Creative Writing: World Building

I wanted to flex my storytelling muscles a bit, and had an idea for a… thing? Not a story, not a setting, just a fun element of a bigger idea. But in order for that to make any sense outside of my own head, I felt I needed to set up the world, even just in very broad strokes. So this post is a World Building exercise for a fantasty setting. I hope it’s even vaguely interesting.  

***

Massive creatures roam the land and seas, magic is wielded by those who can and those who can’t seek to survive through cooperation or corruption. 

But that is now. This is After. 

In the Before, the world was order.  Mother Earth slept and the planet was calm. The Wardens could not access magics and creatures were hunted for mundane resources. The largest animals on land were of the likes of elk or elephant, while the seas were rich with whales and massive schools of fish. Few people ever travelled further than the horizon around where they were born.

Then there was the Between. Over a millennia ago, the stories tell of a time when the stars fell from the skies day and night. The land was reformed and reshaped, and parts of the ocean bubbled and boiled. New monstrous creatures arrived in the wilds, and over a short few generations, the Wardens were awoken by Mother Earth to protect the people from the new, magical threats. The planet cooled for a time, and weather grew more erratic. But as the stars came back to the night skies and the day skies returned to blue, the planet calmed and settled into it’s new normal. 

That was generations ago. Since the Between, truth has mixed with tale, becoming legend, myth and religion. Mother Earth has worked to bring balance to all once again, but while it is no longer the chaos of the Between, neither is it the order of the Before. 

The After is a time of agriculture and adventure. Humanity has settled across the globe, guided by the knowledge and gifts of the Wardens. They thrive and have adapted to living in any climate or territory. A few regions are controlled by some of the larger wild creatures, such as certain species of pyrvians or the swarming and burrowing cicabras. Those are generally respected as off limits by anyone nearby, but brave or foolhardy adventurers sometimes quest for resources unique to these creatures.  

But creatures migrate and expand and seek out new homes for any number of reasons. The Wardens help to influence them away from large settlements when possible, and when not, assist in relocating the population affected. 

Occasionally, this results in ghost towns. Even more occasionally, it can result in a ghost city. Our heroes live in one such city. The once great city of Grand Port Cove is now more pirate than politician, brigand than baker, mercenary than merchant. Those who live there live in relative peace through mutual understanding that everyone else doesn’t want to be here too. 

That, and the issue with the krakataur. But that’s for another day. 

True Tales From Childhood: The Price Of Air

When we were much younger than we are now, my brother Philip and I went to a childminder after school every weekend until mum and dad got out of work. She had two older boys, Adrian and Noel, and together the four of us would play Action Man (they had an Eagle Eyes figure and a pull string talking one!), dinky cars (which, for us, referred to all small metal cars), and, of course, LEGO.

We could spend hours on the floor building incredible constructions before playing out some adventure with our creations. Adrian and Noel had a big pile of LEGO that would get dumped in the middle of the living room floor and then it would be race to grab the choice bricks and figure out something wonderful to fabricate. We made a good team, and there was never any fighting over parts. As I recall, it was pretty collaborative, with everyone looking for their own pieces, while simultaneously keeping an eye out for a "red 3 by 2 flat bit" for Noel, the elusive "grey thick corner piece" for Adrian, a "long white one" for Philip and a "flat blue light" for me.

One afternoon Adrian had spent all his time building a garage and petrol station (gas station, for all you US readers). I had done my usual bang-up job of spreading the remaining pieces from the pile into a circle with a few free standing windows and calling it a "house", while focusing my attention on more important things, like a space ship or a rocket car.

Some time into our game Adrian exclaimed "Why isn't anyone using my garage? I spent ages building this. Come to my garage." As the youngest one in the group, Philip drove his car over to the front of the garage, parked by the pumps and requested, in a most matter-of-fact voice "£10* of air, please."

Noel, Adrian and myself exploded with laughter. Wiping tears from our cheeks, we informed Philip that you didn't pay for air for your car. People can pump their tires for free. It's air. It's everywhere. You can't charge for it.

I was reminded of this wonderfully happy moment from my childhood by a tweet posted recently from someone I follow. It read:

The compressed air at the local gas station just went up to $1.00 for 3 minutes. I should really get these tire rims fixed.

I was stunned. Garages are now charging for air for your tires! And at a dollar for three minutes! After the best part of almost 25 years, Adrian's garage can now charge for air!

What a strange and funny world we live in.

*- This was long before Europe thought the Euro was a clever idea, so Ireland was still using the Irish pound, or punt.

