Otisburg District — Ace Chemicals, prime view
I'm two years old today.
My grandfather, Joe Hammer, is adorable. He loves me very much. And I have to admit, thanks to my brain, I'm able to cry exactly when I'm hungry, and exactly when I want my diaper changed. Not a second earlier, not a second later. Surgical precision.
The result: I'm an easy baby. A baby who never screams for no reason, never throws tantrums, sleeps when needed, and wakes up when I decide.
And for that, my grandfather adores me.
So, to keep the machine running, I give him nice, well-timed smiles. And he picks me up, rubs the tip of my nose with his gray, scratchy beard, and laughs. A genuine laugh, from a Marine who's seen hell and decided to be happy anyway.
It's nice.
But I'm not two years old for nothing. My brain never stops. And for the past few months, one question has been gnawing at me, louder than the others.
Why don't I see Batman?
I mean, I'm in Gotham. The worst place in the DCU. The Bat should be everywhere. Posters, newspapers, rumors. Even as a baby confined to a hardware store in Otisburg, I should feel his shadow.
But no. Nothing.
Not one article. Not one mention. Not one urban legend circulating in my grandfather's customers' conversations.
So I did what I do best: I analyzed.
My grandfather reads the Gotham Gazette every morning. He listens to the radio while tinkering. Customers talk about everything — the weather, baseball games, taxes, the new commissioner. Never — never — do they talk about a man in a bat costume.
The name "Batman" doesn't exist yet.
I cross-referenced the data. Street names. Neighborhoods. Buildings.
Ace Chemicals is standing and running at full capacity, right next to us. Its chimneys spew their yellowish smoke day and night. That's where the Joker was born. Except if Batman doesn't exist, neither does the Joker.
Not yet.
I'm two years old. And suddenly, a freezing truth hits me.
I was born before all of this started.
Damn.
I'm in the DCU, but in the calm before the storm. Bruce Wayne is probably still a child. Or a teenager at most. His parents — Thomas and Martha — might still be alive.
Or maybe Crime Alley has already done its work.
I need to know. I need to date this era.
---
A few days later. Hammer's Hardware.
My grandfather has set me up in an old-fashioned playpen, right next to his workbench. I can see the store from here. Shelves of polished wood filled with screws, nails, chains, padlocks. The smells of oil, metal, and sawdust.
A customer walks in. A man in a brown coat, soft hat, tired expression.
"Joe, did you see the papers?" he asks. "Another shooting in the East End. An eight-year-old kid got hit."
"He's not a kid, he's a statistic," my grandfather grumbles. "In Gotham, kids learn to crawl under bullets before they learn to walk."
"I hear the new commissioner wants to clean things up. Tough guy, Loeb."
"Loeb?" my grandfather spits. "I knew Loeb back in the Marines. He's not a cop, he's a politician. He shakes hands with the corrupt in one hand and signs warrants with the other."
Loeb, my brain notes. Commissioner Loeb. Corrupt. In office before Gordon.
"And the Waynes?" the customer asks. "Are they funding another hospital?"
"Thomas Wayne is a good man," my grandfather replies, more softly. "He does what he can. But a hospital won't disarm a thief."
Thomas Wayne. He's alive.
My real heart — the one beating in my infant chest — speeds up slightly.
If Thomas Wayne is alive, then Bruce is still a child. His parents haven't died in Crime Alley.
Not yet.
But it's going to happen.
It has to happen.
Except… is it written? Is fate fixed? Or has my presence in this world already changed something?
I don't know. And for the first time since my birth, my super brain doesn't have an immediate answer.
It worries me.
---
That evening. The Hammers' small kitchen.
My grandfather is spoon-feeding me. Carrot puree. He's singing an old Navy song, as off-key as a rusty lock, but with disarming tenderness.
Maria, my mother, sits at the table. She's reading a magazine. She's nineteen now. Still tired. Still sad, but she smiles sometimes. Especially when she looks at me.
"Dad," she says suddenly, "do you think James will ever be like other kids?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. He's… too calm. Too clean. He never cries for no reason. Sometimes I look into his eyes, and I feel like he understands everything. Like he knows things a baby shouldn't know."
My grandfather stops singing. He looks at me. His steel-gray eyes narrow.
"He's a Hammer," he says finally. "We're tough. And we're… different."
He places his big hand on my head.
"But don't worry, Maria. He's normal. Just a little more alert than the others."
Normal, I think. If only they knew.
I finish my puree. I let out a perfect burp — timing, intensity, everything controlled — and flash a brilliant smile at my grandfather.
He melts.
"You see?" he says to Maria. "A baby like any other."
I close my eyes and return to my calculations.
Bruce Wayne. How old is he? If Thomas Wayne is alive and active in philanthropy, Bruce is between six and ten. Maybe eight.
The Crime Alley murder will happen in two or three years.
After that, Bruce will leave. He'll travel. He'll train. He'll become Batman.
And I, James Hammer, will be five years old when he first puts on the suit.
It feels both very far away and terrifyingly close.
Damn, I think again. I was born too early to see Batman, but early enough to see him arrive.
I need to be ready.
In the darkness of my room, above Hammer's Hardware, in the industrial district of Otisburg, a two-year-old baby smiles in his sleep.
It's not an innocent smile.
It's the smile of someone already planning his next move.
---
End of Chapter 2