In His Own Image, Part I

February 15, 1939

"This city is going mad."

"Darling, this city has always been mad."

"No, no. This is a different kind of madness. There's a new freak every week. All because of that Batman."

"Bruce. Bruce. What do you think?"

Bruce Wayne turned his gaze across the table to Linda Page.

The lighting in the nightclub was sufficiently dim to evoke the sultry, salacious possibilities of time spent here, without the fear of one's actions being plain for all to see. Curls of smoke slithered through the air, while white coated waiters flowed effortlessly through the clutter. Their table was near the stage, a jazz band playing away.

The cigarette Linda held was nearly at its end, bits of ash crumbling to the table as she awaited his answer. Bruce knew she had an interest in him, though he did not yet know if it was founded purely in his financial status or something more. Her conversational partner was less enthused by Bruce's involvement. Mario Falcone had the same handsome nose and thick, prominent eyebrows as his infamous father, but he stood considerably smaller. Like all things involved with the Falcones, Bruce did not trust him.

Bruce took a measured pause, then said, "I think that we are all desperately in need of another drink." He flagged down a nearby waiter. Another drink to maintain the facade. Bruce Wayne stumbled so his other self could soar.

"You've avoided the question Bruce," said Julie Madison, the woman sitting next to him. He was ostensibly here with her, but it suited his image to be surrounded by the members of this table, various representatives of the city's elite. Julie was another daughter of Gotham, her family the major shareholders in several industrial enterprises.

"No getting out of it that easy," added Linda.

"If I must. I find the story surrounding this Batman fellow to be rather overblown," said Bruce, "He's clearly a lunatic with too much time on his hands."

"At last we agree on something," said Mario, tipping his glass.

"I find him quite enticing. He's mysterious," said Linda. Julie groaned at her remark. The conversation shifted once more, as Bruce let its currents pull him along.

Batman was a year deep into his mission. His efforts rid the police of several of their more corrupt members, including Commissioner Loeb and Detective Flass. Their new leader was not much better, but he was less of an overt crook. Gotham's crime families knew to be afraid for the first time in years. They were scrambling to keep up with Batman's siege on their enterprises.

Bruce never expected allies in his mission, beyond Alfred, his loyal butler. Yet, he found a handful thus far. Jim Gordon was the only cop that Batman trusted, a man who still believed in the principles of justice. Gordon had been instrumental in bringing down the commissioner. The new district attorney, Harvey Dent, was another benefit to the cause. He could be overly idealistic, prone to making gestures of goodwill, rather than practical decisions, but he could not be bought. It was slim comfort, but Bruce was glad he was not alone in the dream for a better Gotham.

There were other, troubling developments. The city was becoming stranger. Gotham was always prone to the macabre, the phantasmal. It was a shadowy principality, a place where dreams were poisoned and left to rot. Yet, there was something more to this latest influx of crime. There was an air of the surreal, one that mirrored the atmosphere of America, with its sudden emergence of the mystery man, the crime fighter, the superhero. Batman fought not just the mugger, the thief, the mobster, but also the likes of Doctor Death, the Monk, and the Red Hood gang. Then there was the ethereal cat burglar that Batman hadn't managed to track down thus far. Gotham witnessed his rise and met it in kind.

Bruce excused himself from the conversation and went to the restroom. As he washed his hands, he gazed at his face, the light smirk he maintained during drinks gone from it. The makeup that covered his bruises held up, but he was exhausted. His nightly outings took their toll, particularly when paired with these social outings to maintain Bruce Wayne. There was the hint of a scar on his neck, a gift from a knife a few months back.

"You're a hard man to talk to," said Mario Falcone, entering the bathroom. He did a quick pass by the stalls to confirm that they were alone.

"That could be by design," said Bruce. He took a few steps towards the door, but Mario barred his path.

"I just need a moment," he said, raising his hands.

If this was an attempt at intimidation it was ill-planned. Mario was a full head shorter than Bruce, to the point where it would be plausible that the playboy overpowered him. He also knew that Falcone wasn't carrying a weapon.

"My father often talked about how yours saved his life. My gratitude is with you," said Mario.