Post Script: This story remains very clear in my memory to this day, but just writing it now, I've begun to realise just how long ago it took place. I have no recollection of my other brother Stephen being around, so it probably took place before he was born, putting it at around 1987! I would have been 7, Philip 4, and Adrian and Noel 10 and 13 respectively! I wonder if any of them remember this story?

Mysterious Tales Of Mystery

So here's the thing: I spend a lot of time thinking of stories. Some people like to sing in the shower, I like to plot out scenes. Usually, that's all I get. One scene, one encounter, with a handful of characters.

But when I come to write them out, I often second guess myself and start to see the flaws in the story, or the simplicity of the writing. Or maybe I just don't like how it flows on the page. But for whatever reason, the story gets scrapped and I move on.

The thing is, I really like to write. I've posted some stuff here in the past, from an idea to reboot Batman to a collection of opening paragraphs. Some of my tales come from playing in RPGs with friends, while others evolve from my desire to have an enjoyable back-story for my character. Once, I even posted a story that was inspired as a reply to a friends email!

So I'll stay writing. I'll stay scrapping works and getting frustrated. I'll stay world-building and character generating. And maybe, some day, I'll have something I really like, and I can go back to that world for a few more pages, a few chapters or even, just maybe, a few books.

Untitled Short Story

I'm asleep at my desk with my hat down and my feet up when she walks in. My assistant likes to let clients through unannounced. He says it's to remind me that he's not a secretary. I remind him that I don't need an assistant either, but we both know that's a lie.

I try to right myself a little too quickly and end up on my back behind the desk. I hear her stifle a laugh, but, to give her credit, by the time I'm on my feet, she has her serious face on again. Pity. I imagine she looks much nicer smiling. I imagine a lot of things in that first second.

She's got a trenchcoat on, soaked through from the afternoon rain. The curves of her body are mostly hidden, but the hints at what sits out of sight makes my mind, and other things, run wild. The hat covers most of her hair, but a few red strands lie on her shoulder, stuck to the coat.

I hit her with my best opening line.

"How can I help, ma'am?" Hey, this is a business, not a bar.

"It's my husband..." (My heart sinks) "He's missing." (That's better).

I offer Curves a chair and some water.

"Got anything stronger?" she asks.

I shake my head. "I run a legitimate business here. I uphold the law, not break it."

"That's okay. We don't have time for drinks. We need to get to my husbands office, where he was last seen." Curves turns from the desk and heads for the door, holding it open while I grab my coat. We step out into the gloom of the afternoon. I look up at the glow of traffic, shielding my eyes from the unending rain, popping my collar against the wind. Far above I can make out the murky shape of the dome, sickly rays of sunlight bleeding through.

"My car is this way," I say as I point her toward the garage. "Tell me about your husband."

"He runs the xenogenetics division for BioDiversity, developing new strains of XNA for clients. His office is at Maginus Base. That's where we're heading, Mr. Walsh."

"Wait." I grab her by the arm and spin her around. "Maginus Base? Isn't that...?"

"On the moon. Yes. I have two tickets to Jansen Base, the nearest civilian habitat, leaving in six hours. Can I count on your assistance? As you can imagine, I can pay you for your services, and expenses. I hear you're the best, Mr. Walsh. I need you."

My heart skips a beat before my brain reminds me that she's a married woman. I unlock my beat-up old Ford and yank the door open. It's not pretty, but it gets me places.

"Thank god you got those tickets, ma'am. I don't think this thing could handle the mileage."

She cracks a smile, and I'm lost in the movie theater of my imagination all over again.

What Might Have Been

Spoiler Warning! ArrOOga, arrOOga! Spoiler Warning!

The body of this post discusses major plot points from Gears of War 3, in particular a characters fate toward the end of the game. Don't read the rest unless you have finished the game. You have been warned.

Previous posts in this series:
The Coalitions Finest
User, Why?
Brothers To At Least Act Three 

Click To Read More

The Dead Pool

I wrote this in response to an email I received from a good friend. His mail was written in a funny noir detective style, opening with the awesome line "I was sitting counting the doors in the office, there was only one but I couldn't be sure of that, I would have to recount". I responded in a similar style, but dropped the professional comedian level of humour that my friend had reached, knowing I could never best his effort.

Once finished, I actually quite liked what I'd written and thought I'd share. Remember, I wrote in just a few minutes, with no editing or rewrites. It's not perfect, but it is fun. Enjoy.

