Dear Diary,

Truth be told, I resent starting the first entry with this horrible boilerplate, but sadly I can't think of anything better to wirte. Seeing my constant sleep deprivation, the mere thought of keeping a diary is already stupid enough. But I've got the feeling that with my current lifestyle I'll get serious mental issues soon, and by then these entries will hopefully help me to analyze myself and fix me to a certain degree, before they put me away in one of those "bridewells", like they did with all the others who spoke their mind.

Note number 1: Ask about indications of paranoia in the lecture tomorrow and inspect myself for it

Great. I'm keeping this diary for self-analysis for no more than two minutes and alreay have the first suspicion of mental issues. If I keep this on, I'll commit myself in two days.

Note number 2: Ask about indications of nympholepsy for social conventions in the lecture tomorrow and inspect myself for it

Note number 3: Find a reasonable excuse for asking such strange questions before anybody becomes suspicious

I sigh, putting the pencil aside before flipping the diary shut and locking it away in the small safe with the 26-digit combination. "Diary" sounds really lame and childish somehow. Maybe I should call this my memoirs. But in case this little booklet ever goes public, I'm screwed anyway. Not even money will be able to save me then - and I have to know, I'm rich. Well, to be precise only my father is rich.

For a moment I consider getting the diary out again and add a fourth note regarding possible inferiority complexes, but then I find it too laborious. Aside from that it's already late, the fingers of my alarm clock anounce ten minutes past midnight. High time for my great entrance in Gotham City.

I'm sick of being the victim. I'm sick of being lied to. It took me long enough to prepare myself for this moment. But now I will take matters into my own hands. All those liars, corrupt responsibles and murderers should better be careful. I have suffered enough. I will spare others this misery.

The dress is in the hidden rear of my wardrobe that can be only opened with a retinal scan. There surely are advantages to literally be coining money. What is a simple gray fabric at first appearance, turns out to be a Kevlar-strengthened suit looked at more closely. Protection against knives, hits and on longer distances even against bullets. I don't actually plan on getting into a situation where such a protection is required, but you never know. I'm rather prepared for everything.

I pull the black gloves over my hands, then the cape and the cowl with the bat ears that hide all the hightech-devices that are needed for my little actions. The bat look is maybe a little bit too camp, but somehow it fits pretty well. After all it was a bat that went astray in my rom back then and with some odd coincidences destroyed my life, but also saved it. I subsequently dubbed it Bruce. Bruce the bat. In my mind, the name sounds pretty nice.

It's not difficult to climb up the wall of the building, jam the security system and work my way to the room with the safe. That thing appears downright ridiculous in comparison to the one I put my diary into. Almost as if those idiots wanted someone to come by and mug them. But well, I don't want to complain.

With a muffled clicking noise the safe opens. Neatly organized, there are lying the money and the documents. Definitely enough information to prove that the boss of this company hasn't acted as law-abiding as he always claims. I put the entire content of the safe into the little backpack that's hidden beneath the cape. The documents are for the police to improve my image, the money is for me because Daddy's scanting with my pocket money again. And the equipment I'm wearing right now was everything but cheap.

The second the safe is empty, the alarm suddenly activates with a loud piercing sound. Apparently the bottom in there was sensitive to weight. I curse quietly that I didn't think of this sooner and used something as substitute. Maybe a business card or something like that, like they always do in movies. But now isn't the time for that.

I have almost reached the roof when they spot me. Loud screaming ensues among the men who are now blocking my way in the aisle before and behind me. Maybe they're cops, maybe they're criminals. In this city it's likely they're both.

"Hands up! And lay everything you stole down in front of you!", one of them shouts and aims his gun at me. I pull a face, denying myself from pointing to the fact that I can't possibly put up my hands and lay something down at the same time. Besides, I definitely didn't burgle this place just to give the stuff back now. Instead, I don't budge and wait. For the right moment. The moment when one of them will give me a chance to escape. But the guy just keeps talking. His mistake. "Who are you? And what's up with that odd outfit? This isn't a costume party, bub!"

I hope the voice-contorter I installed does what it's supposed to when I open my mouth and answer. My voice sound deeper, throaty, in some way pretty scary. "Can't you see that, Sir?"

The guy in front of me is shivering. Apparently he finds the voice scary, too. Good. "Cut this nonsense! Tell me who you-"

Finally he's flustered enough to gesture around wildly, pointing his gun somewhere else in the process. There it is, my chance.

I rush up to him. He's confused enough to hesitate about shooting. A quick grip to his wrist, a practiced shifting of weight and the guy's falling onto his two fellows behind him while my way to the roof is finally clear.

