The Batman 2.0
Chapter 5: Meeting of the Minds
The clock in Bella Reál's office struck 8 o'clock in the morning as the newly appointed District Attorney Harvey Dent adjusted his tie, his eyes flickering toward the Commissioner sitting across from him. Jim Gordon's weary face, etched with the burdens of Gotham's chaos, was a sharp contrast to Dent's youthful determination. Bella Reál, the Mayor of Gotham, sat at her desk, her fingers interlocked as she leaned forward, her expression stern.
"So," Bella began, her voice carrying the weight of her office, "what exactly are the two of you planning to do about the bank explosion and William Kenzie's murder? People are scared, and they're starting to lose faith in us. Have we found Bruce Wayne?"
Gordon cleared his throat, his gravelly voice steady but tinged with fatigue. "We're working on it, Madam Mayor. As for Bruce Wayne—no, we haven't found him yet."
Bella's brow furrowed. "Then what's the hold-up, Jim? A billionaire like him doesn't just vanish. Do you think he's involved? It looked like his face on the street camera footage."
"No," Gordon said firmly. "I spoke to his butler, Alfred Pennyworth. He told me Bruce was sleeping at the time of the explosion, though he was at the scene of the burning getaway car, but only to see the damage for himself. And his story checks out. The money we recovered from the homeless man wasn't part of the stolen two million from the bank."
Dent raised an eyebrow, his skepticism apparent. "Why would a billionaire risk his own life to investigate a robbery like that?"
Gordon met his gaze without hesitation. "Let me ask you, Harvey: if a bank you owned just got blown to hell, and someone stole two million dollars of your money, wouldn't you want some answers for yourself?"
Dent leaned back in his chair, momentarily conceding the point. Bella, however, wasn't ready to let the topic drop.
"What about Batman?" she asked, her tone sharp. "What are you planning to do about him murdering William Kenzie? People are saying he's gone rogue. It's all over the news, and it won't be long until Gothamites start taking matters into their own hands."
Gordon sighed, pulling a folder from his briefcase and sliding it across Bella's desk. "I don't think it was Batman."
Bella and Dent exchanged puzzled looks.
Gordon opened the folder, revealing side-by-side photos. On one side was the imposing figure of the real Batman, captured from various surveillance images over the years. On the other side was a grainy photo of the alleged "Batman" seen at the scene of Kenzie's murder.
"Look closely," Gordon instructed. "This suit's a close match, but it's still a cheap knockoff. The ears are slightly off, the emblem isn't quite right, the gloves are much shorter, and the armor doesn't have the same tech. It's like something someone would wear to a cosplay convention."
Bella leaned in, her lips pursed as she scrutinized the photos. Dent frowned, his jaw tightening.
"So... what are you saying?" Bella asked, her voice softer now, tinged with uncertainty.
"I'm saying someone is pretending to be Batman," Gordon replied. "And whoever it is, they wanted to frame him for Kenzie's murder. This wasn't a sloppy mistake. It was deliberate."
The weight of the revelation hung in the air. Bella leaned back in her chair, her confidence shaken. Dent rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the gears in his mind visibly turning.
"This changes everything," Bella murmured.
"It does," Gordon agreed.
After a moment of silence, Gordon spoke his mind. "I think Edward Nygma is behind this."
Bella and Dent both turned to him.
"Nygma's got the motive and the brains to pull something like this," Gordon continued. "We know he's been a problem in the past, and this kind of elaborate setup screams his style. I'm going to start by looking into anyone close to him—see if any of his associates or lackeys have been released from Arkham Hospital recently."
"We do know Nygma had it out for Bruce Wayne. But what if that leads nowhere?" Bella asked.
Dent sighed, finally speaking up. "Then we might have to wait for the suspect to strike again to get more leads."
Gordon frowned, but nodded reluctantly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
Bella folded her hands on the desk, her gaze steely. "You both better figure this out—and fast. Gotham's counting on us, and I don't intend to let this city spiral into chaos under my watch."
Gordon and Dent exchanged a glance. The weight of the Mayor's words was clear. Time was running out, and Gotham's fragile peace hung by a thread.
Meanwhile, the dimly lit office of the Monarch Theater echoed with the sounds of an intense argument. Basil Karlo, a veteran actor clinging desperately to his fading stardom, stood opposite the theater's stage producer, his fists clenched in frustration.
"I'm telling you," Basil argued, his voice trembling with equal parts passion and anger, "this play will redefine Gotham theater! A serial killer who can change his appearance at will? It's fresh, it's thrilling—it's genius! We'll call it The Terror!"
The stage producer pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "Basil, I've told you already—there's no budget for a new production. We're sticking with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde until further notice. It's a safe bet, and it still brings in a crowd. End of discussion."