Years ago, a knock on the door in the middle of the night led to a bloodied Carmine Falcone being operated on in the Wayne family dining hall. Bruce's father never spoke of the event, but Bruce remembered watching the grisly tableau from the stairway.

"Get to the point," said Bruce.

"I think there's an opportunity for us to discuss a couple of business ventures. Areas of interest between your company and my resources," said Mario.

"I don't see why you would have that impression," said Bruce. He kept the slight wobble of alcohol in his speech, but his body language grew firm. Mario ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"I understand your hesitation. My family has a history. But, I'm here to tell you, confidentially, that I'm going independent from my father. From the whole family."

"Sounds like a risky idea. How has that worked out in the past?"

"I have my father's blessing. To be my own man."

How far could Mario Falcone outside of the Roman's influence? How far could anyone escape their parents' shadow?

"Well, good luck with that," Bruce said, pushing past him. He was already calculating how to use this new development to his advantage in his war against the Falcone crime family. Mario, legitimate or not, could be a Trojan horse for the Roman to expand his already considerable influence.

The music had stopped in the main room. As Bruce returned to his table, there were two men sitting on the stage. One of them Bruce recognized as Jack Ryder, a young reporter and radio broadcaster for the Gotham Gazette. The other was a tall man with round, tinted glasses, a stark bald head and a thick beard that covered his entire chin. He sat with perfect poise.

Linda leaned over as he sat down. "Oh, Bruce, you've come at just the right time. They're discussing our subject from earlier. Baldy is some sort of psychologist."

Jack Ryder began, "Now, Professor Hugo Strange, you've proven yourself a forward thinker in that most common, yet mysterious, realm of the mind. What drew you to this line of work?"

"I often give an abbreviated answer, a short hand, that I was curious as to the inner workings of humanity. But, for you, Mr. Ryder, and these esteemed patrons, I shall grant more insight."

"That would be mighty generous of you, professor."

"My childhood was spent in a remote town in northern Maine, a town of lobster men. It was a place of stasis, where everyone knew their neighbors and understood their place within the world. There was the understanding that the world around us might grow unrecognizable, but this place would remain firm.

We had a man that worked in the post office, a Mr. Garvey. He was a gregarious fellow. The community loved him. He was a committed member of the church.

One day, when I was about nine, a bloodied man entered the police station and claimed that Mr. Garvey had tried to murder him. The man was a transient, looking for work on the boats. The police were skeptical, but when they investigated they not only found that Mr. Garvey had a bloodied knife and clothing, but that the woods behind his property were filled with another six victims. All of them drifters that no one came looking for."

The crowd gave a collective gasp. Bruce could tell that many were invested. Professor Strange continued.

"This revelation sent a profound shock through our town. A murderer in our midst, one who everyone wouldn't have thought twice about trusting before. I was fascinated, in what I admit was a somewhat ghoulish manner, with the idea that Mr. Garvey contained a darkness within him, one that could not be contained by his otherwise gregarious manner.

Beyond that, I was also intrigued by the reactions of the others in our town. For all those that expressed disbelief, there were others that adjusted their memories to claim that they had found Mr. Garvey suspect, that there was always something off about the man. This self-deception, this editorializing of one's history, was of great interest. I was possessed by the desire to learn all there was about the human mind and the myriad of ways it rages against itself."

There was a window of time after the professor finished. Jack Ryder adjusted his tie, before taking a quick glance at the audience.

"I suppose more than a few of us won't look forward to seeing their mailman after that." A handful of laughs followed.

"Professor, there is likely one subject on all of our minds, one for you to turn your prodigious powers of analysis towards. Gotham's own ghost. The Batman. What are your thoughts?"

Professor Strange placed his hands together, fingers outstretched and touching. He leaned forward in the chair. Bruce took note. During his entire conversation about the murderer, Strange had been still.

"Hmm, yes, the Batman. He is a figure of profound psychological trauma. I have spent considerable time compiling notes on him and his ilk."

"Do go on, professor."

