"Good news, sir. You've made the papers," said Alfred, as Bruce Wayne slowly pushed open the secret entrance to the Batcave. "Though they're reporting you as a sort of mythical, penny dreadful figure akin to the likes of Spring-Heeled Jack…"
"Please, Alfred, I don't care about publicity right now," muttered Bruce, taking off his Batman mask and throwing it down.
"Is something wrong, sir?" asked Alfred, instantly concerned.
"Yes," murmured Bruce, burying his face in his hands. "I think…a man is dead because of me."
Alfred was silent. "I'm truly very sorry, sir," he murmured. "But you knew this was dangerous work…"
"I never wanted to kill anyone!" shouted Bruce. "You know I don't believe in killing, Alfred! But now I'm a murderer, as certainly as if I'd stabbed that man in the heart!"
Alfred tried to console him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What happened, sir?" he asked, gently.
"It was an accident," whispered Bruce. "I never meant for anyone to die. I'm not a murderer – I just wanted to help…"
But as he said it, he knew in his heart that wasn't strictly true. His motivation for being Batman was part altruism, and part selfishness.
He had lost his parents at a young age to crime in Gotham City – Thomas and Martha Wayne had been murdered in front of his eyes one night while the family had been walking home from the theater. Bruce had been left in Alfred's care, who brought him up as a wealthy young man about town, as was befitting his fortune and position in society. Only Bruce had never been satisfied with the life of a playboy philanthropist. He couldn't bear to waste his life on trivialities and frivolous pleasures when he knew crime and harm were being perpetrated against other innocent victims every day. And so partly from his own impulses, and partly from a desire to make a real difference to his city, he had decided to combat crime in the form of a costumed vigilante, inspired by the stories he had read of colorful characters and heroes in penny fiction. He had only put on the guise of the Batman a few months ago, and he was still getting into the swing of things, but so far he had been very pleased with his progress – he had broken up quite a few fights, and interrupted several robberies. But this was the first time someone had been seriously injured because of his actions, and it suddenly brought home to Bruce just what exactly he was doing.
He was dressing up in a costume and acting like crime-fighting was a game, like in the stories he had read. But he hadn't fully appreciated the real danger he put not only himself, but other innocent people in. And for the first time he wondered if the Batman had been such a good idea after all. For the first time, he re-examined his motivations for creating the figure, and found them full of petty selfishness, personal boredom, and thinly disguised vengeance masquerading as selfless justice.
He stared down at the Batman mask. "Alfred, would you please destroy this?" he asked, holding it up to him.
"Destroy it, sir?" repeated Alfred, shocked. "But why?"
"Just…destroy all of it," Bruce muttered, pulling off his makeshift utility belt and throwing it on the ground. "Nobody else is going to be hurt because of me. I should just stick to going to parties and society functions, not meddle in things that don't concern me."
"Sir, I'm sure you'll get better with practice," encouraged Alfred. "And you mustn't give up. You've done so much good for this city already."
"Oh, perhaps I've stopped a few crimes," sighed Bruce. "But I've taken a man's life, Alfred. I've done to him what someone else did to my parents…if that man has family, they will be suffering as I suffered at their loss. I had no right to inflict that kind of pain on anyone. And I will never forgive myself for it."
He glanced at the newspaper. "I'm not Spring-Heeled Jack," he muttered. "This isn't some silly story or game. This is real life. And there is no place for costumed vigilantes in a rational, sane, orderly world. I can't imagine what I must have been thinking. The last thing people need in this age of wonders and modern technology is to cling on to vague superstitions and shadowy heroes."
He turned to look at Alfred. "The Batman is dead," he murmured. "And the duality of my soul must be reconciled in Bruce Wayne. It must be content with that. The Batman was…my Mr. Hyde, Alfred. He was a guise I could put on to conceal myself, or perhaps…to reveal my true self, that I dare not reveal to anyone else. The Batman let me be free of responsibility and guilt. But I cannot be free of that anymore. Dr. Jekyll tried and failed to destroy Mr. Hyde. I cannot fail to destroy mine."
He headed for the stairs. "Destroy it all, Alfred. And then send a telegram to Arkham Asylum, care of Dr. Jonathan Crane, and invite him over for dinner tomorrow. I would like to have a word with him."
…
The Cat's Cradle was a tavern and brothel located on the waterfront of the Gotham River, catering mostly to sailors putting into port and other locals who lived along the dock. On this particular cold night, clouds of smoke, warm bodies, and the consumption of liquor kept the outside chill at bay as people lounged about, talking, laughing, and drinking. Fingers of icy mist from the river rose up and pressed against the window, unable to get in.
A tall, thin man dressed in purple limped slowly toward the tavern door, leaning heavily on a cane and dripping wet. He panted, taking deep breaths and gulping down air, and then exhaling it in a low, continuous chuckle.
He pushed open the door to The Cat's Cradle and walked in. Curious glances were thrown in his direction, mostly because his face was concealed by his hat and the muffler he wore around his neck, everything hidden but a huge, strange smile.
He made his way to the bar. "Glass of whiskey, please," he murmured.
The bartender, who was also the owner and proprietor, a Miss Selina Kyle, looked at the man suspiciously, and then poured him a glass. "Two fifty," she muttered, shoving it at him.
He fished around in his pockets for some bills and coins, which he threw on the counter. The bills were also dripping wet. "Been for a dip in the river, huh?" asked Selina, shaking them out. "Nasty night for a swim."
"Yes," the man agreed, sipping his drink and smiling. "Yes, it is."
"Kinda a crazy thing to do," she continued.
He chuckled, a strange, unnatural sound. "Yes, it is!" he repeated, grinning at her.
"Oh, what a nice, big smile you've got, sir," said a woman lounging against the bar. "Fancy buying a girl a drink?"
He turned to smile at her. "Why not?" he asked.
Selina gave the woman a warning glance but poured her a drink. There was something very strange about this man, and Selina personally didn't like him. He gave her the creeps, especially with that odd smile of his.
Not that the woman seemed to notice, draping herself over him instantly and beginning to whisper something in his ear. "Maybe, when we've finished our drinks, we can get to know each other a little better, sir," she purred. "Would you like that?"
He said nothing, but chuckled, a strange, unnatural sound that made Selina shudder. The last she saw of the bizarre man was him heading toward the door with the woman on his arm, but then she had other customers to serve, and thought no more about him.
"This here looks nice and private," murmured the woman, pulling the strange man into an alley. "Someplace where we won't be interrupted, eh?"
He just grinned at her. "You really do have a nice, happy smile, sir," she said, smiling back. "You wanna see something that's not gonna just make your smile grow?"
She reached up to pull down her top, and the man approached her, fingering his cane, the same smile beaming out from his hidden face. "Now I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours," she giggled, about to lift her skirts.
There was a flash of metal, and then a blade was plunged into her repeatedly. The man had his hand clamped around her mouth, stifling her screams and muting her struggle as he stabbed her over and over, laughing wildly to himself. The laugh turned into a hysterical crescendo until the girl's body slid to the ground. Then he dropped to his knees by it, bringing the blade to her face.
"Let's give you a nice, happy smile too!" he chuckled. "And leave you for him to find! This is all because of him, after all! And won't he be pleased about what he's done! He ruins my life, so now I ruin everyone else's! I make them as happy as I am forever now!"
He carved the face up until it had a horrible, mocking smile cut into it, and then he straightened up. "All thanks to him!" he chuckled, heading back out into the foggy, deserted night. "All thanks to the Batman!"