January 31, 1989. 3 AM, the noon of night.
In West Gotham tonight, the regular gathering of the city's most influential people was taking place. Usually, such meetings draw crowds of journalists so thick the rooms run out of air, but this night was different, as almost no one knew about it except those present.
In the hall on the top floor of a Gotham skyscraper, whose opulence could make even the city's most expensive restaurants envious, sat countless guests, all, of course, in the most expensive suits and dresses, with waiters moving from table to table, carrying trays of the finest wines and champagnes.
Carmine Falcone: "See it now, Gillian. This is what 'high society' looks like. I wouldn't wish it on you to get used to it. You get accustomed, there's no going back," he says, taking a small sip from his glass. His voice was naturally rather coarse, but it still carried the weight of high status.
Gillian Loeb: "I'm no new one to this, Carmine. I've been bringing you money for fifteen years, already've got used to your 'high society.' Ask the reporters about it, they'll tell you."
Carmine Falcone: "I don't like newspapermen. Don't like people who stick their noses where they don't belong. Newsmen have nothing of their own in life, so they steal from others. You know, if the most pathetic sight does exist, it would feel so patheticly sighting of all those paparazzi," he says with a slightly mocking tone.
Gillian Loeb: "Mm-hmm. If they weren't carrying my police department's approval from the people into the treasury, I'd lock them all up for spreading false information."
Carmine Falcone: "Let them write what they want as long as their desires are on our side. Speaking of newspapers," he says, lightly patting Loeb on the back. "You clever bastard. A big bat, hunting criminals. Couldn't have thought of a better one."
Gillian Loeb: "Yeah, and I even appointed that poor sap of a Lieutenant to hunt it. Just for the good measure."
Carmine Falcone: "You know, I like people who do their job well and diligently. But even more, I like those who'll do anything to avoid work, but end up doing it even better. In the name of courage and savvy of the Gotham City Police," he says, after which he and Loeb clink glasses and drink their contents.
Suddenly, the electricity on the entire floor cuts out; the light music playing from the speakers stops. In the same second, "oh!" and "what happened?" pour from the mouths of guests throughout the hall.
Carmine Falcone: "Must be a short in the wiring somewhere," he says, then turns toward two waiters standing nearby. "Joey, Rupert. Go, check what's going on."
Suddenly, somewhere in the hall, roughly in its center, a strange series of sounds rings out, all within two seconds. First, a sound like a flag flapping in the wind. This was followed by the sound of something not particularly heavy landing, and simultaneously the sound of a man groaning in pain. The next moment, a pair of breaking glasses sounds. Abruptly, the center of the hall began to feel denser than before, and then in that spot, as if emerging directly from the darkness formed after the lights went out, two white, luminescent dots appear, shaped like eyes, after which a voice comes from behind the eyes themselves: "Ladies, gentlemen. I hope you've dined well."
In the very next moment, the entire atmosphere in the room changed beyond recognition. Even without waiting for Falcone's orders, his waiters, who also doubled as bodyguards, drew compact Uzis from under their jackets and opened fire on the black figure in the center. True chaos erupted among the guests—some hid under tables, others bolted out of the building, their screams and shrieks easily drowning out even the sounds of gunfire.
Falcone immediately ducked under the table, drawing a pistol from the inner pocket of his jacket and sitting quietly beneath it. Watching as none of Falcone's bodyguards could hit the dark, bat-like figure, which was sending them into knockout with single kicks or punches to the chest or jaw, all while creating the appearance that the bat was truly flying around the hall, Loeb decided to join Falcone under their table, then pulled out his police radio.
Gillian Loeb, into the radio: "Dispatch, dispatch! This is Commissioner Gillian Loeb. I'm ordering—... demanding a squad to the Central District, the Gotham Renewal Program building. We are under attack. This is a top-priority order!"
Dispatcher, from the radio: "Copy that, sending units now. How many assailants?"
Gillian Loeb, into the radio, slightly surprised by his own words: "One," he says, putting away the radio and also drawing his pistol.