By the time I reach the top of the building, my lungs are burning from all the running. Out of breath I suck in the cool nightly air. Stamina has never been my strong point. Maybe I shouldn't have skipped my sports classes that often last year. At the verge of the building I stand still, looking down on the lights of the miniscule looking cars. How many floors did this building have again? Forty-five or Fifty-four. I am always transposing digits.

In the mean time, the watchmen have planted themselves behind me, every one with his weapon at the ready. Everyone except the guy who is now holding his strangely twisted wrist and standing behind the others. He doesn't look happy at all.

"You can't escape from here! Surrender, you freak! You may dress up like a bat, but you definitely can't fly like one!"

I fight the urge to grin at him. Maintain the image. Come on, do your best. The throaty voice that seems foreign even to my own ears sounds again. "Are you sure...?"

Then I let myself fall backwards over the handrail.

Stupid idea. If I want to use the cape as a parachute, my body has to be the other way around. Way to go.

A few more seconds of free falling pass by before I finally manage to turn myself around and stretch the cape. Above me, the noise is rising. Eventually those guys have started to shoot. But I'm already too far off, landing in a dark alley two blocks away, next to my jet-black motorcycle. They won't get a hold of me anymore.

"Hey, little princess! Wake up! When the prof sees you sleeping in his lecture, all hell will be let loose!"

"As if you never slept during the lecture", I grumble, eyes staying shut as I'm deliberately ignoring the request. What I sadly can't ignore is the constant poking to my arm that starts then.

"Come on, little princess! Wake up! Or do I have to find a prince to kiss you awake first?"

"Breeze off. Let me sleep", I hiss, still opening my eyes now. The first thing I see are ragged jeans full of clasp pins. I slowly raise my gaze. Tartan kilt, torn shirt, leather jacket, shaved head except for the gelled, bleached mohawk in the middle. At the back of the head there are dreadlocks, I know it without seeing them. I yawn. "Mornin', Mike."

"Mornin', little princess", he greats back, collapsing into the chair next to me, holding a newspaper in one and a coffee in the other hand. The lecture starts in ten minutes, but so far that has never bothered him while having breakfast. When my only friend in this room filled with hundreds of students starts searching his bag for his food, I grap the newspaper. I hope for those journalists that my little action yesterday evening has made headlines.

On the cover there are flaunting huge letters. "Who is the mysterious" - I unconsciously stop breathing - "Superman?". Dammit. It's that weirdo from Metropolis again. Doing nothing but flying all over the city and saving some idiots. What a boyscout. I skim on, seeing on page 3 what I was looking for.

"Unknown with a bat costume robs industrial concern 'Eugenics' in Gotham City - Strictly confidential documents found in police office - Suspicion of cooperation between Eugenics and drug dealers perhaps comfirmed"

Perhaps confirmed? What is that supposed to mean? I have delivered at least the triple fold of evidence needed to confirm this suspicion to those idiots from the police. Looks like someone took bribes again. Oh, how I hate this city. Halfheartedly I skim the article until I reach the end.

"... a speaker of the watchmen informed that the culprit wore a bat costume. Officially no one has taken responsibility for the burglar so far. The nameless is already called "Batman" by most people."

My hand grasps the newsprint tighter. Batman? BatMAN?

Okay, I know I don't have the most feminine physique. My breasts and hips could be a little more impressive, and my waist smaller. And I'm a little bit buff, after all forty floors don't climb up on their own. But do those guys really think I'm a man?

"Hey, easy, little princess. Angry that those men in tights upstaged you? Sadly you only made it to page 17, turn over", Mike's voice rouses me from my thoughts. I smooth down the crinkled sheets, turning them over.

"Billions-heiress Beverly Bennett starts study of psychology in Gotham City with the best average since seven years", I grunt quietly to myself. Beverly Bennett. I hate this name. Sounds like something from one of those cheap tearjerker-novels. Bloody stupid.

"Well, BB? Proud of your genius?"

"Don't call me 'BB'. You know I hate that name."

"Relax, little princess."

"Don't call me little princess. You know I hate that."

"Oh, so we're a little moody again today. But I guess you can afford that with a rich father like yours, right?"

"Don't reduce me on my father's money. You know I hate that."

"Yeah yeah. Then how about finally answering my question if you're proud of being all that more intelligent than we are?"

The professor comes in, late as always and starting the lecture. This saves me from pointing out to Mike that I hate it when people portray me as some kind of genius. Now I first have to be attentive and learn something.

After all my knowledge about the human mind has saved my life last night. Who knows when that will be necessary again.

A/N: I don't really know how this happened. I actually planned on writing a completely different story. But suddenly, creativity hit me and I couldn't help but write this down. So, Batman's a girl in this story. I don't know what's gonna happen next. Hopefully it's something funny.

Reviews would be lovely, since I'd like to know about your expectations. =)