Death, I had always assumed, would be a bit more... climactic.
You know, pearly gates, maybe a life flashing before my eyes, possibly a stern conversation with whatever deity I'd managed to offend during my thirty-two years of unremarkable existence as an accountant from Milwaukee. Instead, what I got was darkness, a sensation like being stuffed through a cosmic paper shredder, and then—
Light.
Blinding, overwhelming light, accompanied by the sound of approximately three hundred camera shutters going off simultaneously.
"—and so, in conclusion, the city of Gotham must take decisive action against this rising tide of—Mayor Armstrong? Mayor Armstrong, are you alright?"
I blinked.
Then I blinked again.
I was standing. That was the first thing I registered. Standing behind something wooden and official-looking, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my previous yearly salary, in a room full of people pointing cameras and microphones at my face with the hungry desperation of piranhas who'd spotted a wounded capybara.
Also, I was huge.
Like, genuinely enormous. My hands—which were gripping the sides of the podium hard enough to leave finger-shaped dents in the wood—looked like they could palm basketballs. Plural. Several basketballs at once. I could feel muscles I didn't even know existed shifting beneath my skin like tectonic plates preparing for a really aggressive earthquake.
My brain, operating on pure survival instinct and the kind of panicked clarity that only comes from suddenly finding yourself in an impossible situation, did a quick inventory:
Giant body? Check.
Expensive suit? Check.
People calling me "Mayor Armstrong"? Check.
Vague sense of overwhelming power thrumming through my veins like I'd replaced my blood with liquid lightning? Check.
And then the memories hit.
Not my memories—or rather, not only my memories. They came crashing in like a tsunami of political corruption, backroom deals, nanomachine experiments, and a genuinely disturbing amount of time spent in private gyms doing things to weight equipment that probably violated several laws of physics.
Steven Armstrong.
Senator Steven Armstrong.
Except... no, wait. Not Senator. The memories were wrong somehow, twisted slightly to the left of where they should be. In this version, in this life, Steven Armstrong had never gone into federal politics. He'd stayed local. Stayed in...
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh YES.
Gotham City.
I was the mayor of Gotham goddamn City.
The teleprompter in front of me scrolled patiently, waiting for me to continue reading words I had absolutely no intention of saying. Something about "increased GCPD funding" and "vigilante menace" and "restoring order through traditional law enforcement channels."
Boring.
Pathetic.
The memories of Steven Armstrong settled into my consciousness like a second skin, and with them came something I hadn't expected: his convictions. His beliefs. His absolutely unshakeable certainty that the world was full of weak-willed puppets dancing on strings held by the strong, and that the only path to true freedom was to burn those strings and let people fight for their own survival.
It was insane. It was Social Darwinism cranked up to eleven and then given access to military-grade nanotechnology.
It was also, I realized with dawning horror, incredibly compelling when you had the body and power to back it up.
I looked out at the sea of journalists. They stared back, confusion evident on their faces. I'd apparently been standing in silence for about thirty seconds, which in press conference terms was roughly equivalent to three geological eras.
A slow smile spread across my face.
I remembered what timeline I was in. The newspaper visible in the front row—the Gotham Gazette, with a headline screaming about "BAT-CREATURE SIGHTED IN EAST END"—told me everything I needed to know.
Year One.
Baby Batman.
Bruce Wayne was out there right now, probably brooding on a rooftop somewhere, still figuring out how to throw a batarang without accidentally embedding it in his own thigh. He was learning. Growing. Becoming the legend that would one day make gods and monsters alike think twice about messing with his city.
And I was the mayor.
The corrupt, compromised, mob-owned mayor of the most crime-infested hellhole in the DC Universe, with a body full of nanomachines, a head full of dangerous ideology, and absolutely zero intention of playing the role I'd been apparently assigned.
This was going to be fun.
