The Batman 2.0
Chapter 1: Mistaken Identity
3 PM
The polished marble floors of Wayne National Bank glistened under the warm light of the grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Bruce Wayne strode through the bank's opulent lobby with purpose, his tailored charcoal suit contrasting against the gold-accented decor. The faint murmur of customers and clerks faded as the staff's attention shifted to the billionaire entering their domain.
Bruce approached the counter, where a young female teller greeted him with a polite smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Wayne! How can I help you today?"
"I need to withdraw two million dollars in cash," Bruce stated, his voice calm but firm.
The teller blinked, her smile faltering. "Excuse me, sir?"
Bruce's expression remained unchanged.
Realizing he wasn't joking, she straightened and stammered, "O-of course, Mr. Wayne. I'll need to call the assistant manager. One moment."
The assistant manager, a nervous man named Ted with a shiny new nametag, emerged from a side office. He adjusted his glasses and approached the counter, immediately recognizing Bruce from the framed photograph of the bank's founder hanging on the wall.
"Mr. Wayne," Ted began hesitantly, "it's an honor to meet you. I, uh, just need to confirm a few things. Bank policy states that no more than one hundred thousand dollars can be withdrawn at once without additional verification."
Bruce's sharp gaze cut through Ted's excuse. "Look, Ted," Bruce said, leaning slightly closer. "I'm in a rush. I need that money. Now."
Ted swallowed hard. "I-I understand, sir. It's just… protocol requires a secondary security code for larger withdrawals. In this case, we'd need to contact Alfred Pennyworth. Is that okay, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce's jaw tightened, and his glance shifted to his watch. "This might be your last day on the job, Ted," he said coldly.
Ted's hands trembled as he began dialing Alfred's number. Just as he was about to press the final digit, the bank manager appeared, waving him off.
"Ted! Stop," the manager barked. He approached the counter, flashing Bruce an ingratiating smile. "Don't you know who this is?"
Ted gestured to the wall, where Bruce's picture hung.
"Exactly!" the manager said. "When Bruce Wayne, the owner of this bank, walks in and asks for something, you give it to him. No questions asked."
Turning to Bruce, the manager bowed his head slightly. "Apologies, Mr. Wayne. What can we do for you today?"
Bruce tapped the withdrawal slip on the counter.
The manager's eyes widened. "Two million… in cash?" He hesitated. "Are you sure? Gotham isn't exactly the safest place to be carrying that kind of money around, sir."
Bruce's patience thinned. "If I didn't want it, I wouldn't have asked. Unless you want me to close this branch, you'd better make it happen."
The manager tugged at his tie nervously. "Right away, Mr. Wayne. Ted, get to the vault!"
Ted darted toward the vault, his face pale.
"Oh, and Ted," Bruce called after him. "Make it all in twenties."
Both men froze, exchanging panicked looks, until Bruce smirked. "Kidding. Twenties and fifties are fine."
Minutes later, Ted returned, struggling under the weight of two large duffle bags stuffed with cash. He set them on the counter, his hands shaking.
"Here you go, Mr. Wayne," Ted said breathlessly.
Bruce slung the bags over his shoulder and strode toward the exit without a word.
The manager called after him nervously, "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wayne. We're still in business, right?"
Bruce ignored him, stepping outside and loading the bags into his sleek black car. He drove off without looking back.
Seconds later, KABOOM, a thunderous explosion rocked the building. The windows shattered, flames erupted from the structure, and screams filled the air.
Bruce's car sped away, his jaw set as he glanced in the rearview mirror at the fiery wreckage.
"Showtime," he muttered under his breath.
3:30 PM
The curtains of the master bedroom were drawn tight, allowing only the faintest glow of sunlight to seep through. Bruce Wayne stirred as a hand firmly shook his shoulder.
"Master Wayne, wake up," Alfred urged, his voice tinged with urgency.
Bruce opened one eye groggily, his mind still hazy. "What is it, Alfred? Is it time for dinner or something?"
"Something terrible has happened at Wayne National Bank, sir."
That woke him up. Bruce sat upright as Alfred turned on the bedroom television. The screen came alive with a fiery scene of chaos—the remains of Wayne National engulfed in flames, firefighters battling to control the inferno, and ambulances rushing to and from the site.
The caption at the bottom of the screen chilled him: "At Least 20 Dead from Explosion at Wayne National Bank."
Rubbing his eyes, Bruce struggled to process what he was seeing. "How, Alfred? How did this happen?"
"I don't know, sir. It occurred mere minutes ago."
Bruce leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the screen. The news anchor's solemn voice narrated the scene:
"This devastating explosion at Wayne National Bank has left the city reeling. Authorities are still investigating the cause of the blast, but what is most shocking are reports that billionaire Bruce Wayne was seen leaving the bank moments before the explosion."
Bruce's stomach dropped. "What? That's not possible."