Basil's eyes darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. "Safe? This theater doesn't need safe. It needs boldness, innovation—me! And you're too blind to see it!"
The producer waved him off dismissively, turning his back toward Basil to focus on the cluttered desk before him. "Enough, Basil. We're done here."
But Basil wasn't done. Fury boiling over, he grabbed the hefty paperweight sitting on the edge of the desk and, without hesitation, brought it crashing down onto the back of the producer's head. The producer let out a muffled grunt before collapsing onto the desk, blood pooling beneath him.
Basil stood over the lifeless body, breathing heavily, the weight still in his trembling hand. "I don't need your permission," he muttered, a manic glint in his eyes. "When I can simply become you."
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Panic seized Basil. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the producer's limp body and shoved it under the desk, hiding the evidence just as a sharp knock came at the door.
"Come in," Basil called out, his voice now perfectly mimicking the producer's.
The door creaked open, and Rosemary Flannery, the theater's leading lady, stepped inside. She looked around, then fixed her gaze on the man she believed to be the producer. "You wanted to see me?"
Basil, now disguised as the producer, adjusted his posture, adopting an air of authority. "Yes. Here." He tossed a thick stack of papers onto the desk.
Rosemary caught the script and skimmed the title. "The Terror?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "What happened to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?"
"There's been a change of plans," Basil replied curtly. "We start rehearsals today. Read the script and get ready."
She flipped through the pages, her expression growing more skeptical. "What's with all the romantic scenes between me and Basil? Why wouldn't you consult me before writing something so... vague?"
Basil's façade slipped momentarily, irritation flickering across his stolen face. But he recovered quickly, slamming a hand on the desk. "You'll do what I say, or you can start looking for another job! Maybe Harvey Dent is hiring a secretary!"
Rosemary froze, narrowing her eyes. "How do you know about me and Harvey Dent?"
Basil cursed inwardly at his slip but quickly spun a lie. "People talk. Word gets around quickly when you're the leading lady of Gotham's most prominent theater." He forced a smile, trying to disarm her suspicion. "Look, let's not argue. I'll up your pay. This play is going to make you more famous than you ever dreamed. Your name in lights, not just in Gotham, but across the country. Maybe even the world. What do you say?"
Rosemary hesitated, the promise of fame and fortune momentarily clouding her judgment. She imagined herself stepping out of the shadow of Gotham and into the dazzling glow of Broadway and beyond.
"Okay," she said at last. "I'll do it. But you better make it clear to Basil—no funny business. He's been harassing me lately, and I've had enough. You tell him this is just a play, not real life."
Basil, disguised as the producer, gave her a tight smile. "Don't worry. I'll make sure Basil understands."
Rosemary nodded, clutching the script as she left the office.
As the door clicked shut, Basil dropped the act, his expression twisting into a sinister grin. "Oh, you'll soon find out just how real life this will be," he whispered, his voice dripping with malice.
Suddenly, Basil could hear the grunting voice of the stage producer. He wasn't completely dead yet. Basil pulled the paperweight back out of the desk drawer, stood over the producer, and finished him off by bashing his face in until it was no longer recognizable.
9 AM
Oswald Cobblepot, better known as the Penguin, waddled his way into the humid and aromatic confines of a secret greenhouse perched atop one of his drughouse apartment complexes. The space was alive with vibrant greenery, a dense jungle of exotic plants and fungi glowing faintly under specialized grow lights. At the center of it all stood a nerdy redhead with big glasses, meticulously tending to her plants.
"The last batch of shrooms was a hit," Penguin croaked, his grating voice cutting through the gentle hum of the grow lights. "How soon until the next batch is ready?"
The redhead, without turning around, let out an exasperated sigh. "Jesus. What are you doing here so early? Don't you ever sleep?"
Penguin scoffed, straightening the lapels of his tailored tuxedo. "Money doesn't sleep, toots. Now, what about the supply?"
She spun around, glaring at him. "First of all, my name is Pamela, not toots," she snapped. "And second, I'm working on it. This stuff takes time. I can't just grow the shrooms at will, you know?"
Penguin's face darkened, his eyes narrowing. "How long?" he asked, his voice low and menacing. "I'm trying to take over the city here. These shrooms are gonna guarantee I knock out the competition. Soon enough, the Zuccos, the Thornes, the Moxons, and even Sophia Falcone herself will be crawling to me for their supply. I'm gonna own this town."
Pamela turned her back to him, resuming her careful watering of the plants. "I should have them ready for you in a couple of days," she said evenly.
"Two days!?" Penguin echoed, his stubby hands gesturing in frustration. His sharp eyes darted around the greenhouse, landing on the rows of other plants Pamela was cultivating. "Maybe you'd have more time to get me my product if you weren't busy with all these useless plants," he sneered.