"Mayor Armstrong?" The reporter's voice was hesitant now, tinged with genuine concern. "Sir, do you need medical attention? You've been quiet for—"
"I've been THINKING," I announced, my voice booming through the room with a resonance that made several people in the front row lean back in their seats. God, even my vocal cords were jacked. "Something this city's leadership hasn't done in DECADES."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I could see my press secretary—a harried-looking woman in her forties who radiated the energy of someone who'd seen too much and been paid too little—making frantic "stick to the script" gestures from the side of the stage.
I ignored her completely.
"You want to know what I think about this 'Batman'?" I gripped the podium, leaning forward with the intensity of a man about to deliver a sermon. "You want the official position of the Mayor's office on Gotham's newest urban legend?"
Pens were scribbling. Cameras were flashing. Someone in the back was definitely recording video, probably for one of those new internet news sites that were just starting to pop up.
Perfect.
"I think," I said slowly, deliberately, savoring each word, "that he's got the right IDEA."
Dead silence.
You could have heard a pin drop. Actually, you could have heard a pin consider dropping and then decide against it because it didn't want to interrupt.
"The Batman understands something that every bureaucrat, every politician, every coward in a fancy suit has forgotten." I released the podium and began to pace, my footsteps echoing through the suddenly-quiet room like drumbeats. "He understands that this city is SICK. That the rot goes all the way down to the BONE. That you can't fix a broken system by working within that system!"
My press secretary looked like she was having a stroke. Several journalists had stopped writing entirely, their mouths hanging open in what I could only describe as "aggressive confusion."
"BUT," I continued, raising one massive finger, "he's going about it all WRONG."
I stopped pacing, turning to face the crowd directly. My suit strained against my shoulders as I clasped my hands behind my back—a pose that radiated authority and barely-contained physical menace.
"Hiding in the shadows. Skulking around like a common THIEF. Wearing a MASK like he's ashamed of what he's doing." I shook my head slowly, disappointment dripping from every word. "That's not how you change a city. That's not how you inspire REAL reform. That's the strategy of a man who's afraid to stand in the LIGHT and defend his convictions!"
A brave soul in the third row raised her hand. "Mayor Armstrong, are you saying you... support vigilantism?"
"I'm saying," I replied, pointing at her with the intensity of a man who'd never experienced a moment of self-doubt in his life, "that I support RESULTS. I support people who are willing to DO what needs to be done instead of hiding behind procedure and protocol while this city BURNS around them!"
I began pacing again, building momentum like a locomotive made of muscle and misplaced patriotism.
"For too long, Gotham has been strangled by the weak! By the CORRUPT! By men who wear suits and talk about 'the rule of law' while taking briefcases full of cash from the very criminals they're supposed to be fighting!" I slammed my fist into my open palm. The resulting crack made several people jump. "I've seen the inside of this system, ladies and gentlemen. I've seen how the sausage gets made. And I'm here to tell you—"
Dramatic pause. I'd learned from the best. Well, I'd absorbed memories from the best, which was basically the same thing.
"—that the sausage is ROTTEN."
More silence. Then, hesitantly, someone started taking notes again. Others followed. The shock was wearing off, replaced by the journalist's eternal hunger for a story.
And oh, what a story I was going to give them.
"Sir," another reporter called out, "are you announcing some kind of new anti-corruption initiative? A reform platform?"
I laughed. It was not a reassuring sound.
"Reform? REFORM?" I shook my head, genuinely amused. "You can't reform cancer. You can't negotiate with gangrene. You have to CUT IT OUT."
"What exactly are you proposing, Mayor Armstrong?"
I smiled, and it was the smile of a man who had nanomachines coursing through his bloodstream and absolutely nothing resembling a reasonable plan.
"I'm proposing, my friend, that we stop PRETENDING. Stop pretending that the mob doesn't own half the city council. Stop pretending that the GCPD isn't riddled with officers on Falcone's payroll. Stop pretending that we can vote our way out of a problem that was BUILT into Gotham's foundations!"
I walked to the edge of the stage, looking down at the reporters like a general surveying his troops before a battle.
"This city was founded on corruption. It was BUILT by criminals, FOR criminals. Every institution, every structure of power, every SYSTEM you've been taught to trust—it's all just a pretty facade over a foundation of rot and blood and dirty money."