Carmine Falcone, hearing the sounds of his men being taken down one by one: "Don't just sit here. He'll run out of steam soon. Let's just step out and drop him," he says, crawling out from under the table and trying to land even a single bullet on the bat (obviously failing to hit it with any of them).
By that time, the first police cars and vans were already pulling up to the building. Within a couple more seconds, an armed SWAT team began making its way to the top floor where the one-sided firefight continued. The situation in the hall had hardly changed. Only the number of people lying on the floor from just a couple of single blows from the bat had increased. By then, there were about fifteen bodyguards on the floor, with roughly the same number still firmly on their feet, this considering about ten more had arrived after the shooting started.
For a second, it might have seemed that in the room, the bullets flying lengthwise and crosswise occupied more space than the air, which didn't make the bat an easier target. Although not a single bullet could touch the figure darting around the hall, there were still more than enough bullets inside, and there was no guarantee that none of them would be delivered to the wrong address. Which happened. The bat, as is its nature, continued to practically fly around the room, and two bullets, intended for it, flew past their original target. With nothing on their path to stop them, they continued their journey through empty, free air. Obviously, those two couldn't fly forever, and something had to impede their path. Usually, these were walls, or the large panoramic windows, but a different target fell into the bullets' path. One entered right into the stomach, the second right above the heart. Those two impacts were already enough for the man to be on the floor, and it would have been luck if he had still remained conscious. Blood began to spread beneath his body, flowing out; his eyes lacked even the strength to close. The sound of the firefight gradually faded in his ears, his vision grew darker, though it seemed it couldn't get any darker. His breathing slowed, and under the sounds of the firefight, the sound of his breath became like that of an ant in the middle of a tank battle, until it stopped completely. Gotham Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb was officially dead.
Commissioner Loeb's body hadn't moved an inch. The number of bullets was decreasing, only because the number of shooters still holding weapons and not lying unconscious on the floor was dwindling. The SWAT team was now just four floors from their destination.
As the one-sided firefight gradually subsided, Falcone's bodyguards escorted him out of the hall toward the elevator. Once the number of combatants in the room dropped to zero and SWAT was one floor closer, the bat merely cast a glance at Loeb's corpse, the only one with a bloody pool beneath it. Next, he looked at the large panoramic window in the hall, which more closely resembled a sieve after the shootout—it was a miracle it hadn't shattered completely—then headed toward it, shattering that miracle by crashing through it feet-first from a running start. After that, finding himself outside the building, he hooked his grapple onto the building's façade and, using the momentum from the jump, swung on the grapple line toward his target on the north side of the building, smashing through another window and landing on a floor one below the SWAT team.
SWAT didn't hesitate a second, immediately descending to the appropriate floor at the sound of breaking glass. Entering the room, a small dining area, it might have seemed empty—even though the SWAT team had night vision goggles and weapon-mounted flashlights, it didn't help them much in spotting the bat in the unlit room. Suddenly, one of the armed officers fires a couple of shots toward a sound coming from the same doorway they just exited. The bat, who had been hiding above the doorframe the entire time, navigated the stairwells one after another, while the SWAT team, of course, couldn't keep up, and the stairwell hindered their bullets from reaching the target.
Of course, the escape couldn't go that smoothly. As soon as the bat first appeared in the main dining hall at the party, complete pandemonium erupted, and of course, many building workers had to drop everything during the evacuation. Including the kitchen staff. Including the cooks who prepare food on gas stoves. Naturally, there was one screw-up who, in a panic, forgot to turn one of them off. When the bat and the SWAT team were around the 7th or 8th floor, roughly three rooms from the stairwell, a powerful explosion thundered—a gas cylinder had blown up. The blast was strong enough to demolish the kitchen on that floor and severely warp the adjacent rooms. A couple of minutes before that, in that same room, due to the unextinguished stove, a towel hanging above it caught fire, then the flames began to spread rapidly through the kitchen until they reached a gas cylinder on the opposite side.