Alfred looked equally bewildered. "It must be a mistake, sir."
The report continued:
"Footage obtained from a nearby traffic camera shows a man believed to be Bruce Wayne exiting the bank, carrying two large duffle bags. Gotham PD has confirmed they will be reaching out to Mr. Wayne for questioning."
Alfred turned to Bruce, his expression troubled. "Have you been sleepwalking, sir?"
Bruce shook his head, but doubt clouded his features. "I've been here since dawn, haven't I?"
"Absolutely, sir. I would have noticed otherwise—since you are usually getting home… as I am just waking up."
On the screen, the reporter added, "We've just received the footage in question. Let's take a look."
Bruce and Alfred watched as grainy black-and-white footage played. It showed a figure leaving the bank, tossing two duffle bags into a sleek car, and driving off moments before the explosion.
"Bring up that footage on the laptop," Bruce ordered, throwing back the covers, heading towards his desk.
Alfred rushed to comply. Within moments, the video was on Bruce's computer. He leaned in, studying every frame.
"Zoom in on the suspect," Bruce instructed.
Alfred magnified the image. At first, the figure's face was obscured—just an outline of someone with Bruce's height, build, and mannerisms. Then, just as the figure opened the car door, he turned his head slightly. Alfred paused the footage.
Bruce froze. It was his face.
Alfred leaned closer, his mouth agape. "The resemblance is uncanny, sir."
Bruce frowned. "I'd never wear my hair in a pompadour, Alfred."
Alfred straightened, inspecting the suspect's hairstyle critically. "I don't think it looks that bad, actually."
Bruce shot him a glare. "Focus."
Alfred cleared his throat, turning his attention back to the screen.
A new alert popped up on the laptop. It was a notification from Wayne National Bank.
"What's this?" Alfred muttered as he opened it.
The screen displayed a digital receipt: Two Million Dollar Withdrawal – Authorized by Bruce Wayne.
Both men stared at the screen in stunned silence.
"What the hell is going on here, Alfred?"
Alfred slowly shook his head, the gravity of the situation dawning on him. "Beats the hell out of me… sir."
Bruce pushed back his chair, his mind racing. "This isn't just identity theft. Whoever did this wants to ruin me. They're framing me for murder, Alfred."
"And they've done a rather thorough job of it," Alfred remarked grimly.
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Let's find out who they are before they strike again."
Bruce opened his wardrobe, scanning the neatly arranged rows of suits and ties. His hand instinctively reached for a dark suit, but he paused, the image of the suspect on the news flashing through his mind. The man was dressed just like this—sharp, clean-cut, unmistakably Bruce Wayne.
He frowned, shoving the suit aside and pulling out a baggy hooded sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. The outfit was loose, comfortable, and unremarkable. It was also what he typically wore over his "other" gear when moving unnoticed through Gotham.
As he slipped into the hoodie, Alfred entered the room, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea. He raised an eyebrow at Bruce's outfit.
"And where might you be going dressed like that, sir?" Alfred asked, setting the tray on a nearby table.
"Out," Bruce replied curtly, lacing up his sneakers. "I need to start piecing this together. Whoever did this is counting on me sitting here and waiting for the police to come knocking. I'll take the bike."
Alfred frowned. "Speaking of the police, what shall I tell them if they do show up at Wayne Tower's doors? Wouldn't it be better if you were home when they get here? This way, you look like you've been here all day."
Bruce shook his head. "Time is of the essence, Alfred. I'll handle the police later."
As he strapped on a discreet utility belt beneath his sweatshirt, Bruce turned to Alfred. "How's the boy doing?"
Alfred sighed, his expression softening. "Still unconscious, but I believe he'll make a full recovery. A good thing you found him when you did, sir. Much longer without oxygen, and he wouldn't have made it."
Bruce nodded solemnly.
"However," Alfred added, "might I remind you that Wayne Tower is not a hospital ward? You've taken considerable risks bringing him here."
"I had no other choice," Bruce said, his tone firm. "Besides," he added, "how many times over the last couple of years have you had to patch me up after coming home with injuries?
"Pffft!" Alfred scoffed. "Too many times to count." He then crossed his arms. "Perhaps you could have taken him to an actual hospital. At least there, he'd be in professional care. And, might I reiterate, we cannot start taking in strays."
"He's not a stray," Bruce countered, pulling his hood over his head. "That boy will play a crucial part in bringing down Penguin's operation. If Oz finds out he's still alive, he won't stop until he finishes what he started," he continued as he headed for the front door. "Plus, they will soon complete the renovation of Wayne Manor. It's far enough from the city. Nobody will find him there."
Alfred sighed deeply, his frustration evident but tempered with concern. "Very well, sir. But if he wakes up, what shall I call him?"
Bruce paused at the door, his gaze meeting Alfred's. "His name is Victor. Victor Aguilar."