CHAPTER 12

I know I'll regret bringing this man into my living room, but I'll try to be as pleasant as possible.

"I never realized how much you looked like your father," Cobblepot says. He's quite a handsome man, despite being in his late 40s. Even when I was younger, he'd always like to wear a stupid bowtie tuxedo and a tophat.

"How did you find me?" I ask, curiously.

"Oh, I have my connections," he says. "How have you been? I know it's been quite a while."

He greets me like an old friend, despite only being my father's former business partner. It sickens me that he acts like we actually know each other.

"May I ask what you're doing here?" I say.

Cobblepot smiles. "First off, I wanted to thank you. If it weren't for your father, I would not be where I am right now. So, in his place, I'd like to thank you."

Flattery isn't doing him much favors.

"Why are you really here?" I ask, still trying to be pleasant.

He sighs, trying to be charming. "You see, your father was an important figure to me. He was like the older brother I never had. And you know as well as anyone that he was impactful on the lives of Gotham residents all around, as was your mother. Furthermore, I-"

"Just get to the point."

"My apologies. Sometimes I get carried away. I would like to ask you for a posthumous endorsement from you father, through you. I figured that after being in the shadows for so long, it would be good for you to step out and make a difference in the world."

I stay silent for a moment, processing everything he just said.

"Why do you need an endorsement from my father?"

"Just as a symbol of honor and respect we had for each other. It would be a great way to-"

"To give yourself more credibility?" I say, interrupting him. He looks confused. "I mean, that's the gist of it, right? You know you're not the most popular mayor ever, so maybe an endorsement from Gotham's prodigal son would be a good way to ensure the public that you aren't just another corporate jackass?"

I see Cobblepot looks taken aback. "...I am sorry, but I don't quite understand-"

"My parents were not perfect people. Far from it. They were greedy, manipulative, but I know for a fact that if they saw you running for office, the last person they would endorse is you."

I see the fury in his eyes. He keeps his cool, though. "How would you know of such matters?"

"I overheard them speaking about firing you for borderline criminal financial actions shortly before they died. I also found it in a few unsent letters my father wrote."

"Why were you looking through your father's private documents?"

"When you're alone and have nothing else to do, you get curious. If I remember correctly, you were going to be fired for supplying local mob dealers with ammunition in exchange for money, correct?" He doesn't answer. "Obviously, I could be misremembering, as it's been so long, but I probably still have that letter in storage somewhere."

He looks defeated at first, but then forces a warm smile. "Your father always used to brag about how smart you were," he says. "I must say that I'm impressed."

"To answer your question, no, I do not have a desire to endorse you as Gotham's mayor," I say.

Cobblepot is still forcing his smile. "I must say that this conversation did not go as I expected," he says. "And I was certainly not expecting you to have such fluent social skills."

"What can I say? Some people have a natural talent."

"Quite intriguing. The boy who supposedly 'just couldn't handle it' is speaking like anyone else, and appears to be living like any other functioning person. Really makes you wonder."

This statement throws me off guard. "Wonder what?" I say, harshness in my voice.

"Tell me Bruce: what made you hide from the world?"

"I didn't want the attention," I say.

"Well, I must say that you and Alfred really convinced us all that there was truly something wrong with you. But I can see now that that clearly wasn't the case."

I feel the urge to snap Cobblepot's neck. "...you think it was all an act?"

"Quite a good act, might I say," Cobblepot smiles. "Not wanting to do anything with your life, so you simply just vanish from everything and pretend like you're an insane person. Well-played."

"You don't know the first thing about me," I tell him.

"There's quite a bit I don't know, yes. But I saw you as a happy eight-year old child, running around your parents' mansion dressed as a bat. And then the world gets news about you going crazy. Doesn't really line up."

"Is there a reason for you telling me this?" I ask.

"No. I just wanted to make a point. You people act insane one moment, and then are fine the minute something goes your way. Whether you choose to acknowledge this or not, you're not sick. And you never were. You just wanted a scapegoat for your problems."

We sit there quietly, not making a single movement.

Finally, I break the silence. "So you're mayor of Gotham for the next few years. What now?"

Cobblepot just grins. "We live in a corporate world, Mr. Wayne. And people around here should start to recognize that."

"So essentially you're going to continue to supply weapons to mob dealers and cut funding from core services just so you can thrive in your mansion?"

Cobblepot rolls his eyes. "You don't know anything, kid," he says. "Even if I was doing what you accuse me of, what would you knowing about it do? You're only viewed by the public as the poor child who went insane. Endorsing me might have changed that, but right now, you're nothing."

I just glare at him.

He grins. "Good day, Mr. Wayne."

And with that, Oswald Cobblepot leaves.

What seems like the next few hours, I think about his statement: Whether you choose to acknowledge this or not, you're not sick. You never were.

For my entire life people have accused me of that. That I was making it up to get attention. That I was just manipulating people. That I wanted people to feel sorry for me. That I just wanted to feel special.

These same people would likely say that is the reason why I lashed out when I was younger. Or why I expressed violent thoughts about my classmates to my school. Or why I beat up the rapist in the parking lot. Or why I made a hobby of punishing criminals as a vigilante.

For a split second, I believe them.

But I wouldn't be doing those things in the first place if there weren't a reason to. And people can't seem to understand that. And these same people abandon those starving on the streets because "they're too lazy to get a job." And these same people blame the anxious teenage girl for her rape because "she's the one who let it happen." And these same people are the ones that allow people like Oswald Cobblepot to get in power.

I feel the adrenaline in my veins, and I get an urge that I've never had before.

I grab the phone, and dial the number.

"Alfred," I say into the phone. "I need to talk with you about something."