The press secretary was no longer making gestures. She was simply staring at me with the thousand-yard stare of someone who had just watched their career commit spectacular suicide.
"So what's my plan? What's my 'platform'?" I spread my arms wide, encompassing the room, the city, the whole rotten world. "I'm going to tear it all DOWN. Not with backroom deals. Not with committee meetings and focus groups and 'bipartisan cooperation.' I'm going to stand in the LIGHT, declare my intentions for all to hear, and CHALLENGE anyone who wants to stop me to try!"
A reporter near the front—young guy, clearly new to the job, hadn't yet learned the survival instinct that kept veteran Gotham journalists from asking dangerous questions—raised his hand.
"Challenge them to... what, exactly?"
I looked at him. Really looked at him, with the full weight of Steven Armstrong's presence.
"To a FIGHT, son. To prove they've got the STRENGTH to stand in my way." I cracked my knuckles. The sound echoed like distant thunder. "Because in the end, that's all that matters. Not laws. Not money. Not connections or blackmail or political favor. STRENGTH. The will to TAKE what you want and DEFEND what you have."
I could see the headlines writing themselves in their eyes. MAYOR GOES INSANE. ARMSTRONG THREATENS VIOLENCE. GOTHAM'S NEW LEADER MAY BE LITERALLY UNHINGED.
Beautiful.
"The strong survive. The weak perish. That's nature. That's REALITY." I began walking back toward the podium, my stride purposeful and unhurried. "Every system humanity has ever built is just a way of pretending that isn't true. But deep down? Deep down, everyone knows. Everyone FEELS it. The law of the jungle never went away—we just covered it up with a thin veneer of civilization."
I reached the podium, resting my hands on its surface with surprising gentleness. The contrast, I knew, would be more unsettling than more violence.
"Batman understands this. In his bones, in his BLOOD, he knows that the only way to fight monsters is to become something that monsters FEAR. But he's still clinging to rules. Still holding back. Still trying to be a HERO instead of a FORCE OF NATURE."
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to something almost intimate—but still perfectly audible to every microphone in the room.
"I'm not going to make that mistake."
And then, because I couldn't resist, I smiled directly into the nearest camera.
"So if you're watching this, Batman—and I know you ARE, or at least you will be once someone shows you the recording—I want you to know something."
Dramatic pause. Three seconds. Let it build.
"I RESPECT what you're doing. I respect the CONVICTION. The WILL. Most men would crumble under the weight of what you're trying to carry. But you're fighting the wrong war, using the wrong tactics, clinging to the wrong ideals."
I straightened up, adjusting my tie with deliberate precision.
"When you're ready to stop playing in the shadows and step into the LIGHT... when you're ready to have a real CONVERSATION about what this city needs... you know where to find me."
I pointed at the camera.
"And I'll be WAITING."
I walked off the stage to the sound of approximately three hundred journalists all trying to ask questions simultaneously. It created a sort of white noise of confusion and concern that was honestly quite soothing.
My press secretary intercepted me before I could reach the exit. She was pale. Sweating. Her left eye was twitching in a way that suggested imminent psychological breakdown.
"Sir," she hissed, grabbing my arm—and immediately letting go when she realized she couldn't actually move it without my cooperation, "what the hell was that?"
"That," I said cheerfully, "was the beginning of a new era for Gotham City."
"That was CAREER SUICIDE. That was—that was borderline SEDITION. You just announced, on live television, in front of the entire Gotham press corps, that you intend to—and I'm quoting here—'tear it all down' and 'challenge' your opponents to FIGHTS."
"Sounds about right."
"Commissioner Loeb is going to have a stroke. The city council is going to have a collective stroke. Carmine Falcone is going to—actually, I don't know what Falcone is going to do, and that TERRIFIES me."
I patted her on the shoulder. She flinched like I'd threatened her with a weapon.
"Don't worry about Falcone," I said, my grin widening. "I've got PLANS for Falcone."
