Bruce Wayne Journal Log. Day: January 13.
It has officially been a year since I had returned to Gotham City after a lengthy absence. The wind—still cold and dry from the polluted smoke of the scum that reside within the crevices they were molded from. This will be my first and probably last entry into this journal for a very long time. Alfred said I should express my thoughts in a more orderly manner when not on the prowl at night. He says it'll keep me from becoming too…submerged. I didn't question him—how could I? He wasn't too far from the truth. Every night I step into the role I've crafted to thrive in that world, I can feel myself…see myself…become less and less of what I use to be. The existence of Bruce Wayne is beginning to feel like a distant stranger. All his emotions, his memories, his pain; it's nothing but a program that's been crudely stitched into my new subconscious—almost like a trigger that reacts to the slightest detection of this new existence enveloping me…and damn it all, that trigger had to be in the form of a memory…that memory.
But who knows; maybe that's what this city needs…maybe it's what I need. Those moments when I put on the cowl, when I see the fear in their eyes before they lose themselves to their own consciousness—it's in those moments that I can feel a rush of vindication through my veins. For months I had wondered why I felt this strange thirst for fear…until I realized that it wasn't their fear I enjoyed, but rather something deeper than that.
It was the gun man.
I look into many a criminals' eyes and see in them the gun man who had stolen everything from me. But it's not his reflection I see…It's my own. I see the personification of the fear, rage, and loneliness I felt that night—draped in a black bat-like cowl and the years of darkness that kept it together. The gun man's beautiful, twisted masterpiece brought to life. I am his mural; continuously forced to display his work to multiple on-lookers just like him in a never-ending cycle. There are most likely many more of his masterpieces, but none will ever be as glorious as me. I am his legacy to be passed down even after death for generations to come. They will marvel at this exquisite work of art with both applause…and terror. I am the torture he will keep in his mind. No other artwork will ever be as good as I.
I am his greatest masterpiece: The child of Loss and a Dark Rebirth.
I hear sirens. They sound close. All I need to do is look bellow the tallest building I currently stood on to see them. It's not surprising to hear them at this time of night, when the clock hits midnight. As I've already written, this will be my first and possibly last entry into this journal for a long time.
For Gotham needs me once again. It's time for the gun man's greatest masterpiece to spread his wings once again.