From within the city, there was absolute silence. Gordon let go of his wife’s hand and stepped forward, then turned to face the line of people - the line of his people. From inside his jacket he produced his shield, holding it so they all could see.
Make it good, he thought.
“Gotham City is gone,” he said. “There’s no such thing as the GCPD from here on out.
“But we’re still police, and we’re still here. So it’s upto us alone to keep what we have, what we value, safe.
“No Man’s Land won’t last. You know it, I know it. Eventually Washington will come to its senses. Eventually, those bridges will be rebuilt.
“Until then, this shield - all our shields - they’re only worth the person wearing them.”
He pinned his badge to his shirt, feeling the heavy metal drag on the fabric.
“As long as we can weqar these, we’ll make it,” he said.
For a moment none moved, and Gordon thought he’d tanked it. He’d never been good at public speaking. Even after ten years of media hounfs looking for sound bites he’d never gotten it down.
Then Sarah was pinning her badge to her shirt, then Petit, then Montoya, and suddendly all of them were wearing their gold shields, all looking at him, waiting for what would happen next.
“Time to protect and to serve,” Gordon said, and he headed for the door off the roof, back downstairs.