Jim Gordon

Jim shook her hand, and Isabella beamed when he asked if she worked in the library. "Yes, I do," she said. "That must be where we know each other from, but please don't worry about your fees. If you're out fighting crime, it's understandable you don't get your library books back on time." She laughed a little, to show she was only half joking. She took her job very seriously, but she was sure they could forgive a few dollars for a cop.

His heart sank when she confirmed that she worked in a library, although he smiled back at her when she beamed. How the hell did this happen? And how long before Ed decided to do something about it? More importantly -- what would he do, and who would suffer the consequences? “Oh, thanks,” he said, managing a genuine chuckle. He’d expected her to give him a little bit of a lecture. “Still, I’ll try to be better about getting them back on time.” It was such an inane conversation, but it made him feel a little more grounded. 

“Yeah, yeah, back in the day,” he agreed. He paused. There weren’t many things he could truthfully say about Ed Nygma that wouldn’t offend someone who clearly cared about him. But then, Jim had been one of those people. He’d genuinely liked Ed, back when he was the eccentric, eager forensic scientist on the force. “He’s an incredibly smart guy,” he said. “I think that intimidated a lot of people back then.” It had annoyed them, to be more precise, but he thought that intimidation was really at the root of it.

"Good morning, sleepy head!" The Riddler told him as he noticed Jim finally begin to stir. He had the detective restrained to a medical table by his wrists and ankles. "Oh! I wouldn't move too much, Jimbo. The restraints are designed to tighten the more you squirm. Which would make it significantly harder to get out of my trap." He said, lifting his hands up as he spoke and grinning at him. It wasn't difficult to nab Jim from the cop bar he went to. The GCPD would have been significantly more difficult but the bar only required a well placed goon and a spiked drink. Which he was likely still feeling now.

"You're going to be groggy for a bit but do try to answer my riddles the best you can, hmn? If you get all three wrong... I'll be using your own gun to put you out of your misery. Not very creative, I know. But I'm on a time crunch."

“Right,” he said flatly. He just looked at him, evidently not impressed. He didn’t really care how creative Ed’s traps were, but he knew Ed did. “Oh, yeah, well, necessity is the mother of invention,” he responded. “Besides, you know, you have to save your best work for the Batman. I get it.” He sighed. “So, are we gonna…?” He attempted to make a get on with it sort of gesture with his hands, only for the restraints to tighten.

a smile breaks out, shoulders raising to ears as he gives in.  “ alright. i can’t lie to you, jim! — after all, what good is a partner if dishonest? ”   partner — as though they were such a thing.  their exchange of favours could barely be considered a partnership; well . . . to anyone else but oswald.   “ this will ensure loyalty to me down the line.  your bringing down of this . . . ”   to use their name would give them power.   “ nuisance . . . will spark an unrest. we all know the power held in vigilante power. the public, though faithful in official power, will sway to unrest. ”   he chuckles, though he doesn’t find it funny.   “ the drama of it all!  anyhow — those who scatter look to a source of leadership. that will be me. ”  

A quiet huff left his lips as Oswald called them partners. “Partners are usually on equal footing,” he pointed out dryly. “And you have a thing for one-upping as many people around you as possible.” How many times had he been one of those people? Probably more than he was comfortable admitting. He knew there were god knows how many cops, including his actual partner Harvey, who didn’t see anything wrong with reaching across the proverbial line. Jim still viewed it as a necessary evil, one that would always gather in the pit of his stomach like bile. Carmine Falcone seemed to think that a give and take between the police and the mob bosses was not only inevitable, but natural, like the push and pull of the tide. Jim wanted to believe that wasn’t true, but it was getting harder. 

He listened to Oswald’s speech, his expression stony. There wasn’t any other option when it came down to bringing down the nuisance Oswald had mentioned. It was a matter of public safety, a big one, and if he could put a stop to it, he would. “So those are my choices, huh?” he said dryly, glancing over at Oswald. “Letting a criminal go free, or watching the city descend into chaos?” Further into chaos, he should say.