"Plans. You have plans." She laughed, and it was the laugh of a woman who had just realized she was in way over her head and didn't even know where the surface was anymore. "Sir, with all due respect—and I mean all of it, because I genuinely don't understand what's happening—you were Falcone's candidate. He PAID for your campaign. He OWNS you. You've been doing exactly what he wanted for the past six months, and now suddenly you're talking about 'challenging' people to fights and 'tearing down' the system?"
I stopped walking, turning to face her fully.
She was short. Everyone was short compared to my current body, but she was particularly short—maybe five-foot-two in heels, with the harried energy of someone who'd been managing impossible situations for so long that she'd forgotten what possible even looked like.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She blinked, thrown off by the question. "I—Patricia. Patricia Chen. Sir, I've been your press secretary for eight months. You know my name."
"Patricia Chen," I repeated, nodding slowly. "And you've been cleaning up my messes for eight months? Spinning my corruption into something palatable? Making excuses for why the mayor keeps meeting with known criminals in private?"
She hesitated, clearly sensing a trap but not sure where it was. "...That's one way to put it, yes."
"So you're good at your job."
"I'd like to think so."
"Good." I clapped her on the shoulder again, more gently this time. "Because you're about to get a LOT more practice. What I just did in there? That's going to be the tamest thing I do this month. I'm going to need someone who can think on their feet, adapt to rapidly changing situations, and most importantly—" I leaned down slightly, meeting her eyes with absolute seriousness, "—someone who can keep up."
Patricia Chen stared at me for a long moment. Various emotions flickered across her face—fear, confusion, curiosity, and finally something that looked almost like... interest?
"Sir," she said slowly, "are you feeling alright? Did something happen? A stroke? Head injury? Religious experience?"
"Something like that," I admitted. "Let's just say I've had a change of perspective."
"A change of perspective," she repeated flatly.
"I've realized that I've been doing everything WRONG. Playing the game by rules that were designed to keep people like me compliant and controllable." I started walking again, forcing her to jog slightly to keep up. "But I'm done playing. From now on, we do things MY way."
"And your way is...?"
I pushed open the door to my office—a massive corner suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham's skyline, all glittering towers and smog-shrouded streets and the kind of urban decay that made you understand why a man might decide to dress up as a bat.
"My way," I said, striding to the window and looking out at my city—my city now, in a way it had never really been before, "is DIRECT. HONEST. No more backroom deals. No more pretending. If I want something, I'm going to TAKE it. If someone gets in my way, I'm going to MOVE them. And if the whole corrupt edifice of Gotham's power structure wants to try to stop me—"
I pressed my palm against the glass. Somewhere in my bloodstream, nanomachines hummed with barely-contained potential.
"—they're going to find out exactly what they're up against."
Patricia was silent for a long moment. Then, with the air of someone making a decision they knew they would probably regret:
"...I'm going to need a significant raise."
I laughed. It was genuine, which surprised me almost as much as it surprised her.
"Done."
"And hazard pay."
"Obviously."
"And you're going to have to actually tell me what you're planning before you do it. At least sometimes. So I can prepare statements that don't consist entirely of 'the Mayor has not, technically, committed any prosecutable offenses.'"
I turned from the window, grinning at her with what I hoped was reassuring enthusiasm rather than terrifying mania.
"Patricia Chen," I said, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful working relationship."
She sighed the sigh of a woman who had just signed her own death warrant and was trying to make peace with it.
"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"
"Probably. But it'll make one HELL of a story."
The rest of the day was a blur of damage control, phone calls, and increasingly panicked communications from various power players in Gotham's political ecosystem.
Commissioner Loeb called seventeen times. I answered none of them, instructing Patricia to tell him that I was "in meditation" and would "reach out when the time was right." According to Patricia, his reaction to this message was "approximately forty-five seconds of creative profanity followed by the sound of something being thrown against a wall."
Wonderful.
City Councilman Garcia, who was in Falcone's pocket so deep he probably had lint in his hair, showed up in person to "discuss the concerning nature of this afternoon's statements." I met with him for exactly three minutes, during which I stared at him without blinking while he grew increasingly uncomfortable, and then informed him that I was "restructuring my priorities" and that he should "prepare for changes."