"Batman is an egotist, seeking to accumulate fame through this mysterious persona he has constructed. This outer shell contains the original, formative self, one that is likely responding to a traumatic incident, one that was out of his control.

He is delusional in his belief that this new self will grant him control and provide a vehicle for the adoration and infamy he so desires. In reality, there is a schism of personalities at war within him, one that will eventually tear his psyche apart and render him insane."

"An unsparing portrait, professor," said Ryder.

"I only desire to be accurate. I have offered my services to the Gotham police should they desire to track down and imprison this vigilante before he reaches a total, psychotic break." Strange's vision swept the crowd, and as he passed Bruce, there was a tingle at the nape of his neck.

Ryder mouthed something to a person offstage, before turning back to his guest.

"Thank you for your time, professor. Is there anything you would like to leave us with?"

"I hope that I have not repulsed tonight's audience with my story and diagnosis. I believe in rehabilitation, in the possibility that any defect within the human psyche may be rectified with sufficient skill and psychoanalysis. To that end I am extending my services to the people of Gotham, including all of you in attendance tonight. It is totally confidential of course. If you are curious, my associates are at the doors with my information."

Ryder thanked Professor Strange again and the men left the stage as the jazz musicians returned. Bruce watched as the professor vanished into the backrooms. The buzz of conversation started up once more.

"You're sweating," said Julie. "Are you feeling ill?"

Bruce realized she was talking to him. He felt his forehead and found trails of sweat sliding down it.

"Now that you mention it, I am feeling a bit peculiar. I think it may be time to turn in for the night." He rose from the table.

"Boo," said Linda. Mario looked relieved.

"I hope you feel better. And don't forget our plans for Friday." said Julie. "I don't want to be stood up again."

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Bruce.

A greeter at the door offered one of Strange's business cards. Bruce took it. He left the din of the nightclub, exiting into the cool air of Gotham's night. A sleek black car awaited him.

"Tired of your social obligations already, Master Bruce," said Alfred, behind the wheel.

"I needed a change of pace," said Bruce.

"I was under the impression that this was to be the deviation from your nightly excursions. Appearances must be maintained after all."

"And they were. There's a target that needs attention tonight."

Alfred drove the car as though they were headed back to Wayne Manor, long enough that any suspicious parties would lose interest. He made a quick turn into an alley, dispensing not Bruce Wayne, but Batman.

The roofs of Gotham had already become a new home for Batman, one he was learning all the intricacies of as he glided and swung his way across the city. It gave him a new appreciation for the majesty of Gotham, in its own haunted manner. He was poised on the outcropping of a building, his eyes fixed on the back of a tailor's store, dark and empty, save for a slender thread of light that emerged from an open door. It was a front for one of Tony Zucco's gambling halls.

In the sprawling ecosystem of Gotham's crime families, Zucco was on the smaller side. He paid respects to both Falcone and Maroni, though he was indebted to the former. The two organizations did not risk open conflict with one another, but that same respect did not necessarily extend to a player like Zucco. That vulnerability was an opportunity, a point of leverage Batman could use against Zucco's superiors. He had staked out this location for almost a week, watching as special packages were delivered. It was likely the point at which instructions, guns and money were subtly exchanged by members of Zucco's crew.

Tonight was when Batman planned to strike. Only there was something wrong. In the hour and a half he had sat observing the building, not a single soul had entered or left the establishment. This flew in the face of every other stakeout. That, and the door was left open, another discrepancy. Batman dropped to the doorway, his cape breaking the descent. He drew a batarang in one hand and a smoke pellet in the other. An average night saw at least a dozen men in the gambling hall, at least half of them armed. Three dedicated guards. He peered through the doorway, before entering. A tune hitched and stuttered from within.

He saw the arm first. It lay on the ground just inside the doorway, fingers extended as if they had been reaching for the handle. The body it was attached to took more effort to find. Batman cautiously entered the backroom. There were overturned tables and chairs, with the largest of the former cracked in two. The walls were marred by dents and bullet holes, few of the picture frames remaining on them. The poker chips and cards were scattered on the ground. A couple cigarettes still smoldered. A fan spun with only one blade remaining.

