ice from his head, but immediately reapplying it after a second of pained groaning.
Commissioner Loeb: "Keep it, keep it on, don't you dare move it. And I knew your idea would fail. Gordon may be a righteous moralist, but he's not spineless."
Arnold Flass: "A-and remember I told you he'd be a pain in the ass. N-nothing's changed there. Now he'll be more like a… a whole branch up our asses, since he's not scared of us."
Commissioner Loeb, with involuntary approval of Flass's words: "Mmm, yes. Yes, maybe you're right. Fear isn't an obstacle for him. Alright… as they say, if you want something done right, do it yourself."
Arnold Flass: "Y-you got ideas?"
Commissioner Loeb: "I do. The first is that you'll keep your pig ass as far away from my affairs as possible," his tone becomes slightly threatening as he leans toward Flass. "Keep in mind, Arnold. We don't have enough ice for your whole sow."
He says this, then leaves the office. Flass tries once more to remove the ice from his head, but after a second, puts it right back on.