The sun dripped through the blinds like syrup, pooling on the office floor. My first thought was that I should mop that up before someone slips on it and sues. My second thought was that those drugs were really good...

She had slipped them into my drink when she leaned over to read the casefile. Other things had slipped too, probably why I didn't notice her dropping the white power in my bourbon. The last undissolved grains sat on the bottom of the tumbler, laughing at me. Literally. They had formed a tiny face and were mocking me with their tiny laughter. I tried to throw the tumbler across the room but my arm was jelly. Strawberry, I think.

Legs stood in the shadows near the huge plastic plant I like to have the intern water every morning. Her ruby red dress was swimming across her chest and thighs, running down her leg to mix with the golden pool on the floor. Somewhere far away a voice was confirming something. Probably hers. I didn't hear an answer, but that made sense. She was on the phone. My phone. I'll have to check my wire tap I installed on my own line last fall once my head clears. If I survive that long.

Vancouver's a helluva place. The streets are clean, the broads are hot and the cars are sexy. I thought there wasn't a dark patch within city limits. I was wrong. Everywhere Legs walks, shadows follow her.

A million miles away a door opens and closes. Footsteps ring though my body, each one it's own tiny explosion of ominous foreshadowing. The creek on the fifth footfall confirms my dreamy suspicions. Someone is coming up the stairs. Legs brushes past me, her golden hair melts down into the red dress and then into the pool on the ground. I'll really have to clean that up soon. It might stain and affect my damage deposit.

A movement of air on my face tells me that Legs opened the door to my office. For a moment, I curse myself that I didn't lock it before I left. Then I remember I'm sitting in my chair, inside the office.

My vision tries to clear and for a second I focus on the face in the door. It's not a face I was hoping to see. Instinctively my body shifts in the chair to get more comfortable. I'm going to be here a while.

Guess I'll just have to get the intern to clean that pool after the weekend. I should leave her a note...

Overheard On...

Gmail. Sometimes, I wonder why I'm let teach small children...

Sinead: wondering what to do for an hour at my desk and not work

me: Should have brought your DS.

Sinead: good idea

or a book

so entertain me

me: Once upon a time...

Sinead: yes...

me: there was a little bear, that lived all by himself in the woods.

One day, Little Bear was out searching for food.

He looked under rocks.

He looked inside tress.

Sinead: what was his name

me: He looked in the water.

L.B.

Sinead: did he find any yet he must be starving

me: But Little Bear, whose name was L.B., could not find anything to eat.

"Where is all the food gaone?" thought L.B.

"Where are all the yummy bugs from under the rocks?"

"Where is all the yummy honey from inside the trees?"

"And where are all the juicey fish that swim in the river?"

Little Bear didn't know.

He looked high up in the trees.

He looked low down in the valleys.

And then, he looked deep down inside a dark cave.

Sinead: oh poor LB

Sent at 1:28 PM on Monday

me: That was when he found the illegally dumped bio-hazardous waste that some careless chemical company had disposed off, allowing it to leak out and kill all the grubs under the rocks, the bees in the trees, and the fish in the rivers. And it killed Little Bear too.

The End.
Sinead: oh

did he have a mam

can she have more babies?

me: No. He lived all alone in the forest, remember. It was at the start.

Sinead: where did he come from

was he little cause he was small, or young

me: His mam had been killed years ago by hunters and was now on display in a café where fat american tourists could pose for photographs.

Sinead: oh was she born in this forest too

me: Yup. She had spent a happy life here until the day a .22 ripped through her like a hot klnife through butter.

Sinead: did LB see it happen

me: Nah. He was playing with Mr. Squirrel and Fluffy Bunny, the Hare in a Rabbit Desguise.

Sinead: are they all dead too?

Sent at 1:35 PM on Monday

me: Yea. Mr. Squirrel had a massive coronary about 6 months ago, and Fluffy Bunny had an unfortunate accident involving an articulated truck and 8 large tires.

Sent at 1:36 PM on Monday

Personal Diary: Stg. Valentine "Val" McDonald, RAF

May 28th, 1944
By goodness, this house is odd. The upstairs lavatory flushes entirely of its' own accord, and the piano in the dining hall randomly bangs out notes as if a tone-deaf child were playing on it. Worse, the new wing that we were using to bunk in is constantly cold at night. Even with a fire in the hearth it was too cold for a night's sleep. Today we spent the morning moving the bunks into the room we were using for storage, and moving the equipment into that hellish icebox. The storage room is smaller, but at least we'll be able to rest at night. Minor annoyances, but annoyances none-the-less.

