He's gone.
Bruce, that is, and every day I go out into the city, it becomes increasingly clear that I'm not him.
I went out last night.
It was a night like any other, rain poured and I could feel the droplets bursting on top of my head. Neon lights bathed the skyline a myriad of purples, reds, and blues. I couldn't decide whether it looked beautiful or like the worst imaginable hellscape. Flying out on patrol was horrid; the winds buffeted me and I veered every which way, nearly clipping my wings a few times off signs or archways.
I came down on a diner I had frequented for a while after high school, near what used to be the Narrows. Dana would accompany me on evenings that the criminal element seemed quiet or Bruce's orders required I work without a mask on. Those times were quite the respite.
My reverie was interrupted by what sounded like screaming.
I spun around and could make out the scuffling and scraping of a struggle and flew to the source, feeling a tendril of apprehension curl in my stomach. The screams had a feminine edge to them, hysteria tinged them, and I could make out the outline of broad shoulders moving with the accompanying thumps of a body hitting the wall of the alleyway. I knew what was happening here. I'd seen it a hundred times.
Hesitation never struck me. I sprung forward and twisted the man away from his victim, wrapping an arm across his shoulders to hold him off the smaller figure. In the brief instant I looked down into the dimness I could make out a set of wide blue eyes, glistening in unadulterated panic the way only a child's could. Something sickened and fierce twisted in my gut as I wrenched the assailant's body fully away, my arm crushing with the entirety of the suit's augmented strength, and an audible, wet crunch followed.
A thud echoed out into the night as a body fell.
I didn't really realize that I'd killed a man until returning to the cave in the wee hours before daybreak. I'd flown the girl, a teenager, to the nearest precinct in a detached haze, weaving skillfully through buildings and through-ways while my mind spread like spilt water in a thousand different directions.
After heading down into the cavern and stripping off my gear, I noticed a smear of blood on my glove, presumably from where I'd crushed the man's chest. The thought that I'd killed him simply passed through my mind, didn't agonize me, didn't cause me to question whether I'd descended into monstrosity. I dropped the suit on a table and headed up the stairs, locking the door behind me.
I called Dana the next morning and asked if she'd like to go out to lunch. The "yes" surprised me some, seeing as we hadn't spoken in some time. My new responsibilities at Wayne Industries and my masked endeavors have monopolized my time lately. I've done a poor job communicating the limits of my availability. She still doesn't know I'm Batman. The rest is easy to assume.
The meal went pleasantly enough. We discussed work and family, laughing over siblings' and coworkers' antics while our hands brushed the way people's do when there's something between them. Nonetheless, it wasn't long before something destroyed the veil of content around us. A talking head popped onto the television screen in the ceiling corner of the cafe and started reading out a headline. I could make out snippets, "man found with a collapsed chest in an alleyway…girl says she was saved by Batman…"
The hand that gripped my fork trembled and I could almost see my eyes glazing. Dana asked if I was alright and a smile plastered itself on my face in response. She could see through it though and figured something had upset me. She clasped my hand and motioned to a waitress to bring our check over.
We walked in companionable silence for what felt like an eternity until the sun began to set and we had somehow winded our way toward the door of her apartment building. Dana gave me a resigned look as I delivered a distracted goodbye before setting back out into the city.
Nightfall had long since passed as I continued to mill through the still-bustling streets of the Lower East Side and up into the former Narrows. The headline had obviously been seen by many. Gothamites have never been a shy people, and mutterings could be heard everywhere discussing the development of the Batman's character.
Who does he think he is to execute people?
It's about time someone's really shown the miscreants…
At least that kid's okay…even though he's proved he's anything but.
I wasn't sure what to make of it, so I headed back to the manor.
The call came sometime around midnight. The call from Barbara Gorden, the police commissioner, and to be honest, I hadn't expected it. She's a policewoman, a woman of duty, and she'd done it in instances where lives were on the line and the worth of one had to be weighed against another. Barbara wouldn't have been in any position to criticize me the way Bruce certainly would have.
That is why I wasn't surprised when her opening words only questioned whether I was torn up about it. I responded that I wasn't sure, and she responded that that's understandable. The call ended soon after and it was fairly clear that as far she was considered, the matter was concluded. It wasn't until I'd thought about everything some more that I understood why.
Some years ago, I'd decided to take Barbara's advice and looked up Nightwing, Dick Grayson, Bruce's first ward and the original Robin. Our conversations gave me insight into who Bruce was that he never would have given me. The topic of death came up, at least with respect to why Bruce avoided handing it out as a sentence.
Bruce, in Dick's view, was trapped by the death of his parents. His rage over their killings had festered over the years and provided the fuel for his brutal campaign, but a careful balance had to be maintained. Dick told me that the man had been pushed to the brink a number of times but always pulled back because one step over would unleash the monster that had grown within him and there would be no caging it again. That single step over would become a thousand and Gotham's streets would run red.
Clark, Barry, and himself, Dick had said, abstained because they desired to uphold an ideal of restraint and compassion for the rest of humanity to emulate, not out of a need to restrain a seething inner demon. Some of them, while they wouldn't have been pleased, may not have openly chastised Bruce had he chosen to occasionally exercise greater force in a cesspool as vile as Gotham. Batman had never allowed himself.
That was why the question over whether I should plagued me that evening. I was Batman, wasn't I? So, could I allow myself?
I spent the rest of that night down in the cave, staring at the collection of suits standing up in cases under spotlights.
Bruce's suit is imposing, but it was mine that held my attention that night.
The suit is, in a way, a reflection of both Gotham and myself. The city is different from what it was. Gone is the antiquated collection of old brick, mortar and billboards. It's been replaced by a labyrinth of steel spires and neon lights. The current of manic, perverse criminality has grown stronger as it has become easier for the malicious element to lose itself in the mess of buildings or defy the law with awesome technology. The suit, in turn, is streamlined, blacker, hides my face and strengthens my limbs so I can deceive and break the miscreants in a way Bruce never could. It takes away more of my humanity so they have no reason to think they could hurt me.
It fits me better than it fitted Bruce. He was a relic from a bygone age when he donned it, and I understand the nature of today's Gotham more than he did. The city is willing to do more to hurt its people than it ever has, meaning Batman must be willing to do more as well.
Bruce told me once, shortly before he passed, that he felt at peace with giving his title to me because it had always been about more than him.
"The city will need Batman long after Bruce Wayne is dust in a coffin," he had said.
His words came to mind that night as I gazed at the suit and only seemed to sink in the moment. Batman had moved on to me now. Me, someone who didn't possess Bruce's barely tamed rage and shouldered a different responsibility to Gotham's people than he had. I considered the kill, mulled it over, and rejected it.
I rejected it, but only as it had been. I didn't have to kill that man and I didn't need to. But, I thought to myself, I would again if Gotham demanded it. I'd make a conscious choice to finish things in the event that doing so would eliminate the possibility of greater tragedy occurring.
I touched the suit again for the first time since saving that girl and it was the first time I felt like it belonged to me, like it wasn't something Bruce had given me on loan. Donning it quickly, I made my way to the Batmobile and saw Ace staring at me intently, ears perked. A smile ghosted across my face.
"Ace," I said.
"I'm going on patrol."