The entire stairwell was filled with smoke. It would have been a sin not to use this opportunity to escape the SWAT team chasing him, but the bat had a different plan for getting to the street. Stopping on a floor three levels below where the explosion occurred, he passed through three rooms, ending up right beneath the one where a huge hole had been blown in the wall by the explosion, and where there was consequently a sizable hole in the ceiling of that room too. Hearing the approaching SWAT team, he grappled onto a metal beam jutting from the wall, bypassing the two floors above him and leaving the SWAT team far behind. Realizing that the SWAT team would be delayed for a long time due to the distance and the increasing smoke and fire, since part of the stairwell was already engulfed in smoke and the fire wasn't stopping its spread through the building. He sat down on the protruding beam, right on the wall within the hole itself, gaining a view of almost all of Gotham—he was cut off from the fire, and the wind carried the smoke in the opposite direction. There was already not enough space around the building for police cars—their sirens drowned out the crackle of the fire. Fire engines were already gathering around the building in full force; they had been called as soon as the first tongues of flame were spotted, so they arrived quickly. The first firefighters were already climbing ladders to the upper floors of the building, more precisely, to the eighth floor.
As soon as the dark figure of the bat, sitting on the beam near the fire, became noticeable from the ground, it caught the attention of all the police and firefighters gathered at the base of the building. But the bat wasn't concerned with that; he had another reason for climbing up here besides shaking the SWAT team—to get a view of the entire district. From this distance, he could see the ground perfectly, and despite all the police and fire trucks around the building, his attention was drawn to a black Cadillac that emerged from an alley behind the building and was heading in the opposite direction from the cluster of emergency vehicles. While he contemplated how to descend from such a height, firefighters were climbing the ladders, the fire continued to rage throughout the building, already reaching three floors below its epicenter, and of course, not everything could go so smoothly. Another explosion thundered, three floors below the previous one—another gas cylinder reached by the fire. The explosion doubled the intensity of the blaze; the firefighters who had just climbed the ladder had to pray for their luck that it didn't hit them—all except one. He was the first to climb the fire escape, and at the moment the cylinder exploded, he was the closest to the blast. He was thrown into the depths of the building by the explosion, his face caught fire, and his fire uniform was severely damaged. As the fire obscured the view inside the building, the bat jumps down three floors, grabs the poor firefighter by the waist, pressing his cape against the man's face to extinguish the flames, and leaps out from the other, less scrutinized side. He then grapples onto the building's façade and safely lands in the alley behind it, laying the firefighter on the ground. The man's face was stripped of all skin; what was underneath was covered in burns. He wanted to touch his face with his hands, but from that simple action, his face flared with pain.
Firefighter: "Ah! Hot, hot!"
Bat-Man: "I know. Touching it will burn it more," he says, taking bandages and anesthetic from his utility belt. "This will hurt," he uttered before pressing the bandages to the man's face.
It hurt, but the man was quite capable of enduring such pain—after all, they don't let just anyone work for the fire department.
Firefighter: "I… I read about you in the paper. … They described you there as some kind of demon."
Bat-Man, trying to distract the man from his current state, his voice deeper and rougher than usual: "I don't read the papers. I made a promise a long time ago, and I'll be whoever I need to be, good or bad, to keep it."
Firefighter, with weakening breath: "Say what you want. You don't seem like a demon. … Listen, sorry."
Bat-Man: "For what?"
Firefighter: "You… you were chasing that fat one, right? I saw him getting into a car when my crew was driving up here. He's some kind of mobster, aren't he? And you lost him because of me."
Bat-Man: "He won't get far away. I know all the places he could go. I don't think I could have passed you by."
Firefighter, almost fully catching his breath: "You're sure not a bad guy. Thank you."
Bat-Man, finishing the bandaging: "Alright, let's go."
He hoists the man over his shoulder and, grappling onto the building, carries him over to a newly arrived ambulance. A couple of seconds later, paramedics notice the firefighter by their vehicle. They didn't question where he came from; they had to help him anyway, it was their job. The question became even more irrelevant when the man was immediately recognized by other firefighters—their tongues stuck in their throats at the sight of his face. Luckily, their attention wasn't drawn to the otherwise unremarkable sewer grate next to their truck.
Paramedic, helping the man, getting the firefighter into the vehicle: "Your name, sir?"