He left looking like a man who had just seen his own grave.
Best of all, though, was the call from Carmine Falcone himself.
It came at 7:43 PM, routed through three different intermediaries before reaching my personal line. The voice on the other end was calm, measured, and carried the kind of quiet menace that only comes from decades of ordering people's deaths and never facing consequences.
"Steven," Falcone said, and I could hear the smile in his voice—the smile of a man who was very much not amused but was pretending otherwise. "That was quite a performance this afternoon. My associates and I were... surprised."
"I'll bet you were," I replied, leaning back in my chair with my feet propped on the desk. Patricia watched from the doorway, her face carefully neutral.
"There seems to be some confusion about the nature of our... arrangement. I think it would be wise for us to meet in person. Clear the air. Make sure we're still on the same page."
"Oh, we're definitely not on the same page, Carmine." I let his first name hang in the air for a moment. In all of Armstrong's memories, he'd never addressed Falcone so casually. The implication was clear. "We're not even in the same BOOK anymore."
Silence on the other end. When Falcone spoke again, the smile was gone from his voice.
"I'm not sure you understand the position you're in, Steven. The investments that have been made. The... expectations."
"I understand perfectly." I sat up, my voice hardening. "You think you own me. You think because you paid for my campaign, because you put me in this office, that I'm your puppet. Your mouthpiece. Your pet politician."
"That's a crude way of putting it, but—"
"But NOTHING." I stood, pacing as I spoke, the phone cord stretching behind me. "Here's what YOU don't understand, Carmine. I'm not the man I was yesterday. Something has CHANGED. And the deals you made with that man? The leverage you thought you had? It doesn't APPLY anymore."
"Steven—"
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay away from City Hall. Stay away from my office. Stay away from ANYTHING that has my name on it. And in return, I'm going to give you a head start."
"...A head start?"
I grinned, even though he couldn't see it. He could probably hear it, though. Some grins are audible.
"A head start on getting your affairs in order. Because I meant what I said this afternoon, Carmine. I'm going to TEAR DOWN the corrupt systems that have been strangling this city for generations. And your little empire? Your protection rackets and drug operations and legitimate business fronts?"
I paused for effect.
"They're at the TOP of my list."
There was a long silence. When Falcone spoke again, his voice had lost all pretense of civility.
"You're making a very serious mistake, Steven. I've buried men for far less than what you're suggesting."
"Then come TRY," I replied, and hung up.
Patricia stared at me.
"Sir," she said, her voice remarkably steady for someone who had just witnessed her boss declare war on the most powerful crime family in Gotham, "you just threatened Carmine Falcone."
"Yes, I did."
"Carmine Falcone, who has personally ordered the deaths of at least thirty people that we know of."
"Probably more like sixty, if Armstrong's memories are accurate."
"And you told him to 'come try.'"
"I did."
She was quiet for a moment, processing.
"Sir, do you have a death wish, or do you have some kind of plan that I'm not seeing?"
I walked to the window again, looking out at the Gotham skyline. Somewhere out there, a man in a bat costume was probably learning about my press conference and trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with the city's new mayor.
Somewhere else, Carmine Falcone was probably making phone calls, setting things in motion, preparing to remind me exactly why no one crossed him and lived.
And somewhere in my bloodstream, billions of nanomachines waited patiently for the moment they would be needed.
"Patricia," I said, not turning around, "what do you know about nanotechnology?"
"...Sir?"
"Never mind. Just make sure my schedule is clear tomorrow. I have a feeling it's going to be a BUSY day."
GOTHAM GAZETTE, MORNING EDITION:
MAYOR ARMSTRONG'S BIZARRE PRESS CONFERENCE SPARKS CONFUSION, CONCERN
"I'm going to tear it all down," Armstrong told assembled reporters in what political analysts are calling "either a complete mental breakdown or the most unorthodox campaign strategy in Gotham history."
Commissioner Loeb declined to comment on the Mayor's statements, though sources inside GCPD headquarters describe the atmosphere as "tense" and "what the actual hell is happening."