The man apologised, and introduced himself as Jim Gordon, and the sensation vanished. Of course. She must have recognised him from the television. He was a detective, wasn't he? She remembered Edward mentioning him. She smiled. "Do you know, you're not the first person to say that to me," she said with a laugh. "My boyfriend said exactly the same thing, when we met."

Automatically, when he held out her hand for a shake, he reached out and grasped it. He half-expected her skin to be clammy, but it wasn’t. He felt his heart sink when she introduced herself. A part of him wanted to believe that it was a coincidence, but he knew there wasn’t any such thing in Gotham. And this would have been a dangerous coincidence, anyway. Not only was there Ed to contend with, but all the people who knew about his history and would use it against him in the blink of an eye. Oswald, for instance. 

He forced himself to smile again. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” Jim tucked his hands back into his pockets. “You don’t happen to work at the library, do you?” he said. After Isabella Flynn had shown up in their morgue, Jim had looked into her. Just a little. The resemblance to poor Kristen had thrown him then, too. “Maybe that’s why you look so familiar.” He offered a sheepish smile. “I don’t really have as much time to read as I’d like, so I probably have a few late fees racked up.”

He opened his mouth and then promptly closed it when Jim suggested that he could be helped. "I um-" He got out, recalling the way his eyes stung and his skin burned and itched from the gas. How his body had shaken with uncontrollable laughter and that strange sense of freedom that came with it all. Not entirely sure why the memory assaulted him so suddenly or what it had to do with the subject at hand. He blinked a few times and then turned his gaze from Jim. He easily fell into the topic of his brother instead. "I don't want to disagree with your lovely sentiment... but I do beg to differ. I couldn't help Jerome when we were kids and no one could help him in Arkham either. Despite it being one of the only things Arkham promises. Mental Health care." He said with a sigh. "I think some people are beyond help... and let's face it. I've lived underground for 6 years without breaching the surface. I may never be ready to venture off on my own. I think I'll just go back home and forget this little excursion ever happened."

"Thank you, Mr. Gordon. You're very kind." He said with a dip of his head, "Not far from here." He said, gesturing to the direction he parked his car. "Are you on duty right now?"

His eyebrows drew together as he watched Jeremiah’s expression change. He knew the younger man had suffered at the hands of his brother, and he hadn’t been able to protect him. He really hadn’t been able to protect anyone from Jerome, unfortunately. Including Jerome from himself. It was sad, when you thought about it. The boy hadn’t really had a chance to be anything except a monster. But no one was born like that, were they? He had to believe hope itself was inherent in the human condition, or there just wasn’t a point to his job. Or anything, for that matter. But all he said to Jeremiah was, “Maybe you’re right”, with a tight little smile. “A bunker in Gotham probably isn’t the worst idea, anyway,” he said, his tone dry. 

“I’m just doing my job,” he said, with another little smile. Although -- he smiled sheepishly at Jeremiah’s next question. “Uh, technically, no,” he said. There were plenty of people in his life who would say there weren’t any technicalities about being off, at least in his profession. Either you were or you weren’t. “Lead the way.”

He never would have even dreamed of leaving his Bunker before a few weeks ago. He spent years surrounded by those tall grey walls. Safe within his maze where no one could possibly reach him. Two of those years, he hadn't even met his proxy in person. Some days he could feel his mind slipping from the isolation... with thoughts that twisted and turned just like the walls of his maze. He used to cover his mirrors so he wouldn't have to see Jerome's face looking back at him and now he didn't seem to feel nearly as paranoid. It was as though it washed away with the ocean tide. Leaving him with a confidence he'd never felt before now. "Would you walk me back to my car? It's not safe here. I should just go home."

His own gaze scanned their surroundings, not finding anything amiss. “Of course you can,” he said softly, looking at the younger man again. “Everyone can be helped.” Until they couldn’t, of course -- until they crossed a line they couldn’t cross over again, or until their lives were stolen from them by a monster wearing man’s clothing. Or a whole myriad of tragedies in between. But until then, Jim wasn’t just going to let this kid feel like he was alone and unprotected. He nodded as Jeremiah asked him if he could walk him to his car. “Yeah, no problem,” he said, putting a protective hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Where are you parked?”