Firefighter: "Lynns. Garfield Lynns."
Paramedic: "You received excellent first aid, Mr. Lynns." After a short time, the vehicle headed in the direction of the hospital.
The burning building of the largest construction company in all of Gotham was on every news channel, even outside Gotham. News of Commissioner Loeb's death and the first public appearance of the giant bat—today had changed everything in Gotham, once and for all.
January 31, 1989. Around 10 PM.
No one fully understood the meaning of everything that happened today. For some, it was a sign that soon the entire balance of power in Gotham would change beyond recognition. For others, it was an omen of a new stage in the war against crime and corruption. There were also those for whom all of this carried no weight at all. Naturally, throughout the entire day, all the news was filled with broadcasts about the giant bat, the police commissioner's death, and the massive fire at the Gotham City Renewal building. A strange sense of uncertainty began to spread throughout the city.
Alfred Pennyworth: "Read today's paper yet? The things they write. For example, here, 'Commissioner Loeb Died a Hero, Fighting Alongside Police Unit Against Bat Creature.' And here's another, 'Gotham Crime Boss Carmine Falcone Places $1,500,000 Bounty on Head of So-Called Bat-Man.'" He said, deliberately needling Bruce.
Bruce Wayne, adjusting his tie and jacket collar in the mirror: "Alfred, you asked me the same question two days ago. Surprise, but nothing's changed in that time," he said, slightly irritated.
Alfred Pennyworth, still lightly teasing Bruce: "Oh, my apologies. Forgot that the rich don't read newspapers these days. They attend lavish events, drink the most expensive wines, stay up all night, and preen in front of the public. While we, their butlers, make their beds, serve their drinks, read them the papers, and say 'dinner is served.'"
Bruce Wayne, unimpressed by Alfred's sarcasm: "Don't play the pauper. Any butler would envy your conditions," he says, finishing adjusting his collar.
Alfred Pennyworth, continuing to tease Bruce lightly: "The same could be said about you. Every day you go out on your nocturnal adventures. Some need a reason for it; for you, it's routine. Isn't that wonderful, Master Bruce? Though, your choice of attire today is intriguing. Decided to try a new intimidation style? I presume."
Bruce Wayne, still unimpressed: "Don't talk nonsense, Alfred, please. I gave it to Lucius for work on it."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hmm, you should hire Mr. Fox as your personal stylist. His style suits you much better."
About half an hour later. Bruce was already pulling into the Wayne Tower parking lot. Alfred, of course, wanted to drive him, but the hour was late, so Bruce took the initiative. The workday had ended three hours ago—why would anyone come to Wayne Tower at such a time? But today was a very important day. The results of the election for the new CEO of Wayne Enterprises would be announced soon, and since the re-election of the current CEO, William Earle, was almost a foregone conclusion, it was decided to hold a celebration of his victory in advance. Bruce, of course, was not invited to the party—but would that stop someone like him?
Just like on his visits to Lucius, Bruce similarly passes by the receptionist and enters the elevator, this time pressing the button for the top floor where the event was actually taking place. The party hadn't officially started yet, which meant many guests hadn't arrived, even Earle himself wasn't there yet, and it would have been a sin for Bruce not to take advantage of the situation. It didn't take ten minutes before Bruce was mingling in the hall surrounded by a crowd of women, catching envious glances from other men. Every phrase, joke, or gesture only amplified the effect of his charisma on everything around him. After another couple of minutes, the guest of honor appeared at his own celebration. When Earle entered the hall, the crowd around Bruce was obviously the first thing to catch his attention. What irritated him even more wasn't the fact that the self-obsessed rich kid showed up uninvited, but that Bruce, who had clearly noticed Earle's entrance, deliberately ignored his presence.
William Earle: "It's uncultured to show up to someone's party uninvited, Wayne."
Bruce Wayne, feigning surprise at Earle's arrival: "Oh, William. Sorry, didn't notice you come in. So, can we start congratulating you on your election victory yet? Which term in a row is this? The fourth? To William Earle, the current and future head of Wayne Enterprises." He says, taking a sip of his champagne.