Yesterday I was busy helping the lads set up some of the perimeter flak cannons. I've flown through fire from those things quite a few times now, and let me tell you, they're as impressive up there as they are on the ground. With enough firing into the night sky, the law of averages says you'll hit something. We now have the manor surrounded with flaks and two further anti-aircraft guns in the drive. Nothing to stop a tank rumbling up to say hello, but this far into the British countryside, I doubt those krauts will make it here on the ground. We should be fine.

June 1st, 1944
A new month. The boys and I have been here three weeks now, waiting for orders and monitoring the situation on the continent. Reports from command suggests that there is something big going to happen very soon. Thompson has been telling me that he's heard through the grapevine that we're going to assault France, but as usual, the boys here have been left out of the loop. I can't imagine we'll have anything to do. This manor has been under RAF use for four years now and it's the dead-zone assignment. Anyone who gets stationed here just sits on the ground for their term of duty scratching their hind quarters and praying for a scrap.

That is something that still unnerves me. The war is raging across Europe, yet we're here with four Spitfires, three American Hurricanes, our own Lankie and far too much anti-aircraft support for such a small area so far inland. I've seen the command centre in the study. It certainly looks the business, but I can't help feel that it's too far away from anywhere it can do any good. And why have a fully manned bomber here? The Spitfires and Hurricanes I can understand. They're here in case we do end up getting hit. But what would our target be? There's nothing for miles around this manor, and I know even our Lankie would need to refuel before carrying out a mission over the Channel. Sitting in my safe on board the bird is a sealed set of orders. I wish I knew what they said, but I'll have to wait for an attack to open them.

Honestly, I hope I never do.

June 13th, 1944
Reports on the radio say that D-Day was quite the jolly good success. Now that the smoke has cleared and a fair chunk of occupied France is no longed occupied, it looks like this war might finally be coming to an end. The boys around the manor are claiming intelligence has word that Hitler thoughtNormandy was all a decoy! Never underestimate us Brits. Best damned military in the world, despite what the Americans claim. Gretzky loves to get the boys blood boiling, talking about all the great things America has done in the war already. I know he's just having fun, and I try not to rise to the challenge, but he isn't making any friends among the lads, and we've been here long enough now.

Too long for some. Wilkinson worries me. He's gotten used to constantly being on the move, never in one place for more than a few days. Last night he told me that he's been seeing ghosts. He claims to see them moving on the back stairs, but I use that all the time and have never seen anything. If this were any other of the lads, I'd send them packing and restrict rations for a few days for trying to pull such a pathetic prank. But Wilkinson is not like that. I don't think I've ever heard him tell a joke or try something funny. He gets so focused on the task at hand, and he keeps that focus. I think it might be that. He's been focused for five weeks now. Everyone's getting on edge. We've been here too long.

God. Let this war end soon, or let us back in the air for something more than test and maintenance runs. We have a lousy two hours scheduled for tomorrow in the air. We haven't spent more that a few hours among the clouds since we first got here five weeks ago. This is the longest most of us have been on solid ground since the war broke out.

June 15th, 1944
While I was dropping off yesterdays flight check reports to the command room I noticed the pins on the wall-map. Seems like the Luftwaffe is making pushes into the English countryside under the dead of night. I'm not sure what they're looking for, or why it's so important that they are willing to come this far into enemy territory, but if I didn't know better, I'd say those pins were coming here.

Damn this house. Damn this place. Damn this war.

Battle Of Bent River

The butt of the handgun smashed a small hole in the corner of the church window. Quaid pushed the barrel through the opening and fired twice into the thick cloud of dust and hooves. One of the riders fell.

Immediately two rifle-shots rang out. The one hit below the window, sending splinters of wood into the air, the other caused thick, warm fluid to run down Quaid's face. Recoiling in shock, Quaid rubbed the blood away from his eyes and felt for the wound. Instead, he saw the villager beside him slump to the floor, the right side of his face missing several vital components, first and foremost of which was his cheekbone.

Explosions went off overhead. A grenade exploded somewhere above, shattering the remains of the window on top of the few that could still shoot. Within seconds Quaid and the others in the church could see the old, dry wood of the roof begin to smolder. Firing twice more at the attackers, he spotted Anna being dragged across the graveyard by the bounty hunter.

"Ta Ma Duh. That ain't gonna end well."