Since waking up from her coma, Isabella was still getting used to things now. She knew she was very lucky that time moved on so slowly in Gotham -- technology hadn't changed at all in the two years she'd been in hospital -- but there were still small, odd, things. The mayor was different, and the newspapers referred to events she didn't know about, and public figures she had no recollection of.

She was trying to get up to speed on everything, to fill in the swathes of blankness she had. Time sometimes slipped away. She would be reading a book, and look up to find that several hours had passed, and she hadn't moved a muscle. Or she would walk into a room, and quite forget why she had walked in there in the first place. It reassured her to remember her doctor, with his smooth voice and calm demeanour and pink glasses, smiling at her. Things will seem unusual at first. That must be why. She was recovering.

She crossed her ankles and peered through her glasses at today's newspaper. The park was quiet for mid-afternoon, and she was grateful. Loud noises made her jump. But she felt someone looking at her, and she glanced up from the paper to see a man standing there, staring at her. She felt an inexplicable sense of deja vu, as if she knew him, though she had never seen him before in her life. "Can I help you?" she asked politely.

And then…well, things hadn’t stayed so rosy as they had been that night. Kristen had lost her life at Ed’s hands, and Jim’s own life had unraveled in his pursuit of the case. Jim hadn’t known her very well at the time, but after everything had happened, he didn’t think he would ever forget her face. So the sight of the woman sitting on the park bench stopped him cold. There were supposedly doppelgangers out there for everyone, sure, but…this was plain freaky, to borrow a word Bullock would use. She didn’t just resemble Kristen. If not for her hair, which didn’t even look real, she was Kristen. 

Even her voice was similar. Soft, pleasant, unassuming -- the voice of a woman who was accustomed to people speaking over her. And then Jim realized that he should be speaking. “Oh, I -- I’m sorry,” he said, and offered her an awkward, sheepish little smile. “You just remind me of someone that I knew a long time ago.” He gave her another smile, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Jim Gordon,” he added. “I’m sorry if I bothered you, Miss…?”

"Oh, great. Just what are you doing here?" Riddler scoffed the moment he noticed the detective enter the room. Since when did the cops care about what happened in the Narrows? Most of them didn't even bother coming down all this way. "Look, Jim... because we have history, I'll allow you to be here for the show but I think you'll find the crowd won't like you very much." He warned him. The Riddle Factory didn't open it's doors to the public for another half hour. He was only really there to set up the stage. Ed placed a hand on the wheel and gave it a spin before he spun on his heels to face his old friend turned enemy again. "They do, however, love me!"

"And they say they are supposed to stay in." She humored as she plucked the earring from his fingers and started putting it back into her right earlobe. Her eyes glanced back to the items before looking back at Jim. "Business or pleasure?" She asked, a knowing smile. "No flash of a badge unless you are undercover."

He glanced around the room again, before returning his gaze to her. “Dinah Lance, right?” he said. He wiped his scotch glass-dampened hand on the lapel of his jacket before holding it out for her to shake. “Jim Gordon,” he said. His name was starting to gain notoriety in certain circles, if not just because a few of his cases had ended up in the paper. Much to his chagrin.

Ecco turned to look at Jim Gordon. Of course, she knew who he was, though she'd never met him in person. He didn't seem eager for conversation, and she wondered if he was going to simply walk away. She wouldn't have minded. Jeremiah hadn't explicitly told her to forge a good relationship with the cops, but she had decided on her own initiative that it was the smart thing to do. But then Gordon asked if Mayor James had promised her something, and Ecco smiled to herself.

“It’s not just up to the mayor,” he said. Fortunately. “There are people at all levels trying to make this city better.” A little boy with the world on his shoulders had once asked him if he believed Gotham could be saved, and he’d said he thought it was worth trying. He still believed that, even if it was an uphill battle every day. One that may very well cost him his life, but if that was the price he had to pay, he could only hope it was worth it.

He shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. He didn’t exactly want to talk about politics. There were few subjects in the world more likely to ignite a tinderbox. And yet, even as the thought crossed his mind, and he knew it was probably better to keep his mouth shut, he went on. He took another sip of his drink, his voice coming out rougher as the drink took a burning path down his throat.  “Did he promise you something?”