William Earle, slightly irritated: "I'm flattered that Gotham's number one golden boy is so happy about the security of my position. But don't try to sidestep the issue, Wayne. It's not right to come to a company CEO's party without his permission."
Bruce Wayne: "You're right, can't argue. But that doesn't apply to the owner of the company. Don't forget, it still has my name on it."
William Earle, more irritated now: "Not your name, your family's name. And besides, what kind of owner is it who isn't even interested in the state of his holdings? What's the point of being king if you let dukes rule your country and you don't even visit the castle?"
Bruce Wayne: "Or maybe that's exactly it? To get attention from others, walk the red carpets, and argue with 'dukes' like you."
William Earle, trying to pressure Bruce: "You're a self-obsessed rich kid, Wayne, nothing more. I doubt your father is looking down on you with pride right now."
Bruce Wayne, this time in a more serious tone: "At least he loved me while he was alive. Unlike one of us here."
This elicited gasps from guests around the hall. Earle was clearly losing the argument. He wasn't a stupid man and perfectly understood that continuing a verbal battle was pointless.
William Earle, final words before retreating: "If you love and respect your father so much, you're doing far too much to bury his respect for you."
The next hour of the party passed surprisingly smoothly. Women continued to flock around Bruce. People only approached Earle to discuss salaries, promotions, and bonuses. The two didn't engage in verbal sparring during this entire time—after all, neither of them were little children. An hour into the party, Bruce decides to excuse himself to the restroom after a decent amount of champagne and Bacardi. Obviously, he left the hall for another reason. Getting into the elevator, he presses the button for the basement level, taking the rather long elevator ride from the very top to the very bottom floor of the entire tower.
Bruce Wayne, entering the warehouse under the building: "Why aren't you at the party?"
Lucius Fox: "Didn't go."
Bruce Wayne: "Didn't go, or wasn't invited?"
Lucius Fox, slightly annoyed: "Both didn't go and wasn't invited."
Bruce Wayne: "So even if you were invited, you wouldn't have gone?"
Lucius Fox, shifting away from the desk: "I've already told you I'm not on good terms with Earle. My self-respect is greater than my vanity."
Bruce Wayne, sitting on a chair next to Lucius's workstation: "If you say so," he says, sipping his champagne. "Want me to get you a drink?"
Lucius Fox, throwing a brief glance at Bruce: "No, thank you. I'm already afraid to imagine how much you've had."
Bruce Wayne: "Why do you care?"
Lucius Fox: "Oh, just. Thought you'd have some kind of diet or something. You know, I have little desire to take new measurements from you after every party like this."
Bruce Wayne: "Bat-Man has the night off, Lucius. Bruce deserves a break," he says, finishing the contents of his glass. "You know. I've been thinking about becoming the new ruler of the company."
Lucius Fox, throwing another brief glance at him: "Congratulations."
Bruce Wayne, slightly surprised: "And? That's all you have to say? Where' are your favorite digs and jabs?"
Lucius Fox: "Well, I was going to say 'Congratulations on your first reasonable decision,' but I changed my mind. But seriously, I don't like talking about the power structure in the company this much."
Bruce Wayne: "Don't worry, I'm sure your opinion on that will change."
Lucius Fox: "No doubt. The thing worries me more is that you haven't found a better way to spend your youth than on all this corporate nonsense."
Bruce Wayne: "Yeah, you're such an expert on that. Like, you remember yours twenty-five?"
Lucius Fox: "Oooooh yes. Ah, good times. I had just started my internship at Wayne Enterprises then. That was fifty-seventh. The company was still run by your grandfather, Patrick. He didn't even intend to take Thomas on as an assistant back then, thought he was a lousy businessman. I miss those times," he says, then looks at Bruce's disinterested face and decides to change the subject. "Alright, down to business," he said, getting up from his chair.
Bruce Wayne, following him: "Hope you don't disappoint."
Lucius Fox: "Didn't think you had such a low opinion of me."
Lucius opens a large case near the warehouse, revealing the updated suit for Bruce.