What remained of Zucco's men was strewn about the room. Their bodies were contorted in awkward positions. Limbs broken, necks snapped, heads smashed. Only a single gunshot wound, which appeared to be an accident. A cursory examination found large fingerprints on dead skin. No survivors. Batman had seen brutality, but there was an unfamiliar quality to the nature of these deaths.

He searched the room. The safe was gone, but the bodies weren't looted. A substantial amount of cash was left on the ground. There was a single, large pair of foot prints that tracked a bloody path through, and then out, of the gambling parlor.

The ruins of the jukebox contained a trace of what transpired. Something had struck it, leaving the machine to skip and loop the current song endlessly, the volume rising and falling. Caught between the jagged glass was a severed finger, a ring finger, but far larger than the norm. Batman carefully retrieved it and placed it in his belt. It may be useful to the GCPD, but Batman's resources were far more advanced than their crime labs.

A phone began to ring at the back, by the doorway to the tailor's shop. Batman lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Joey, that you? Joey, what the hell happened? What happened to our pickup?" said the voice. Zucco.

Batman set the receiver down. He left the building and returned to the exterior. Fresh tire tracks marked the ground by the building. A truck, something sizable. Within the past few hours. Batman had narrowly missed whatever happened here.

He called in the crime from a nearby payphone, then returned to his vigil above. If it was an attack by Maroni, it lacked the typical methods. Maroni could be brutish, but his men used firearms. Zucco was in a precarious enough position that an up and coming criminal might try to take a shot at him, but the components of the crime did not add up. The goal had been carnage, not robbery. There were easier times to take the money, when it was less crowded. There were certainly less overt methods. Any follow up would have to wait.

By the time Batman returned to the Batcave in the early hours of the morning, the knot that was the gambling hall murders had not unraveled itself. He kept busy by continuing his patrol, stopping a mugger and a pair of would be car thieves. He was welcomed to the cave by a flurry of bats, returning from their own sojourn into the night.

The cave was his sanctum, the base of operations from which the mission could be carried out. He discovered the dense network of subterranean pockets below the manor over a year ago. At the start, the cave was barebones, simply a launch pad to begin his nightly excursions without fear of being traced back to his home. Over time, Batman and Alfred had painstakingly moved in machinery from Wayne Enterprises. It was finally resembling a proper base.

Batman removed his cowl. He ignored the meal left out by Alfred, moving instead to his laboratory. Though his body ached and his eyes were bleary from a lack of sleep, Bruce needed to perform analysis on the finger he collected.

Some time later, Bruce heard Alfred enter the lab.

"An intriguing night, Master Bruce?"

"One could say that."

He held up the finger. Alfred's eyes widened, though he kept his poise.

"Good lord. What is that? Beyond the obvious."

"I found it along with what was left of Zucco's crew at the gambling hall. It was severed by a gunshot. I've got the print, though I need to run it still. Preliminary analysis indicates some trace chemicals left in the tissue. I've never seen it before."

Alfred appraised the massive finger.

"One shudders at the thought of running into the owner of such a prodigious digit. Though I expect that is exactly what you intend to do."

Bruce took the data to a massive apparatus that commanded an entire wing of the cave. It was by far the most expensive piece of equipment. It was a complex bank of switches, lights, vacuum tubes and cabinets. He called it Oracle. Wayne Enterprises had developed the project, but it was shut down for being prohibitively expensive, a boon that Bruce exploited to smuggle the model out of the company. It was capable of carrying out calculations and examining vast amounts of data that were fed into it. Bruce inserted the identifying components of the finger. If there was a match in the system, he would know in several hours. Batman had already copied the current GCPD logs after breaking into their headquarters.

He left Oracle to its calculations and retired to Wayne Manor, taking the winding staircase up from the caves. The portrait of his parents watched him as he passed it by. He let his hand graze the backs of the chairs in the living room. The manor was home, but it was a cold place, even with Alfred for company. His parents kept a contingent of staff to maintain the grounds, but Bruce did away with that state of affairs. He had long abandoned entire sections of the building.

Bruce found his bed, letting sleep take him.