Notably, Armstrong's remarks included what appeared to be a direct address to the vigilante known as "Batman," inviting him to "step into the light" and have "a real conversation" about the city's future.
Batman was unavailable for comment.
Crime boss Carmine Falcone, reached through his attorney, stated only that "misunderstandings happen" and that he was "confident" they would be "resolved quickly."
The Mayor's office released a brief statement following the press conference: "Mayor Armstrong thanks everyone for their interest and looks forward to implementing his vision for a stronger, more honest Gotham. Further details will be announced soon. Please direct all inquiries to Press Secretary Patricia Chen, who is reportedly 'working on it.'"
WAYNE MANOR, THE BATCAVE, 2:47 AM:
Bruce Wayne—not yet the legend, not yet the myth, still just a man in a prototype suit with more determination than experience—watched the recording for the sixth time.
"...And I'll be WAITING."
He paused the video, freezing on Mayor Armstrong's face. The man's smile filled the screen, radiating the kind of unshakeable confidence that Bruce usually only saw in the truly insane or the genuinely dangerous.
"Alfred."
"Yes, Master Bruce?"
"What do we have on Steven Armstrong?"
Alfred Pennyworth, butler, confidant, and long-suffering voice of reason, consulted the file he'd been compiling for the past three hours.
"Stanford University, undergraduate and graduate degrees in political science. United States Navy, honorable discharge after twelve years of service, final rank of Captain. Various positions in private sector defense consulting before entering politics. Elected mayor of Gotham City fourteen months ago on a platform of 'law and order' and 'economic development.'" Alfred paused. "Heavily funded by interests connected to the Falcone crime family, though nothing directly provable."
"So he's corrupt."
"Almost certainly, sir. His voting record and policy decisions have consistently favored Falcone-connected businesses and opposed any meaningful anti-corruption initiatives."
Bruce nodded slowly, still staring at the frozen image on the screen.
"Then what was that?"
"I'm afraid I don't have an explanation, Master Bruce. By all accounts, Mayor Armstrong has been a reliable, predictable puppet for the past year. Nothing in his history suggests this kind of... dramatic personality shift."
"People don't just change overnight, Alfred. Not like this."
"No, sir, they don't." Alfred hesitated. "There is one other thing."
"What?"
"I took the liberty of accessing some of the Mayor's medical records. Quite illegally, I might add, so do try to look appropriately disapproving."
"Alfred."
"His most recent physical examination, conducted three months ago, showed some... anomalies. Unusual cellular density. Atypical blood work. The examining physician noted that Armstrong appeared to be in 'unprecedented physical condition' for a man of his age and made a reference to 'investigating further,' but there's no follow-up in the record."
Bruce leaned forward slightly. "What kind of anomalies?"
"I'm not certain, sir. But I've reached out to some contacts in the medical research community. If there's something unusual about the Mayor's physiology, we'll find it."
Bruce turned back to the screen, studying Armstrong's frozen smile with new intensity.
"He challenged me. Publicly. On live television."
"Yes, sir. Quite boldly, if I may say so."
"Why would a corrupt politician, owned by the mob, suddenly announce that he wants to 'tear down' the system that put him in power? And then challenge a vigilante to... what? A conversation?"
"Perhaps he's lost his mind."
"Maybe." Bruce stood, pulling his cowl back into place. "But I don't think so. There's something else going on here. Something we're not seeing."
"What do you intend to do, sir?"
Batman turned toward the Batmobile, his cape swirling behind him.
"I'm going to watch. And wait. And when Mayor Armstrong makes his next move—whatever it is—I'll be ready."
Alfred watched him go, then turned back to the frozen image on the screen.
"For what it's worth, sir," he murmured to himself, "I suspect Mayor Armstrong is counting on exactly that."
END CHAPTER 1
Next time: Armstrong's first day of "honest politics" creates chaos in City Hall, Commissioner Loeb makes a very poor decision, and somewhere in the Narrows, a man in a bat costume realizes he may have finally found an opponent he doesn't understand.