Lucius Fox: "As requested. Worked on the durability. Under the Kevlar are titanium-fiber underlays. Mostly on the muscle groups. Didn't put them on the joints to avoid hindering mobility. You owe me for those now."
Bruce Wayne: "What about firearm protection?"
Lucius Fox: "Small caliber is no problem. From a shotgun, only at point-blank range. Seems your nighttime adventures have reached a new level."
Bruce Wayne: "They are. I take that."
Lucius Fox: "Of course you're. I'll mail it to you. Will mark it as a diving suit."
Bruce Wayne: "No need," Bruce says, picking up the large case with the suit, and leaving the warehouse.
February 1, 1989. Around 10 AM. Central Avenue, the main street of all Gotham.
For nearly the entire history of the city, which began as far back as 1635, Central Avenue had been its most bustling and vibrant street. Today would be hard to call an exception, as the street was packed to capacity—only there wasn't a single car in sight.
Along the entire avenue marched a massive assembly of people, in a steady, slow-moving formation. They were all in police uniform; some carried American flags, others held flags with the emblem of the Gotham Police (a yellow-and-black wheel with a swan in the center, flanked by two silhouettes—one with a rifle, the other with scales, and the inscription 'Founded 1820'). On either side of the formation marched trumpeters, sounding the rhythm of the U.S. national anthem from their instruments. It was the day of the funeral for the former Police Commissioner of Gotham City, Gillian B. Loeb.
It would have been surprising if a mass parade hadn't been held throughout central Gotham in memory of such a man. The parade was broadcast on all news channels, even far beyond Gotham City. The parade lasted six hours. The casket containing the commissioner's body was already being slowly lowered into the ground at Gotham Cemetery, located about seven miles west of the city, where the greatest figures in Gotham's history rested—such as former Mayor Theodore Cobblepot, who ruled Gotham in the late 19th century, or Nicholas Anders, who designed a good half of Gotham by 1881. Nearly all the city's most influential people attended the funeral, including its current mayor, Wilson Klass, several council members, and a few high-ranking officers of the Gotham Police.
Of course, mourning couldn't last forever; the Gotham Police had to return to work. The atmosphere in the Gotham City Police Department building was somber, but no one lacked the spirit to sink into despondency. On the third floor of the building, Lieutenant Gordon sat in a chair awaiting the first words from his interlocutor, in the office of the Gotham City Police Commissioner, Jack Grogan.
Commissioner Grogan: "I have good news for you, Lieutenant. You're being relieved of your duty as lead on the Bat-Man case. From this point forward, I'm handing this mission over to Captain Branden."
James Gordon: "And so… what are my duties now?"
Commissioner Grogan: "You're still part of this operation. Just not as the head. Look, Lieutenant, it's not about you. We both know Commissioner Loeb put you in charge of capturing Bat-Man as a punishment. I don't care what you did wrong, as long as it doesn't happen again under my watch."
James Gordon: "If you're saying you think I'm not responsible enough, say it straight."
Commissioner Grogan: "That's not it. I'm making the capture of Bat-Man the top priority for the entire police force. Bat-Man is no longer an invention, a rumor, or a delusion. He's reality. Because of him, Commissioner Loeb is dead, and he openly fought our SWAT team. We have every reason to consider him an enemy of the law. Our enemy."
James Gordon: "Yes, yes. You're right, Commissioner. I'm… grateful you're not losing faith in me, truly."
Commissioner Grogan: "It will stay that way as long as you don't give me reason to. Alright, that's all from you. You can go."
Gordon leaves the Commissioner's office with obvious relief. Though not completely removed from the bat hunt, the news that he was at least no longer leading it was enough for him. A couple of hours later, at night, Gordon was in a patrol car, heading to the South-East End where a jewelry store robbery had recently occurred. Only one thought occupied his mind.
James Gordon: "He's afraid of him, isn't he? Grogan is afraid of Bat-Man. Afraid he'll take his job. He doesn't need to turn Bat-Man down for Gotham's sake. … He's better than Loeb."
