He had walked three blocks before he gradually accepted that this Gotham was different from his Gotham.
Not different in the sense of "there's a new building here" or "that alley has been turned into a pedestrian street," but in its strict, disconcerting sense of order.
The trash cans weren't overflowing. The graffiti had been scrubbed clean, exposing the original brick walls. The lampposts weren't plastered with missing-person notices and cheap advertisements, only government announcements and notices of community events. An elderly woman pushed a shopping cart past him, its wheels ticking out an even rhythm over the seams in the sidewalk. She neither sped up suddenly nor glanced back in fear. She simply walked calmly onward.
Batman, now a homeless man in a threadbare coat, leaned in the shadows of a corner and watched the old woman disappear around the block.
In his Gotham, at this hour, in this neighborhood, no elderly person went out alone with a shopping cart. She would have stayed home with the door locked, waiting for her son or grandson to visit after work.
Or perhaps she wouldn't, because her son had already died in some gang shootout, and her grandson was somewhere stealing something to buy drugs.
He suppressed those thoughts and turned his attention to a convenience store beside the street. A young woman walked in and emerged two minutes later with a bag of bread. The door closed automatically behind her, and she still had a handful of change clutched in her hand.
This was far too dangerous, practically an invitation to be robbed.
Concerned, he followed her, but no one rushed out to snatch her money or anything else. Instead, before long, two burly men wearing vests marked "Community Service Team" stopped him.
"Hey! Hold on."
One of them held