Before Pamela could respond, Penguin waddled over to a large leafy plant and, with a grunt, ripped off one of its leaves.
"Don't do that!" Pamela yelled, stepping forward.
Suddenly, the torn leaf in Penguin's hand began to writhe unnaturally, elongating into a tangle of vines that sprang to life. Before he could react, the vines coiled tightly around his arms and legs, immobilizing him. New leaves blossomed from the tendrils as they constricted him further.
"What the hell!?" Penguin squawked, struggling against the animated vines now binding his rotund frame.
"You really shouldn't have done that," Pamela said calmly, observing the scene with a hint of satisfaction.
"Get these damn things off me!" Penguin snarled, wriggling like a trapped bird.
Pamela sighed, reaching into her pocket to retrieve a small dropper. She carefully released a few droplets of liquid onto the vines, which immediately began to wither and rot away, crumbling to the floor in lifeless heaps.
"See what you made me do?" she scolded, crossing her arms.
Penguin yanked the remaining rotted vines off his legs, glaring at her. "What the hell was that!?"
Pamela smirked, holding her ground. "That's how I'm able to produce your shrooms so quickly. The plants aren't just plants, Oswald."
Penguin straightened his tuxedo and dusted himself off, his face contorted with a mix of fear and indignation. "Just... get it done," he barked, waddling toward the door.
Pamela rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a sly smile. "Maybe you should take some of the shrooms yourself. It might help you calm down."
Penguin paused at the door, glancing back at her with a scornful smirk. "I don't get high on my own stash. Money makes me high," he quipped, slamming the door shut behind him.
Left alone in her greenhouse, Pamela chuckled softly and turned back to her plants. "Oh, Oswald," she muttered, her fingers grazing the tendrils of the plant he'd attacked. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."
10 AM
Bruce Wayne, still awake and visibly fatigued, sat in the dimly lit study of Wayne Tower. His eyes, bloodshot from hours of relentless focus, flickered between multiple screens. Footage from the explosion at Wayne National Bank and the chilling video of the Batman impostor killing William Kenzie played on loop. Yet, no matter how many times he rewound or scrutinized the details, nothing stood out—no hidden clues, no glaring inconsistencies that could provide the breakthrough he needed.
Frustration seeped into his posture as he leaned back, exhaling heavily. He replayed his earlier conversation with Edward Nygma at Arkham Hospital, combing through the Riddler's cryptic remarks. Though Nygma denied involvement, his hints suggested he might know who was pulling the strings. That thread of information would have to wait until Commissioner Gordon uncovered anything about former Arkham inmates with ties to Nygma.
The soft creak of the study door broke his concentration as Alfred entered, a tray with a steaming cup of tea in hand. The butler's sharp eyes immediately assessed Bruce's haggard state.
"Perhaps you should try to get some sleep, Master Bruce," Alfred said gently, setting the tray on the desk.
Bruce didn't respond, instead shooting Alfred a weary glare. His focus remained glued to the screens, as if willing the answers to appear.
Alfred sighed, stepping closer. "Allow me to take a look at all this. You'll need to be prepared for tonight if you plan on gallivanting about the city again."
Bruce's lips pressed into a thin line, but he relented, leaning back slightly. Alfred seized the moment to change the subject.
"How did everything go with the young man, Victor?" Alfred asked, his tone measured but curious.
Bruce rubbed his temples before replying. "I think he'll be all right... for now. I managed to convince him that we'll find a way to deal with Oswald legally. But I don't know how long he'll hold out—especially after what Oz did to him."
"Where is he now?" Alfred pressed.
Bruce sighed deeply. "He told me he had a place to lay low in his old neighborhood. His family was killed in the floods, Alfred. He lost everything." Bruce's voice grew heavier. "I should've stopped it from happening. And now people are looking for revenge in whatever way they can."
Alfred placed a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder. "You tried, Master Bruce. You did everything you could. You're still learning."
Bruce shrugged off the gesture, his expression tightening. "It's not enough," he said firmly. "I have to be better next time."
As if to punctuate his own words, Bruce let out a loud, unintentional yawn. Alfred raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in amusement.
"Perhaps 'next time' will come more easily after a few hours' rest," Alfred quipped. "There's much to unpack here, but nothing that can't wait until you're a little sharper."
Bruce hesitated, then finally nodded. "Maybe you're right," he muttered. He pushed back from the desk and stood, his steps heavy as he made his way toward his room.
Alfred watched him leave, then turned to the array of screens. With a knowing sigh, he picked up the cup of tea and settled in, ready to pick up where Bruce had left off.