Gordon was already pulling up to the robbed jewelry store. There was already a substantial gathering of police at the scene. Getting out of the car, Gordon heard his colleagues discussing Bat-Man. What did he have to do with it, you'd think? Listening to the detectives' deduction, Gordon noticed the robbery had been carried out completely without a trace, which was the clue pointing to Bat-Man's guilt, since he also leaves no traces. Watching the scene before him, only one thought drifted in Gordon's mind—how willing are people to blame all their vile on the Devil, while failing to see that they are worse than any Devil? As the police were already leaving the crime scene, Gordon kept thinking about the same thing he had been pondering since the first rumors of Bat-Man—how far is this Gotham from God, that the Devil has ended up closer to them?
Meanwhile, on the other side of Gotham, specifically twelve miles west of it, and to be even more precise, another sixty-five feet underground.
In the cave beneath his house, which Bruce had begun gradually furnishing, starting with a small workshop. At the workbench, he was grinding plates of tempered steel, shaping them into the form of a bat, with very sharp edges. Finishing one such blade, Bruce threw it at the cave's stone wall as if throwing a boomerang, and the blade lodged itself dead into the rock.
Finishing his work underground, closer to morning, Bruce finally emerges to the surface—strangely, given how hard he tries to emulate a bat.
Alfred Pennyworth, sitting in an armchair, reading the evening paper: "Mr. Fox's toys aren't enough for you, so you've decided to start manufacturing your own?"
Bruce Wayne: "Need to start putting this place to use. Rejoice, you'll be seeing even less of me soon."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Hmm, never've thought you're much into humor."
Bruce Wayne: "I'm much into politely asking people to talk no-shit when it's out of timing," he says, sitting in a chair not far from Alfred. "Will need to figure out a descent directly from the house."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, the entrance to the wine cellar is still inside the house. Unless you've moved it."
Bruce Wayne, finally not containing his irritation: "Alfred, enough. The joke about the cave being an extension for the wine cellar has run its course."
Alfred Pennyworth: "There's nothing else left to joke about. Only jokes about how soon I'll have to switch from AM to PM permanently, since you're a night creature now are still there."
Bruce Wayne: "Alright, I changed my mind. Keep joking about the cellar."
Alfred Pennyworth, sighing lightly: "The urge has passed. I take it you still don't read the news?"
Bruce Wayne: "And I don't plan to. I have plenty to do."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Well, here's something just for you. 'Gotham City Police Blame Bat-Man for Death of Former Commissioner Gillian Loeb, and in Response, Escalate Manhunt.' How much attention were you lacking that you decided to get twice as much?" He read the headline specifically to needle Bruce.
Bruce Wayne: "For starters, I'm not interested in attention. And to continue, my father had enemies too."
Alfred Pennyworth, in a know-it-all tone: "At least the police weren't among them."
Bruce Wayne: "We've been over this, Alfred. Corruption is a virus, and it's everywhere in this city. And the police are just another carrier, one that simply masked itself as the vaccine."
Alfred Pennyworth: "If you tell me you intend to become that 'vaccine,' I will reconsider many things about this place," he says, still lightly teasing.
Bruce Wayne: "I'm not the vaccine. I'm a virus that just performs the role of a vaccine."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Now I almost wish you'd just said you were the vaccine."
Bruce Wayne: "Has it only just dawned on you? I'm saying it's long past time you reconsidered all of this. My behavior. I'm not that selfish, egoistic thirteen-year-old boy you might think I still am."
Alfred Pennyworth: "I know, Master Bruce. I'd rather have remembered you as that cheerful eight-year-old boy."
Bruce Wayne: "Sorry for bluntness, you need to come to terms with it. My father was an angel trying to turn hell into its more prosperous form. He made a mistake, couldn't show the inhabitants of hell that he was one of them, and paid for it with his life. The only way an angel can survive here, Alfred, is to mask himself as a demon."
Alfred Pennyworth: "So you are both an angel and a demon, a virus and a vaccine. Aren't you a ballerina and a television comedian now too, Master Bruce?"
Bruce Wayne, his voice rising just a little bit. "Enough nonsense, Alfred. I am who I am. I will be whoever—whatever I need to be. Anything—anywho to fulfill my father's promise."