Vaulting out the window, Quaid ducked a nearby handgun blast and returned the favour with pin-point results. The bounty hunter was gone, but there was only one place he could possibly be heading for. The Nirvana.

The streets were filled with dust kicked up from a dozen horses, and racing behind a nearby building was easy, even with his peg-leg. Quaid decided to bee-line for the General Store and from there, grab some guns and head for the ship. Rounding the first corner brought him face-to-face with one of the raiders. Arms full of looted goods from some locals home, even Quaid's less than stellar reflexes were fast enough to but a bullet cleanly between the opponents eyes, dropping the body before the goods could even hit the earth.

Across the main street was the store. From here, the high-tech holo-field windows and glistening polished steel of the store front stood in stark contrast to everything around it. Quaid looked up and down, considering his options. He had seen the weapons that the store sold earlier that day, and right now he knew he needed something more than his six-shooter. Pausing to reload, he darted across the empty street and ducked down below a window. Inside, the android sales assistant was repeating "Defense mode" over and over again in her soft, Chinese accent. He smiled for a moment, before kicking in the main doors.

"Chui se, ya wong ba duhn!" A lone raider standing firing at the android received a round to the temple. Quaid jumped sideways behind a counter as a shotgun blast juiced the hydrated apple stand. "Aw. Not the apples," Quaid exclaimed, as he took aim in the direction of the shotgun blast, squeezing tightly on the trigger. He never even saw the third raider.

For just a moment, everything stopped. The pellets seemed to freeze on his ribcage, and thoughts of Emily flooded his mind. Sweet Emily. His only love, his only reason. The sun rising through the upper layers of the gas giant. Even a billion miles away, it was still where he wished to be. On a colony station, orbiting a gas giant, wrapped in her arms.

Then everything started up again, and a blackness darker than anything the Verse could throw contain swallowed him whole.

Why? Why?!?

I was on a beach-like place with overhanging plants, tall trees and a wide, cool stream running through the sandy ground. The place was sunny and very hot and the others were running at the stream, then jumping and grabbing a rope over the water and swinging from it, landing with a great big splash. I ran and grabbed it but swung out and wrapped around one of the trees hanging over the stream, making everyone laugh. I kicked off, swung back and let go. My body tingled in the cold water and I wanted to stay there forever. It felt so good.

We got out and went back to a straw hut with a bar that seemed to serve food. Stuff happened, but I've forgotten most of it. Now it seems random and jumbled, but when I was there, it all seemed so normal. There was a girl. Did we know her? We were talking to her so we must know her. Someone came up that we knew, or weren't alarmed at, but he attacked the girl. Of course! She was important. She had to be protected. That's why we were here. We moved to protect her, but another him attacked himself!?! The second one won, and pulled off the first ones Mission Impossible style mask, revealing the truth. The real one was a hero, but I remember knowing he was a superhero! We all went back into the hut to celebrate. The worlds first true superhero. But people inside the hut didn't seem to realise what had happened. We tried to explain. I tried to explain. This was an historic moment! We should all be celebrating. "Unless this is all just a dream" I remember saying. I remember that as the last absolutely clear thing. We laughed and kept on celebrating, but I don't really remember much more.

Then I woke up. At first, I didn't know what had happened. I was still there. On the beach. I could feel the last of the streams cool water on my skin, the grit of the hot sand on my soles. But I wasn't there. It was this morning. It was February, probably cold outside. Probably freezing.

I've woken from dreams glad to be back in the real world. Glad to know what had happened was just a dream. I have woken laughing, but not knowing what at. I have even woken in the past wishing the dream was real.

But never like this. I could hear my own voice in my head joking at how it could all be a dream. I could feel by heart breaking, knowing I had already begun to forget those amazing feelings. My heart was pounding.

This morning, I rolled over and pressed my eyes tightly shut. The alarm was a world away.

I wanted to be back in the water. Tingling. Alive.

Story Time, Kiddies

Ultimate Batman:
Issue 1 (Almost entirly without speech)
Pg 1- 6 letter box panels:
Panel 1- close up on Batmans eyes- just white lens- looking angry
Panel 2- close up on Bruce Waynes eyes, looking anxious
Panel 3- close up of Batmans hand holding a batarang sideways, mirroring...
Panel 4 - close up of Bruces hand, turned looking at his watch. The hands read 9:15
Panel 5 - close up of Batmans belt, retrieving a gadget from his belt
Panel 6 - close up of Bruces hand reaching for a glass of champaign.

Page 2 -Full page splash.
Batman holding a thug around the body from behind. One hand over the mouth, the other coming up underneath the thugs armpit and then around the back of the head. The thug is obviously shocked.

Page 3- Full page splash.
Bruce holding a very beautiful girl around the waist from behind. Both are dressed for a party and many others are in the background, enjoying the time. Bruce is young, 18 years old. He is dressed casual, shirt open, tie undone, resting around his neck. The girl is enjoying the embrace, and has her head inclined up and around looking for a kiss. Bruce is looking down her body at his watch. It reads 10:22.

The following pages jump from Batman on a night out, stopping evil, to Bruce at his 18th birthday. He's very distracted, evidently waiting for something, or some time. Some panels show him looking at his watch, others at the antique Grandfather clock against one wall. Every such panel shows time slipping by.

As the issue moves on Batmans fight with the thugs is set against Bruce's time at the party. The action in both sections should mirror each other to an extent, the darkness of the alley versus the bright party; the violent fight versus the gentle dance; the the flash of gunfire versus the flash of cameras.

Batman returns to the Batmobile. He has blood smeared across his lips, and wipes it off occasionally. It returns. The Batmobile is parked down another of Gothams many dark alleys. Batman stops for a moment, one foot inside the Batmobile as a number of GCPD police cars scream by the alley, lights flashing.

Bruces section has the party begin to wrap-up and the guests are hurried out. Some look annoyed at having the party stopped so early. Clocks in the background read 1:47. Bruces girl (Viki Vale) is very annoyed at not being let stay, but Alfred calmly forces her into the limo. Bruce stands in the doorway at the top of the steps, one foot inside the hall, as the last of the guests cars leave down the mansions drive.

The Batmobile is screaming along the roads. Bruce races through the mansion to the library. Batman activates a switch on a dashboard covered in little lights and switches. "Entrance Clear" flashes up on a screen. Bruce activates a hidden switch behind the Grandfather clock which now reads 1:53. The bookcase beside it slides open, revealing a rough staircase downwards. The Batmobile races through a hidden opening in a cliff face and along a narrow driveway inside. Bruce races down the stairs, Alfred following close behind.

Pulling off his shirt Bruce opens a locker. Inside are a number of Bat-Suits. He reaches for the first one. Bruce steps forward in full Batsuit, with just the mask in hand. He runs up to the Batmobile and runs his fingers along the paintwork. It's immaculate. As he turns around,

The Batmobile drives up and parks in a space beside the other one. Bruce leaps over the bonnets, landing with a slight acrobatic flair at the drivers-side door. It opens and Batman steps out, blood-marks colgealed on his lips.

Last panel on second last page:
Bruce: Alright, old man. I've kept my end of the bargain. Now you keep yours.
Batman is reaching to remove his mask in the same panel.

Last Page- Full page splash.
Bruce Wayne is standing on the left side of the page, a huge smile beaming across his face. A much older man is standing looking at him one the right side of the page. He looks every bit as tired and old as Bruce looks energetic and young. Think Dark Knight Returns Batman standing next to Batman from the current The Batman Warner Bros cartoon, only the older man isn't as crazily large as DKR Batman was. Both are looking each other in the eyes. In the background, between them on the page, and looking worried, stands Alfred. Behind him, above a wall of computer monitors a huge clock reads 2:00.

***

That's my opening shot. The premise is that Batman has been around for years before Bruce is old enough to do the job. The whole time, he's been played by Bruce's friend from after his parents were killed, Gotham City Police Department Officer James Gordon. Bruce has been using his family millions to finance the gadgets and tech, all on the condition that once he turns 18, Jim has to hand over the mantle of the Bat. He's spent all his life training for this time.

Batman is still an urban legend. Gordon is good at what he does, and uses his police connections and access to make some evidence dissappear that could support the rumours of this vigilante, while twisting other evidence to "prove" that these events have been the result of numerous individuals, empowered by the concept of this Batman figure, but ultimately working alone, and often only once.

Early issues have Bruce screw up a few times. Some villians immediately spot the difference, and he gets himself into the kind of trouble he has to use his brains to escape from. At least once he should loose the criminal entirely, but some quick detective work gets him back on the trail. This should be the focus. Bruce becomes the Dark Detective relying on brains as much as brawn, while Gordon was always just the Dark Knight, relying on his fists.

Well. That's it for the start. Hope you guys like it. That's actually an idea I've been playing with for over a year now, with help from my best buddy Noel. If I had any artistic skills I'd try actually drawing it out, but I don't, so... you know...